La Toussaint at Rougeville

To be sure, it is really not Rougeville; that is only its pen-name, so to speak. Neither is it to be confused with Baton Rouge, the Red Stick, on the Great Mississippi. Rougeville stretches itself lazily and lankly along the red banks of a sluggish Louisiana stream. It prides itself on its age, its charm, — they do sometimes go together, — and its uniqueness. The stranger might regard it as very like all other Louisiana Creole towns, but the initiated know this not to be true. All sorts of wild assertions are made regarding its antiquity, which you are not expected to challenge; and if, concerning its singular charm, you have opinions contrary to the universal idea, leave Rougeville, or forever hold your peace.

For many, many Novembers, as time goes in the New World, has it celebrated its Toussaints. There was a serpent of discontent in Eden, and there are not lacking the irreverent who say it would be meet for the always moribund Rougeville to reckon its years by All Saints, the Feast of the Dead.

In your fanciful superiority you may look down upon it, American City of Braggadocio, because forsooth it lacks trolley-cars and other examples of modern rush; but, my dear City Disdain, very likely, while buffaloes and Indians still roamed your plains Rougeville had its name on the explorer’s map; was making history; was referred to in treaties; and was a point to be made by travelers — great travelers such as Louis Juchereau de St. Denis and Pike of the Peak.

You, M’sieur Fanfaron, ridicule not its men of affairs because their trousers and their business methods are not coeval with yours. Remember: a century before your burly fathers felled the trees of your deafening metropolis, its Messieurs were polished men of the world, engaged in trans-continental financial schemes; as see St. Denis’s accounts with the India Company in the parish vaults.

You, my Mam’selle Fanfaronnade, who have whirled through Yurrup, smile not at the gentle dame who has never been beyond the confines of her native parish. Without offense, my maid American, with profit may you observe her demeanor on the street, in her petit parloir, or dispensing her gracious hospitality. I had almost said simple, but simple it cannot be with the Creole châtelaine and her court-bouillon (which belies its name), gumbo-filé, bisque, panse-farci, daube-glacis, boudin-de-sang, and other wonderful concoctions.

If its men and women of to-day are not to be lightly considered, what shall be said of its illustrious dead! For the pride, the glory of Rougeville is its old cemetery. If you were a stranger within the gate of this archaic village, and should in an unguarded moment express doubt of its antiquity, you would be forthwith hurried to the vaults of the parish courthouse and thence to the graveyard. Courage, gentle guest; you would probably sustain no greater injury than a bramble scratch from the cemetery, or a cold on your chest from the damp vault.

In its city of the dead you would find no lofty shafts, no costly monuments; but, what is more esteemed, a venerable iron cross, rising out of a rude stone mound. Upon its brass plate is inscribed in French the fact that here reposes the body of the Honorable Dame (mark the words) Marie, etc. Consider, ye scoffers, almost two hundred years ago, the epitaph of a grand lady wished that she might rest in peace here in this place. Surely in all this broad, untried hemisphere, with prescience, there could not have been selected a spot more silent, more serene, less apt to be disturbed by the grasping hand of progress.

Observe the many iron crosses. Note the names : Le Duc, Chevalier, the many de’s! What does it signify but that, ere your city was, the forbears of modern (perish the thought!) Rougeville, men and women of quality, chevaliers and dames, toiled not neither did they spin. Aye, no common dust are these, the dead of early Rougeville.

Epochs are marked by the character of the monuments. There are the 17—s with their iron crosses; those days of Spanish and Indian wars. Mayhap that explains the always expressed wish that the dead may rest in peace.

Two score years of the 18—s have vaulted brick structures, whose tin and slate faces vouchsafe to tell in French that certain ones, whose names still multiply within the parish, were born and died on certain dates.

Marble slabs in the fifties and sixties, still in French, sing the praises and proclaim the virtues of the dead of that day. Here is one somewhat out of the ordinary. It marks the resting place of an infant “ décédé à l’âge de 5 mois,” — so it reads. “Passant, priez pour lui ! ! ! ” pleads the stone, and the exclamations are the marble’s very own.

In the seventies the French epitaphs disappear. The “ Americain” language, as it is called, has conquered. In the eighties, the arrogant granite shafts begin further to Americanize the place. Bah! Bah! These penetrating, desecrating Americain ideas.

The last rare days of October, the cemetery is an animated scene, if one may so speak. Thither repair the matrons of the town with their serving-women, and such weeding of walks! Such whitewashing of sepulchres! Such holocausts of brambles! Such sanding of enclosures! Such laying of gleaming oystershells!

When November dawns, the village mothers and daughters, like the good women of old, hasten to the tombs, not with spices and ointments, but with trays of sweet-smelling blossoms and precious ornaments. Where one can afford it, there is the gorgeous garland of artificial flowers, from New Orleans, yes, but imported from Paris! Besides, there are silver lambs, golden angels, white doves, or even the miniature of the dead, encased in heavy glass with dangling fringe of black or white beads. Those of moderate circumstances must be content with wreaths of painted tin blossoms. The deft have manufactured brilliant wax and feather bouquets. Those of melancholy tastes indulge in hair wreaths, presumably of the tresses of the dead. The wooden crosses of the very poor are hung with black or white paper flowers. There is an occasional tight round bouquet with an encircling expanse of scalloped white paper. Other tastes run to cedar or arbor-vitæ wreaths, crosses, or stars. Now and then one comes upon a huge collection of flowers of every hue and variety sewed upon a flat background of foliage-covered pasteboard.

But ah! alas! the innovations! It is the sacrilegious American idea! Some — it is mostly the young, the silly — go so far as to decry all artificial ornaments, even the beautiful imported decorations. It is for the natural that they clamor. Yes, so it is! Pots of geraniums and ferns, which some affect, that is not so foolish. But ridiculous as it is, there are the extravagant who go to the length of ordering flowers from New Orleans florists! Think of it! Flowers that wither in the day! Three dollars for the dozen! Some have even ceased to sand their enclosures, and prefer, or so they assert, the green grass! the Bermuda and the coco! Bah! the nonsense! It is no wonder that the ghosts walk not any more on the Hallowe’en.

In the afternoon of La Toussaint all the world betakes itself to the cemetery, either in the procession of the pious, or to make the pilgrimage of the tombs; to admire, to criticise, to chatter; perchance, if devout, to pray for the souls of the dead. From all over the parish have they come. Such unexpected meetings! Such warm greetings! Verily, in the midst of death there is life. What more propitious time for un soupçon of gossip! If one beholds the tomb of a wife, what more natural than to mention that the widower is looking about a bit! How the weedy grave of a husband inspires one to hint that the insurance, too, is running to weeds! Really, such neglect! and Mary is too extravagant! The little marble lamb over there reminds one that its mother awaits the arrival of its successor. Poor thing! Did you not know? The stern father’s last resting place recalls that the daughter’s wedding, that he so long opposed, comes off soon. Truly ? The robe is at Madame Mode’s!

The dusk falls! The throng melts away! A few stragglers linger on in the gloom; a pair or two of lovers; a belated group hurrying to get around; the recently bereaved remaining to weep and pray.

Under the live-oaks the darkness settles. Only the flowers and the dead remain. Next year, oh yes! it is true! some who most glowed with beauty and vigor to-day will be here; some whose hands were busiest this year will be idle next; and to some, who were careless spectators, it will become a sacred spot. It is ever so; and the next Toussaint will be even as this: the flowers, the crowds, the gossips, the lovers, the mourners, and always the dead.