Emeric Bergeaud

Stella


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for the second time. There came to me then a comforting vision of that which may come to pass. While waiting for it, remember well these words: the solitary plant is easily torn or bent in the wind.

      “Therefore,” Marie pressed on, “to preserve you from grievous loneliness, the same Hand that saved you from destruction caused a companion, a friend, a brother to be born. Thanks be to God! . . . The hidden Hand, in its all-seeing goodness, wanted the product of your mother’s blood—this brother, your comrade in misery—to have no interests opposed to your own, so that he would love and strengthen you, so that you could defy the jealous fate that disinherited you at birth and seemed to turn you away from the world.”

      The two brothers were hearing this intimate story for the first time. The mother had kept it to herself until the conditions were right, in the same way that the intelligent farmer does not confide a seed to the ground except during a favorable season. Without knowing the precise meaning of the words that we have repeated here, the sons of Marie the African were moved to the furthest depths of their simple and good souls.

      Abruptly, the attitude of the Colonist toward his slaves became that of an irritated enemy. Never before had he appeared so moved by such violent passions. His cheeks were sunken and pale and his face contracted horribly. One could read the look of death in his eyes. It was probable that the Colonist knew of the nocturnal conversation in the ajoupa, either because he had heard it himself, or because it had been treacherously told to him by someone who had been listening at the door. Interpreting the slave’s story according to his mean-spirited nature, the Colonist prepared himself to wreak a horrible vengeance.

      It is easy to imagine how a supposition of this sort would alarm the members of the young slave family. Initially, they had the idea to flee and become marrons; but then, thinking better of it, they decided to stay and risk what would come. We must note this act of forceful resolution: the courage to die would later give birth to the will to be free.

      But Marie and her sons were wrong: the anger of the Colonist was caused by reasons far less trivial. A Revolution in the name of Liberty and Equality had just erupted in France . . . It was 1789 . . .3

      Here is how the murderous pique of the master made itself known:

      The slaves were at work. Rain threatened. One of the young sons had gone to rest under a tree at some distance from the field in which they worked. Doubtless he was suffering. The Colonist appeared and learned of the transgression. He could have listened before condemning and punishing, but he did not even take the time to inquire, so pressed was he to satisfy his ardent thirst for murder.

      When the Colonist called to the overseer in a voice sharp and loud, Marie quivered with terror: her mother’s heart had guessed everything. In a movement as fast as thought, she threw herself at the Colonist’s feet, with a gesture so eloquent that, in days gone by, it would have defeated the Lion of Florence.4 She cried out, “Have mercy! My master, have mercy on him; it is I instead who you must strike!” If there are exceptional beings endowed by heaven with superior morals, there are, sadly, others to whom nature has refused its best instincts, whom she has made inferior to the ferocious beast. The Colonist was one of those monsters: no one, therefore, expected him to fall like the Lion.

      He hesitated a minute before choosing his victim. Then, resolved, he took the mother at her word and signaled to the overseer. In an instant, the terrible whip flew back; a scene of horror, the details of which make one shiver, began. To the increasing noise of the strikes were added sharp, heart-rending cries that weakened, little by little, until finally ending in a death rattle. The whip struck, struck for two hours. The victim jumped, twisted, and gnashed her teeth. Her mouth foamed, her nostrils flared, her eyes started out of their sockets. Even when there was no life left, the human matter still quivered, and the whip continued to strike; it did not stop until there was nothing left but an inert corpse.

      The crime was complete. Listen how this innocent blood cries out as it ascends toward heaven! . . .

      After the Colonist left, the two brothers lifted the inanimate body of the young woman onto their shoulders and took her to their shared shelter, lowering her onto their pallet and letting the tears that they had been forced to control in the presence of her executioners flow freely. These warm tears of the heart flooded onto the face of the departed and seemed, for an instant, to call her back from nothingness; in fact, a sudden flash of life shone in her extinguished eyes; her clamped teeth opened, and from her despairing soul escaped a breath of tenderness that she sighed into the bosoms of her orphans.

      The dying glance of the African woman, as distinct as speech, pointed through the open door of the tiny hut and toward the mountain where her two sons would soon withdraw to avenge her death.

      Romulus and Remus

      History is a river of truth that follows its majestic course through the ages. The Novel is a lake of lies, the expanse of which is concealed underwater; calm and pure on the surface, it sometimes hides the secret of the destiny of peoples and societies in its depths, much like Lake Asphaltites.5 History, a sonorous echo, faithfully reproduces the sound and fury of human hurricanes. To brave these storms and guide our savage heroes to port requires something other than a frail canoe of bark; and besides, savages ourselves, we have neither map, nor compass, nor nautical expertise. Thus the experienced pilot to the stormy sea and we to the tranquil lake; trusting to the breath of God, perhaps we will arrive at the end of our journey, guided by the Star of Nations!

      The sons of the African woman—whom we introduce in this chapter under the names Romulus and Remus, less with the thought of establishing an analogy between these men and the historic twins and more because they were brothers—had no physical mark of distinction, no sign revealing their future greatness.6 Indeed, they were of small size and common appearance. Their character was as rough as the bark of that tree in our forests whose heart possesses the incorruptibility of iron.III Like this tree, they also possessed an excellent strength. It was this source of virtue that Liberty would later award with her divine favor.

      Romulus—the older brother—had a cold, reserved, taciturn character. He had absolute control of himself and rarely revealed his thoughts. Remus had an ardent, expansive, and aggressive temper. Unlike Romulus, calm and moderation were not in Remus’s nature. Yet the brothers had in common the improvidence characteristic of their kind.

      In childhood these young men had tended animals. This first job gave them notable dexterity and agility. No one knew as well as they how to bend the yoke to the wild bull, how to tame the stamping steed. Their talent in the art of setting traps, preparing an ambush, or rerouting the course of a river was remarkable. They were excellent at swimming and arrived before the herds in a footrace; they mounted a horse bareback better than an Arab, fast as the wind. Was it any coincidence that the hardy childhood of William Tell was spent in the same manner?7

      Romulus and Remus moved from keeping the animals to working the fields and acquired, by habit of exaggerated toil, an uncommon vigor. The advantages of the athlete and the valuable qualities of the soldier were united in these two brothers. Their sober demeanor made them insensible to the kinds of deprivations that irritate even the manliest of men. These adolescents, whom crime had made into orphans, possessed a level of maturity beyond their years.

      The boys awoke as men on the day after they were deprived of their guardian’s affection, in whose shade they—until then—had lived life carefree and timid, without want or anger. The feelings that bring forth independence excited their thoughts, which had ripened in the heat of their hatred.

      One day Remus said to Romulus: “The sight of the Colonist enrages me. I can hardly stifle my fury. I always have the desire to jump at his throat when he approaches us, that villain. He degrades us below his ass and his dog and treats us worse than all of the beasts that serve him. What reason does he have for acting so? Is he an avenger from hell come to erase the mark of some new original sin with our tears? He made our mother die by the whip! If you agree with me, my brother, we will attack him and—”

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