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Romantic Empiricism
Romantic Empiricism
Nature, Art, and Ecology from
Herder to Humboldt
DA L IA NA S S A R
1
3
Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers
the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education
by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University
Press in the UK and certain other countries.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190095437.001.0001
1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2
Printed by Integrated Books International, United States of America
For Clara
No one is prepared to grasp that, both in nature and in art,
the sole and supreme process is the creation of form.
J. W. von Goethe
Contents
Acknowledgments xi
Abbreviations xiii
Note on Referencing xvii
Notes 249
Works Cited 287
Index 299
Acknowledgments
There are many people and organizations who have played a crucial role in
the development of this book. I want first to acknowledge the Australian
Research Council, Discovery Project DP160103769 (2016– 2018), the
Humboldt Foundation grant for experienced researchers (2019–2020), and
the Sydney Social Sciences and Humanities Advanced Research Council,
Ultimate Peer Review grant (2018).
I also want to acknowledge a number of highly innovative and re-
search initiatives at the University of Sydney, which have allowed me to
deepen and expand my work in unexpected and exciting ways: Sydney
Intellectual History Network, Theories and Conceptions of Life from the
19th Century to the Present, and the Multi-Species Justice research in-
itiative. In this regard, I especially want to thank Danielle Celermajer,
Stephen Gaukroger, Daniela Helbig, Jennifer Milam, Cat Moir, David
Schlosberg, Michelle St. Anne, Dinesh Wadiwel, Thom van Dooren, Anik
Waldow, Christine Winter, and Genevieve Wright. There is no doubt
that this book has been shaped by the workshops, reading groups, and
conversations that I have had with them over the years.
I also wish to thank the many wonderful thinkers from whose work I’ve
learned and whose penetrating feedback has nudged me in new directions:
Iain McCalman, Monica Gagliano, Sebastian Gardner, Moira Gatens,
Craig Holdrege, Nigel Hoffmann, Simon Lumsden, Jennifer Mensch,
Lydia Moland, Paul Redding, Ulrich Schlösser, Niels Weidtmann, and my
friend and coeditor on other projects, Kristin Gjesdal. I want to thank Eric
Watkins and Clinton Tolley and the PhD students in the history of phi-
losophy colloquium at the University of California, San Diego. Their gen-
erous comments on an early version of the manuscript were immense, and
I am grateful for their continued support. And, last—but not least—I want
to thank Margaret Barbour, whose openness and interest have allowed us
to undertake exciting new research together.
xii Acknowledgments
I am also grateful to many friends, with whom I’ve had some of the best
conversations over the past years, especially Enite Giovanelli, Tanja Rall,
Stefan Rall, and Kristin Funke. I want to thank Anselma Murswiek for per-
mission to use her wonderful painting, and my parents, Rosette and Talal
Nassar. I especially want to thank Luke Fischer, my favorite conversation
partner and most incisive editor.
Abbreviations
Immanuel Kant
Friedrich Schiller
I have mostly used the FA edition of Goethe’s work, as it is more easily acces-
sible than the other editions. However, references to Goethe’s On Morphology
(Zur Morphologie) are to MA, because in this edition the works appear chron-
ologically, according to their date of publication, and not (as is the case in
FA), according to the date on which they were written. I have also referenced
LA or WA in instances where a work does not appear in FA.
With regard to titles of works, I provide the English and German titles
in my first reference, while in all following references I provide only the
English title. In the case of Humboldt, however, I do the opposite: I refer to
the German title (with an English translation in parentheses at the first men-
tion), and only use the German title thereafter, unless I am specifically citing
an English translation of Humboldt’s works. This has to do with the fact that
Humboldt played a role in translating his work—whether from French to
German, or from German to English—such that some of the translations
often include passages not in the original, use terms that were not employed
in the original, or offer interpretations that further elucidate ideas expressed
in the original.
Introduction
Finding Romantic Empiricism
Romantic empiricism: two words that are not usually placed side by side,
and that seem to suggest opposing philosophical views and tendencies.
Romanticism is often associated with idealism and taken to imply a turn to
the subject and a focus on the subjective conditions of knowledge. The ro-
mantic approach to nature thus tends to be regarded as a form of subjective
constructivism. Furthermore, romanticism is identified with a strong in-
terest in the arts and aesthetic experience. Empiricism, by contrast, is out-
wardly focused and bottom-up, in its view that all knowledge must begin
with what is seen or experienced. In addition, some forms of empiricism ap-
pear from an idealist perspective to be naive: they underestimate the subject’s
creative role in knowledge, or they do not adequately differentiate between
what is given to the senses and what is known through the understanding.
Finally, contrary to romanticism, empiricism rarely pays attention to the
arts and their epistemic significance. In short: romanticism and empiricism
hardly resemble one another, and to place them side by side is to offer a par-
adox of sorts.
The thesis of this book is that romantic empiricism is not an oxymoron
but refers to a philosophical tradition that deserves renewed attention
today. While the roots of romantic empiricism can be traced back to mid-
eighteenth-century France, the tradition achieved its greatest philosoph-
ical sophistication and rigor in Germany in the late eighteenth and early
nineteenth centuries. Inspired by the questions and concerns articulated
by Georges-Louis Leclerc de Buffon (1707–1788) and elaborated by Denis
Diderot (1713–1784), thinkers from Johann Gottfried Herder to Alexander
von Humboldt developed a distinctive methodological approach to the study
of nature—an approach that drew significantly on the arts and aesthetic ex-
perience. Through this aesthetic science, the romantic empiricists were able
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"Jack me, Deb, if that wasn't the prettiest turn I ever saw!" cried young
Charles, as he manipulated the sheet.
"'Twas half you, Charlie. I must have let her go had you not brought her
up just at the right instant."
"And did Mistress Deborah learn the management of a boat under you,
sir?" asked Claude.
Claude settled back and tried to bring his mind to other subjects; but for
the moment Deborah had completely fascinated him. He could do nothing
better than compare her to all those other women to whom she was indeed
incomparable, to try to fathom the many expressions he had seen in her eyes,
and seek to determine which was the normal one. And so they left behind the
upper windings of the river and neared at last the wharf of the Trevor place.
The sun hung low over the tree-tops as Deborah stepped from the boat and
held out her hand to Charles.
"I trust, Mistress Travis, that it will not be the last in which I shall be
permitted to join you?" put in Claude, hastily, as she courtesied to him, and
would have been off.
"I trust not; but the pinnace is not mine. It is with Charles and Dr. Carroll
that you must plead."
So, with that small politeness, Deborah turned towards the shore,
wondering a little why she should have finished so perfect an afternoon in
annoyance with herself and those who had been her companions. She passed
slowly up through the orchard and across the road at the top of the bank. The
plantation grounds seemed utterly deserted. The family must be at supper.
Through the trees she caught a glimpse of the empty portico. Hurrying a
little, she went close to the doorway of a small, vine-covered arbor which
was but rarely used. Nevertheless, to-night, as she passed it, there came the
sound of muffled sobs from within. Deborah halted, hesitated for an instant,
and then entered the little place. Inside it was dusky, but she perceived at
once the glimmer of something white in a corner.
The figure stirred, and perhaps made some attempt to reply; but the only
result was another hoarse sob.
"Lucy! Lucy! what is it?" cried her cousin, running to her quickly. "Nay,
now, pray don't cry so! Is't only Mr. Calvert's going with the commissioners,
so that you mayn't have him to take you to Master Whitney's church? Listen!
Virginia told me she'd go herself with you there."
"Oh, Debby dear, no, it's not that at all now," came more quietly.
"What, then? Try and tell me about it, Lucy. See, you are all crumpled
up. Come out of this horrid place, and tell me about it. Come, now—come."
It was seldom that Lucy Trevor would have refused such persuasion, for
she was a gentle little thing, and loved to be led. Now, however, she resisted
all Deborah's kindly efforts to help her to rise, and only crouched closer in
her corner, shaking with grief. Finally Deborah knelt and took the little
dishevelled figure in her arms. Lucy had clung to her for a second, when a
new voice interrupted them.
Virginia stood in the doorway. Lucy made no answer, but Deborah said:
"Lucy's here, Virginia. What has happened?"
The elder daughter of the Trevors came forward and stood looking down
at the two figures on the ground. "The Reverend George Rockwell has asked
for Lucy's hand. She should be most proud. Come, Lucy, supper is standing,
and the wedding's not till to-morrow. Why do you bear yourself like a child?
Good God, Lucy, do you fancy a woman ever gets the man she loves?"
CHAPTER IV
Annapolis
The commissioners left Annapolis for Lancaster on the 18th day of June,
which was three days earlier than had been originally planned. After their
departure Governor Bladen sighed with relief, packed up his black satins and
official orders, and hied him to his country-place to recuperate for the fall
sessions. By the 1st of July Annapolis was deserted. All of the old families
had gone to their summer houses up the river or down the bay, and it was
remarked that Dr. Carroll, who chose to stay in town, and Rockwell, whom
he sincerely hated, must bear each other company through the summer. But
Dr. Charles was not yet reduced to the companionship of a Church-of-
England clergyman. He had taken an immense fancy to Claude de Mailly, of
whom he saw as much as Claude would let him. Indeed, he had given the
Frenchman more than one invitation to leave the tavern of Miriam Vawse to
make a permanent abode in his own house, and could not quite understand
why he had been refused. But Claude was well satisfied where he was; and
had there the indispensable feeling of independence. Few guests ever came
to the little tavern after the close of the spring assembly; and, when an
occasional traveller did stop overnight, monsieur ate in his room, went to the
coffee-house, or remained to make acquaintance of the stranger, as he chose.
On sailing for the English colonies it had been Claude's idea to travel
through them, when he arrived, as rapidly as possible, courting what
adventure and danger he could, and to keep his thoughts enough occupied to
crush, as best he might, his hopeless homesickness. But, after living in
Annapolis for a week, he found that it might be a very endurable thing to
exist in Annapolis for a year. The air was different, in this new land. New
thoughts and new occupations had come, after his illness, and he ended at
last by making a very pleasant salute to the Fate which had cast his lines in
these places, determining to take the goods which the gods and Miriam
Vawse provided (at moderate cost), and remain in the little city till
discontent again knocked upon his door. Certainly, he was not lonely.
Through Dr. Carroll and Vincent Trevor he had made acquaintance with
every gentleman, young or old, in the town. They received him extremely
well, though, it must be confessed, some of them balked at his title. "Bah!
Every Frencher's a count!" he heard Mr. Chase cry out one morning at the
market, and thereafter he requested to be presented simply as M. de Mailly
to what men he chanced to meet. Through the influence of Sir Charles he
had been given the freedom of the coffee-house, which was really the
gentlemen's club; and he was asked to the last assembly of the season, which
had taken place just before the departure of the commissioners, and which he
did not attend.
"What the—oh yes! Ha! ha! ha! Oh yes! You're after Lucy. To be sure, I
recollect. Lucy! Well, George, I wish you well—you know that. But she
won't have you."
"Won't have me?—Um. Madam Trevor has all but promised her."
"The more fool Madam Trevor.—Oh, I beg pardon. No offence, sir. But,
as I hear, the affections of the lady in question are already engaged."
"Still, I have observed that she attends your rival's church," remarked Sir
Charles, maliciously.
The rector emptied a glass. "If you'd but help me there," he said.
"Since Benedict Calvert left the city 'tis Mistress Virginia, your future
wife, who takes her sister to the Puritan meetings. Now, Fairfield, if you—if
you would be so monstrous obliging as to speak a word to your young lady
in—ah—my favor, I'd be forever beholden to you."
"The name? There's only one woman's name in the world," cried Sir
Charles, dramatically, a little overbalanced with the sangaree. "Deborah!
Deborah! Deborah! 'Tis she, the fairest petticoat in the colony. D'ye hear?"
"I've heard that she was dangerous," responded Rockwell, chuckling
with interest. "But is it true, is it possible, Charlie, that you are bewitched
enough by this young—hum—Pomona—by this young Pomona, to be
indifferent to the more glittering charms of Miss Trevor?"
Sir Charles sat him down in a chair and sighed. It was a true love-sigh,
such as there could be no mistaking in those days. "I love her to distraction,"
was his inadequate observation.
"Now I wonder," reflected the rector, aloud, "I wonder if, in such case,
distraction and marriage are terms synonymous?" He lifted his head,
scratched his large neck delicately with his finger-nail, and regarded the
young man from that height with humorous serenity.
"Devil take me—how can I, George? They expect me to take the other—
Virginia. And there's the dower—and my aunt's favor—and my own
dependence—and, egad, I don't know!"
Fairfield grew a little red. "I must. She's a kind of cousin, too, you
know."
The divine advanced with large solemnity to where the young man sat,
bent over him, and said, in a broad whisper: "Now look you, Fairfield,
there's a certain ceremony of which the law takes no count, certain words
being left out.—A lady would accept it—" He stepped back a pace. "When
you desire such a service, terms might be got at between us. Once in
England with your bride, the marriage growing cold—" he waved his hand,
shook his head, and so finished the proposition.
Sir Charles gave him a long look. The color had left his face. He rose
slowly, turned his back for a moment, and took a pinch of snuff. As he faced
the other again he remarked, without much expression: "What a cool-headed
beast you are, Rockwell."
"Sir!"
But Fairfield did not commit himself. Before he had a chance to reply a
servant of the house opened the door.
"Beg pardon, sirs, but young Mr. Carroll and Mr.—the Frencher, are
below, and, not being regulars—"
"Yes, yes, show them up at once," cried the lieutenant, with relief in his
tone.
The servant disappeared, and George Rockwell turned upon his heel. He
was not a little irritated at the result of the foregoing conversation, and he
remained silent till quick steps sounded on the stairs outside, the door
reopened vigorously, and young Charles, with de Mailly at his shoulder,
gayly entered the room, bringing with them a new atmosphere.
The boy was in a gale of spirits, and ran about the room tasting of the
liquor, looking down out of the window, and laughing at the three others.
Claude saluted the gentlemen more quietly, observing to Sir Charles:
"I perceive that we have interrupted you. I crave pardon. I sent the man
to see if you were disengaged."
"You are mistaken, monsieur. I assure you, in my turn, that your arrival
could not have been more agreeable.—Confound it, Charles, have you a
megrim or a frenzy? Where have you been, sir?"
"To a cock-fight in the Prince George Street pit. You should have been
with us. Captain Jordan's bird against Jack Marshe's. Jack's died. The
secretary will be in a rage. I won three pounds, though."
"Devil take me, why didn't you hunt me out, Charles? I've been eternally
bored for a week.—You lost to him, de Mailly?"
Fairfield looked at him curiously. Three pounds did not seem to him
small for a cockpit wager; but he would not have voiced this idea to the
foreigner for double the amount. He turned again to young Charles.
Carroll laughed joyously. "Shooting plover in the west marsh with father.
I've a holiday, and M. de Mailly is making it with me."
"And we'll all drink with you both," put in Fairfield, with sociable
impudence, while Rockwell smiled approval.
"And now for the affair in hand," pursued Jennings, when the party were
seated. "We've a race in prospect, Fairfield, that will take four months' pay to
back."
"Why, who will you run against, sir?" asked Rockwell, interested,
despite his ill-humor; for, of all things, he loved the turf.
"Paca's filly, Doris. She's young for my two-year-old; but Will is to enter
her for the fall cup, and wants to give her practice."
"Pretty beast, Doris. I stake on her, I think. Are the dates fixed?"
"No, deuce take it! there's the bother. Trevor has no jockey. Castor will
carry weight, and there's not a rider in town over four and a half stone. Five
would ride him; no less—eh, Vincent?" queried Paca, and Trevor nodded.
There was a short pause, in the midst of which a servant with the wine
and sangaree appeared. The room drank with Trevor, and two or three
afterwards turned to the pewter mugs which held the planter's favorite
beverage. Claude had been listening intently to the talk concerning the race,
and, his ear being well accustomed to the colonial accent, he had gathered
the gist of all that was said.
"My man, Tom Cree, might know of some fellow who would do for you,
Vincent. I think you could trust him if you cared to look about in that way,"
suggested Paca, after some hesitation.
Vincent bowed. "Certainly I'd trust your man, Will. But I've some
objections to that course. I've no intention of starting stables. I run Castor
merely to try your Doris and test my own animal. I don't want to be known
as deeply interested in the turf. Get a professional rider fastened to you even
by one race, and—poof! You all know what it means."
The group nodded. Vincent Trevor was a man highly respected by all of
them. He was quiet, silent, of excellent judgment, a little given to over-
Toryism, no prig, but holding fast to strong principles. His friends knew his
manner of life, and never expected him to step beyond its bounds. In the
present case they all perceived his position, and his silence was rather
dubious, till Claude de Mailly most unexpectedly broke it.
"Castor will hold twice, but would you try Doris so?"
"Tut, tut, Vincent! Doris isn't china. She'll not break so vastly easy. Egad,
we'll make it three rounds, if you like!"
Vincent smiled. "I did not mean to offend you, Will," he said.
Paca began an apology at once, when Claude interrupted: "If you would
permit me, Mr. Trevor, I will ride your horse for you."
The five men and Charles Carroll sat perfectly still and stared. De
Mailly, beholding their amazement, and not understanding it, burst into an
infectious laugh, at which Sir Charles immediately caught.
"Pray, sir, then why did you laugh? I see nothing to laugh at in so serious
a matter," remarked Rockwell, with an air of injured dignity.
"'Twas my fault, parson," retorted Fairfield, still smiling; for his humor,
though English, was still not yet of the colonial type.
"Then you really make a serious offer to ride Castor in the race?"
demanded young Carroll, curiously.
"'Tis not that, monsieur, but you see—it is vastly strange form for a
gentleman to ride a track against a jockey. To be plain, M. de Mailly, since
you are a stranger to our customs—none of us would do such a thing."
Claude smiled and shrugged. "Thank you, sir, I was aware of the English
custom in this case. But I am here to amuse myself. I make you an offer, sir.
Examine my weight and my build, and try my riding before you refuse it."
He stood up for the small group to judge his weight, and this they
proceeded to do with calm assurance and unsparing observation.
"Not much over five stone, I stake my oath!" remarked Jennings,
measuring the slender figure with his eye.
"I shall not be pulling the horse in after the first half-minute," observed
Claude, quietly.
Claude turned and stared at him with such a mixture of scorn and
laughter in his eyes that Trevor hastily broke in:
"To see whether my riding is fit for such a speed," added the proposed
jockey, with a mixture of wounded vanity and sarcastic pride. He was
beginning to regret rather bitterly his impulsive and wholly generous offer.
In time he might become accustomed to English manners. Just now they hurt
him more than he would have confessed. His whole early life had been one
which had fostered his natural buoyant impulsiveness of spirit, and had made
him young beyond his years. It had been called his "pose." But that pose,
which was more than half nature, was a singularly unfortunate thing for a
man thrown upon the world, in a strange country, among new manners,
through which he must find his way. And just now, while the Englishmen
concluded various arrangements for their plan, he was struggling with his
temper, and only won the battle when Trevor and Rockwell finally rose to
depart. Vincent was returning to the plantation, and the clergyman, with
Lucy in his mind, purposed accompanying him.
"I'll ride with you, Trevor. I can cross the river at King's Ferry. My
people will expect me to-night. Our town house is shut."
"Very well. I leave you, then, Charles. You'll ride out in the morning with
M. de Mailly and Carleton."
"Ay, and me, too," called young Carroll after him. "I'll see Castor rode
with the rest of you, and, egad, I'll go to the race as well!"
"Until to-morrow, then. Good-day, sir," said Paca, bowing with courtly
politeness to Claude, who liked him thenceforth.
The four who remained in the jockey-club-room sat silent together for
some moments after they had been left alone. Then Claude, looking at young
Charles, rose.
"Come, Mr. Carroll, since we are making your holiday together, let us go
and finish it with a supper at my inn. You will forgive me, messieurs"—he
turned to Sir Charles and Jennings—"you will forgive me that I do not
propose a party of four. After the excitement of the cock-fight this afternoon,
and my ride for to-morrow, we will make our evening quiet. You might be
perhaps—how do you say—ennuyé—by it. Where shall we join you to-
morrow?" He smiled gently as he beheld the lieutenant regarding him with
knitted brows. Indeed, to Fairfield it seemed that the Frenchman had read his
mind, and was bound to thwart his hopes of arranging a gentleman's night in
Jennings' company.
"Come, come, monsieur, be more lenient. Dine with us at the 'Blue Balls'
and join us in a game of écarté later."
"Eh, yes!" cried young Charles, eagerly. "'Twould be vastly more fun!"
He pulled de Mailly's sleeve.
"No, no, Charles, not you! It—your father—damme, you ain't out of
school yet, you know," stammered Jennings, voicing Fairfield's thought.
Carroll flushed hot with anger, and Claude bit his lip before he answered,
quietly: "It is impossible that I should dine with you to-night, gentlemen,
though I thank you for your kindness. Mr. Carroll is my guest."
Young Charles looked at him with sulky admiration. He was furious with
Jennings, mortally ashamed of his youth, but still appreciative of de Mailly's
tact. Fairfield, seeing nothing for it but to accept his disappointment
gracefully, rose, seized Jennings by the arm, waved an au revoir to de
Mailly, and with a, "Be at the 'Blue Balls' with your beasts at ten in the
morning, and we'll ride out together," drew his willing companion away to
their favorite night-haunt.
De Mailly looked after them as they passed through the door, and then
stood still for an instant, considering. When he turned again to young
Charles, the boy's face wore a new expression.
"I'm very sorry, monsieur, if I've spoiled your night. I should have gone
home without you."
Claude started forward impulsively, and drew the boy's arm through his
own. "En avant!" he cried, gayly. "Why, Charles, I'd rather you a thousand
times over than any other blood in Annapolis. 'Tis a good race, yours. Your
father is as gallant a gentleman as I have met, and you are his son. Come
then, Charles, we'll drink to you both, to-night, in the oldest Madeira that
Mistress Vawse will sell."
He was peering along the grass in front of them. "I'd stake my oath
—'twas a water-moccasin," he muttered, half to himself.
The girl lifted her petticoats with both hands and shrank close to him. "A
water-moccasin! Surely not here—" She stared nervously at the turf, but saw
nothing. The snake, if there had been one, was gone.
Deborah might have said more or retreated to Madam Trevor, but for the
fact that, at this moment, the stable doors slid open and Castor, with de
Mailly on his back, trotted into the field. Will Paca and Vincent followed
him on foot and made their way over to the party in the gateway.
Castor, first-born of twin foals, and the one who had all the strength and
beauty alike of the two, was an enormous jet-black animal, seventeen hands
high, with a long, swinging step and three paces got from no blooded
ancestors, but merely through one of those accidents sometimes permitted by
the gods. He was an animal fiery enough of temper, and particular about his
riders. Vincent Trevor, indeed, had been dubious about the Frenchman's
ability even to mount him; but as Claude swung into the saddle and took the
reins from the shining black neck, all doubts were forgotten. Castor turned
his head, glanced at the man who sat him so easily, and neighed with
satisfaction. As they trotted together into the paddock Claude rode in the
French fashion, as though he were part of the horse, never rising in the
saddle.
"I vow I've seen nothing so pretty," assented that lady, good-humoredly.
"Eh, Lucy?"
"How d' ye like him, Vincent?" asked his cousin, as the horse broke into
a canter.
"Very well."
"The fellow knows his business, I think," observed Will Paca, dryly.
"His business!—You don't think—" Trevor raised his brows.
Paca shrugged.
"Oh—I ask pardon. I did not know your acquaintance was intimate,"
rejoined the other at once, with a proper manner, and Fairfield was satisfied.
At the same time he felt a light touch on his arm, and, turning, he found
Deborah looking at him with a light in her eyes.
But, while Fairfield carried her hand to his lips, he felt, in some way, that
her speech had not brought him unmitigated pleasure.
"I'll give you three lengths start on the track, Will," cried Trevor, as de
Mailly flew by for the fourth time, never moving a hair's-breadth in the
saddle.
Deborah, her cheeks slightly flushed, moved to one side where she could
watch without interruption. She saw Claude pass the stable and reach the far
corner of the paddock. There something happened. A thing which looked, at
the distance, like a black thread, shot suddenly up from the ground and
struck at Castor's leg as he passed. The horse gave a quick, terrified plunge,
which made de Mailly reel in the saddle, and then the animal, maddened
with fear, started forward like a whirlwind. He had reared completely about
and was running frantically towards the open gateway. At the beginning
there had been a slight scream from Lucy, and now the men, their faces very
pale, pulled the women quickly away from the opening. Deborah moved of
her own accord, her eyes fixed fast on the horse, for she had seen what
started its flight. In an instant horse and rider had flashed, comet-like, out at
the gate, and, as they passed, Deborah knew that de Mailly had looked at
her, and she had seen something very like a smile cross his set lips. Beyond
the gate the horse veered again and made towards the south, in the direction
of the tobacco-fields.
"HORSE AND RIDER HAD FLASHED OUT AT THE GATE"
Claude saw, with relief, that he had an apparently unobstructed space
before him. It was all that he could do now to keep himself on the horse,
who no longer went at an even gait, but varied his gallop with leaps and
plunges caused by pain. He was utterly beyond all control. Claude lay over
on his back, both hands twisted in the long mane, his eyes half closed,
breathing with some difficulty, but quite sure of himself so long as his way
was clear. Suddenly, however, as he caught a glimpse of the fields beyond,
his heart rose into his throat, and then sank again with a sensation which
made him dizzy. A hundred yards ahead was a twenty-foot ditch of water,
which no living horse could clear. If Castor saw it, and had still sense of his
own, he might turn off. If not, the horse was lost, and Claude himself must
take desperate chances. Many things flashed through his mind in the ensuing
seconds. Most vividly of all the figure of Deborah, as he had seen her a
moment before, stood out before him. Then for one more instant his mind
was a white blank. They were ten yards from the stream now, and the horse
was moving straight on. Mechanically, Claude took his left foot from the
stirrup and swung it over Castor's back. For one frightful instant he lay full
along the animal. Then, not very much aware of what he was doing, he had
let himself over the side, felt solid ground whirl under his feet, and knew that
all was well with him. A moment later he vaguely heard the heavy splash
and the human-like scream that told of the good animal's death. Not very
long after that he was looking into Vincent's face, and, as a brandy flask was
held out to him, he murmured, with as much feeling as he was capable of
just then:
But Vincent was actually laughing as he replied: "My dear sir, when a
poisonous snake sends its fangs into your horse's leg, its rider need offer no
excuse for being run away with. And, 'pon my soul, for the sake of learning
how to ride as you have done, I'd sacrifice every beast that ever was stalled
on this place.—Eh, Charlie?"
And from behind came Fairfield's voice, crying heartily, "Egad, when I
am released from the colonies, I'll go and live in a French training-school till
I do learn!"
It was an hour later, and the excitement was over, when the Reverend
George Rockwell ventured to address Will Paca on the same subject: "To tell
the truth, my dear sir, I confess that I believe there must have been some
truth in your suggestion in the field that our—French friend knew more than
a gentleman does of horses."
Paca turned slowly about and looked at him. There was no answer made
in words; but at times looks are expressive of inexpressible things.
CHAPTER V
Sambo
According to the laws of colonial hospitality, Claude stayed all day and
overnight at the Trevor house. To tell the truth, he was scarcely fit for
removal, for the reaction from his nervous strain sent him, early in the
afternoon, to the chamber prepared for him, from which he emerged at ten
o'clock next morning with many apologies for tardiness on his tongue. He
saw no one, however, to whom to deliver them. The house was deserted.
Finding his way, after a search through the empty hall and parlor, into the
sunny breakfast-room, he discovered there a single place set at the table, and
Adam lounging in the doorway. The slave straightened and saluted him upon
his entrance.
"Sit down, sah—sit down. I'll bring yo' breakfast right away."
Upon this, he darted from the house and disappeared down the path
towards the kitchen, to return in two or three minutes with a large tray upon
which stood a variety of smoking dishes. This he set before the guest, who
proceeded to discuss them with a light appetite. While he ate he pondered,
uneasily, on how he was expected to take his departure. In this matter Adam
came presently to his assistance.
"Pa'don, Mas' de Mailly, but Mas' Vincent wait this mo'n till nine t' see
you, den he ride out to the fields an' tell me t' say t' he be back fo' dinne' at
noon; ask yo' health den."
"So I'm to stay till this afternoon?" asked Claude, in some surprise.
"Yes, sah," responded the slave, and his prompt tone settled the matter.
Claude, who had quite finished his meal, rose and strolled idly to the
door which looked out upon the garden. At the far end of this, among her
roses, was Madam Trevor. De Mailly did not recognize her at the distance,
but he turned suddenly to the slave who was clearing the table.
"Can you tell me, Adam, where Mistress Travis will be at this hour?"
"Miss Deb? Oh, she's mos' like at de still-room." He went over to the
door. "See li'l house dere cross the ya'd? She's mos' like dere."
"Thank you." Claude nodded to the man and went out of the house,
around the terrace, and so through the yard towards the small building whose
surrounding lilac-bushes were all in seed. Here on the step, alone and
disconsolate, sat Sambo, Deborah's favorite little darky.
Sambo was very forlorn this morning. A strong appreciation of the woe
of this wretched life had come to his spirit under the guise of an empty
stomach. All of three hours ago Thompson, the overseer, discovered him in
the climacteric moment of a glorious charge on the chickens in the runs. An
entire flock of fat, white pullets were in full flight before this single son of
Ethiopia, whose triumphant war-cry had unfortunately reached the quarters.
Thereupon Thompson, who had no soul for the sublime, seized the
conqueror by the tail of his tow-linen toga and dragged him from the field to
his parental cabin, where, in the presence of Chloe, his mother, a most telling
rebuke was administered. The mother's heart hardened towards the small
sinner, and he had been driven outside in the very face of bacon spluttering
over the fire and beans baking fragrantly in the embers. After an unhappy
wandering, he at last sought the homely protection of Deborah and the still-
room. Deborah, too, had left him, with the promise, however, of getting him
something to eat when she returned. So here, in melancholy resignation, sat
Sambo, as Claude approached.
Sambo swept a black thumb over one shoulder, back of his head. "Dat
way."
Claude bowed.
"I'll come."
The small figure rose suddenly, descended from his dais, and put one
small black fist trustfully into de Mailly's. Claude looked down into the
childish face, with its round pate covered with black, woolly, hair, and a
gentle light came into his eyes. He was fond of children.
The swamp appeared to be some distance away. The child's steps were
short, and Claude would not hurry him. At last, however, they came upon a
narrow, grassy lane, bordered on either side by a tangle of vines and bushes,
at the end of which was the so-called swamp—a marsh nearly dry at this
season, save for a pool in its very centre. Upon the edge of this they paused.
Before them was a waste wherefrom sprang a few saplings, some young
willows, a tangle of flaming tiger-lilies, and a host of those plants which
grow in damp places. Claude saw no sign of a human being, but Sambo
presently sprang forward.
"Deh she is!" he cried, running into the brush. Claude followed rapidly,
coming at last in sight of her whom he sought.
Deborah knelt upon the damp ground, bending over a plant which she
was minutely examining. Claude had seen it and its flower often enough, he
thought. The stem was perhaps three feet high, with long, narrow, spotted
leaves, and clusters of small purplish flowers. These were what Deborah was
studying, and on her flushed face was an expression which Claude had not
beheld before. Startled by Sambo's appearance, she looked up.
"I'm ready. I must take this with me." From a little bag hanging at her
side she drew a small pruning-knife and two pieces of cotton cloth. Having
cut the stem of the plant before her, she wrapped about it one square of the
cloth and took it up in her left hand.
"A sort of mushroom, Sambo. Oh, a most excellent dinner dish they'd
make!" she added, laughing.
And hungry Sambo heard her. Were these pretty things good to eat? He
had seen not a few of them in the grass about the roads and fields. Here was
a breakfast ready for him. He considered a little, the idea of cooking not
entering his head. Neither Deborah nor de Mailly knew when he ceased to
follow them, it merely occurring to them by the time they reached home that
Sambo had not been with them for some time. Claude, who had found the
way long in coming, deemed it only too short on the return. And Deborah,
demurely realizing that she was perfectly happy, continued to talk to him in
that tranquil manner which, from its apparent indifference and self-
possession, seemed such an anomaly, considering her youth.
"May I ask the use of this?" asked de Mailly, curiously, holding out the
spray of spotted-hemlock.
"I don't know its use. 'Tis what I am going to try to find out if the doctor
does not come this morning. I am ignorant if it is as poisonous as water-
hemlock. I will try to learn."
"It will be most interesting. We are to try the effect of two alkaloids in
one system, and I must note the different symptoms, the combined result,
and the complications which ensue from the interaction."
De Mailly looked at the girl in surprise. She was certainly unlike any
woman that he had ever met. "Forgive me," he said, earnestly. "I did not
understand you. I do admire and respect this work of yours. My gratitude—
how shall I express it? There is, indeed, little that one can say to the
preserver of his life—"
Dr. Carroll, returning on the day before from his shooting, and, wearied
by the dulness of Annapolis in mid-summer, kept his promise and came out
to see Deborah. He found her, ignorant of his arrival, preparing her retort for
the distillation of the water-hemlock, while Claude, willingly pressed into
service, had gone to the kitchen to obtain a lighted coal for the tripod of
charcoal. An addition to the equipment of the room had recently been made.
Beside the cupboard in the corner stood a good-sized cage, its top and
bottom made of pine boards held together by narrow wooden slats nailed
upon all four sides. Within this prison of the condemned sat a half-grown
tortoise-shell tabby, presented yesterday to the establishment by Sambo. As
Deborah took up her hemlock and with careful hands began to strip away its
leaves and blossoms, she glanced now and then at her prisoner with an
expression half of pity and half of speculative interest. The animal looked
very comfortable on its bed of grass, its toilet just completed, with slow eyes
blinking at the light; never a suspicion in its head of a possible swift death at
the hands of the slender girl at the table yonder. The stillness was interrupted
by the entrance of the doctor.
Deborah took the shovel from his hands, emptying its contents carefully
into the tripod. "Thank you. Be seated, if you care to watch us."
"By all means, sit yonder, de Mailly, and look on. Miss Travis is
preparing some Conium maculatum for distillation, though she will get a
poor result from the mere leaves and flowers. And behold in me, monsieur,
the conscienceless wretch about to destroy life in that hapless pussy, for the
mere gratification of criminal instinct.—What's this, Deborah?"
The doctor's change of tone was so sudden and so marked that the girl
turned quickly about to behold him standing over the fungi which she had
placed at the far end of the table.
Carroll shook his head gravely. "It doesn't need extraction. The whole
thing is replete with poison. 'Tis amanita muscaria, the deadliest of all fungi.
Have you seen the symptoms?"
"Then you shall. I mind me I had a case of them many years ago—a
family ate them at supper. All four died.* There was no help that I or any one
else had to give. Such agony I have never seen. The effect is not apparent for
from four to nine hours after eating, though internal dissemination of the
poison must begin at once. After the case I mentioned, I experimented a
good deal with them. Time does not seem to affect their power. After four
months' keeping I knew one of them to cause death to a dog in ten hours.
Would you care to try this to-day on your cat there, Deborah, in conjunction
with one of the liquids?"
Deborah did not reply at once, and Claude hoped that she would decline
the proposition. Her answer was a question: "Will you stay, doctor, till the
fungus acts? I couldn't distinguish the different symptoms alone."
The doctor reflected. "'Tis eleven now. By four the thing should be under
way. I'll get home by six. Yes, I'll stay."
Deborah went to the cupboard and surveyed her array of phials. Finally,
selecting one filled with a clear, white liquid, with less sediment at the
bottom than most of her mixtures contained, she brought it over to Dr.
Carroll.
"I gave forty drops to a cat. It seemed to be quiet for about three-quarters
of an hour. Then it tried to mew, but that was hard for it. The muscles of its
throat were strained. After a little it began to bite at things in the cage. Its
eyes were large, and the pupils full, as if it were in the dark. It drank all I
would give it, but could not swallow easily. Then there came spasms. Finally
it fell asleep, and died three hours after the dose."
"Monsieur, I do not think that you will enjoy our experiments here this
morning. Will you be so obliging as to join my cousins, Virginia and Lucy,
in some pleasanter occupation?"
There was a note of piqued command in the tone which Claude, who
knew women well, would have disobeyed in any other case. Now, however,
he made no reply, but rose in grave silence, bowed to her, and left the room.
"On my life, that was not a gallant thing," observed Carroll, placidly,
when their sensitive guest had crossed the yard.
Deborah made no answer. She was more deeply hurt than she would
have believed possible, and she did not choose that her voice should betray
her. Crossing again to the cupboard, she took from its lowest shelf a deep-
bowled horn spoon, with which she knelt before the cat's cage. In the mean
time the doctor had been occupied in cutting the fungus into small cubes.
These, together with the atropine, he took over to his pupil, who was now on
the floor with the cat in her lap. She took the amanita quietly from her
companion's hands, placed one piece in the creature's mouth, and
manipulated its throat till it swallowed convulsively.
Unflinchingly Deborah finished her task, and then, hastily replacing the
prisoner in its cage, she fastened the little door. Carroll, who had looked on
without comment, helped her to rise from the floor, and silently noted the
fact that her hands were very cold.
"Come now to the house and rest," he said, with quiet persuasion.
She looked a little surprised. "Surely not. I will stay here and watch.
Besides, there is the hemlock;" she nodded towards the little heap of flowers
and leaves by the retort. "I will distil that. The fire is ready."
"No, Debby. You're tired. Hark you, the poisons will certainly not show
for half an hour, if they do then. It is probable that the muscaria will retard
the action of the atropine for a much longer time. Then you must have your
full wits about you, for 'twill be the most interesting thing we've done. Come
now, as your physician, I insist."
But though Charles Carroll's will was strong, that of Deborah Travis was
stronger. He tried persuasion, command, and entreaty, finally becoming
angry, and so losing the battle; for, having called her a stubborn hussy, there
was nothing for it but to march off alone to the house. The girl saw him go
with a sore heart, and then, doggedly determined, returned to her work, the
pleasure of it gone for the first time in her life. When, after a while, Sambo
strolled thoughtfully in from the fields, she greeted him with positive
delight.
The little boy seated himself, Turk-fashion, beside the tripod, to watch
the water just beginning to bubble in the body of the retort. It was an
occupation which he dearly loved, and in the observation of which he was a
privileged mortal, for Deborah allowed but few in her work-room. During
the process of distillation she was regarded by Sambo as some one who had
risen for the time to supernatural heights. She was quite a different person
from the Miss Deb whom he knew ordinarily out-of-doors. On every
occasion, however, he had been wont to talk unceasingly either to her or to
himself when in her company. To-day she wondered at his silence. His
interest in the action of the retort was as great as ever, but every effort to
draw him into conversation failed. So, after a time, Deborah, her closest
attention demanded by the approaching end of the distillation, when the
purest alkaloid would come from her plant, ceased also to speak, and,
indeed, almost forgot his presence. The liquid had been filtered, bottled, and
set aside for its second vaporizing, when she suddenly recollected that in the
morning she had promised to get something for the little negro to eat. It was
sufficient cause for his silence.