Excerpt from "The Saint-Ybars Plantation: Chapter I" by Alfred Mercier
A translation of a chapter from a Creole novel
You can find the rest of the chapter on my Gumroad here, where I’ll be uploading longer translations monthly or more frequently.
The Saint-Ybars Plantation by Alfred Mercier
Chapter I, The Good Old Days
On the 3rd of May, 1851 the triple mast, Polonia, arriving from Cadiz, entered our port and dropped anchor in front of the Marigny. Among the passengers who disembarked was a young man, whose physiognomy seemed more French than Spanish. Indeed, he was French. Though he was hardly 23, he had already suffered greatly for his politics. Wounded and taken prisoner on the barricades during the Days of June in 1848, he was exiled to Africa. Having withstood the sorrows of captivity and the murderous climate of Algeria for 16 months, he managed to escape, and embarked on a ship in Oran bound for Cadiz. When he arrived in Spain he met another exile whom he had met in Paris in 1847, in the salons of Ledru-Rollin. The Spaniard greeted him cordially, “Believe me,” he said, “don’t bother trying to return to your fatherland illegally. France now belongs to Prince Louis Napoleon, and he will do whatever he pleases with her. That superstitious and servile imitator of his uncle, he will copy him to his faults. In defiance of common sense he will persist in those faults, and when pride has brought him too to his doom, France will be rid of her last monarchical illusion. Then, better times will begin for your republican ideals. In the meantime, go to the United States; there you will see the governmental principle which you believe to be the most favourable to the liberty of man and to his happiness at its fullest extent. You will observe, learn, and reflect. A day will come when you will return to your comrades with the authority that comes from experience. There’s a ship here that is going to sail for New Orleans, we’ll get you a cabin onboard. You’ll settle in easily in Louisiana. I have a few friends in New Orleans, including a former lawyer working as an editor for one of the major newspapers there, I’ll write you a letter of recommendation. Let’s not waste time, write to your family and then we’ll see to your things.”
The young outlaw listened to his friend’s advice; standing on the deck of the Polonia, just as the sun was setting, he thought of both this land of Europe he was leaving behind, and the sea that carried him to an uncertain destiny. To see the confidence with which he walked on the dock as he disembarked, one would not have believed he was in a foreign country. He had studied the map of the city and knew his way to the offices of The Bee. He took Esplanade Avenue and was about to turn left onto Chartres Avenue when his attention fell upon a house with all its doors and windows wide open. The two front rooms overlooking the street only had benches lined up along the walls which were occupied, one room by negroes and the other by negresses; a few coloured folk of a more or less lighter shade were mixed in with these blacks. To each room there was a staircase of three steps, and each row of steps stood a few blacks, all in their prime and of seemingly excellent health. In the background, there were smaller rooms without much lighting; beyond, there was a courtyard at the end of which was a kitchen and some outbuildings.
A tall, sturdy white man paced between the two rooms, occasionally glancing across the street, as a merchant does when waiting for business. Still young, he already had the puffiness in his cheeks and the purplish complexion of an alcoholic. He seemed to have been handsome at the start of his manhood, with a smart but strong look. At times, he would raise his eyes religiously to Heaven as if to ask for her protection; but it was less from piety than a habit from his days as a Protestant minister. He had left the clergy five years ago to become a slave trader.
The young exile slowed down to see better, but didn’t understand what he was seeing. Addressing a negress who had come to meet him, he said to her:
“Madame, pardon me, but what is this?”
The negress, hearing herself called Madame, let out one of those loud and joyful laughs peculiar to the African race, of which a European cannot form an idea of unless having heard them, then saying:
“Pardon me, mister?” she said, “this negre’s for sale.”
She realised she was still not understood, and suspecting she was dealing with a foreigner, continued in good French:
“These are niggers for sale, sir.”
“Ah!” said the stranger, and he asked nothing more. There were many emotions in this “ah”, but the negress saw it only as an expression of banal surprise; as for the exile, his sight was already fixed on someone who was approaching, holding by the hand a young girl was between 13 and 14 years old.
The approaching man was a Louisiana native of the Creole aristocracy. Tall in height, he appeared even taller with the way he held his head high. Thin and elegantly dressed in the latest fashion, he had a confident and casual walk that showed self-esteem and close acquaintance with the habit of command. Seeing him, the young stranger said to himself:
“Does he look proud! The grand king Assuerus, in all his glory, did not walk more beautifully.”