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- 4169
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T07:57:55.409Z
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- start_line
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- text
- round, smoothing a curl here, clipping an unruly whisker-hair there,
giving a graceful sweep to the temple-lock, with other impromptu
touches evincing the hand of a master; while, like any resigned
gentleman in barber’s hands, Don Benito bore all, much less uneasily,
at least than he had done the razoring; indeed, he sat so pale and
rigid now, that the negro seemed a Nubian sculptor finishing off a
white statue-head.
All being over at last, the standard of Spain removed, tumbled up, and
tossed back into the flag-locker, the negro’s warm breath blowing away
any stray hair, which might have lodged down his master’s neck; collar
and cravat readjusted; a speck of lint whisked off the velvet lapel;
all this being done; backing off a little space, and pausing with an
expression of subdued self-complacency, the servant for a moment
surveyed his master, as, in toilet at least, the creature of his own
tasteful hands.
Captain Delano playfully complimented him upon his achievement; at the
same time congratulating Don Benito.
But neither sweet waters, nor shampooing, nor fidelity, nor sociality,
delighted the Spaniard. Seeing him relapsing into forbidding gloom, and
still remaining seated, Captain Delano, thinking that his presence was
undesired just then, withdrew, on pretense of seeing whether, as he had
prophesied, any signs of a breeze were visible.
Walking forward to the main-mast, he stood awhile thinking over the
scene, and not without some undefined misgivings, when he heard a noise
near the cuddy, and turning, saw the negro, his hand to his cheek.
Advancing, Captain Delano perceived that the cheek was bleeding. He was
about to ask the cause, when the negro’s wailing soliloquy enlightened
him.
“Ah, when will master get better from his sickness; only the sour heart
that sour sickness breeds made him serve Babo so; cutting Babo with the
razor, because, only by accident, Babo had given master one little
scratch; and for the first time in so many a day, too. Ah, ah, ah,”
holding his hand to his face.
Is it possible, thought Captain Delano; was it to wreak in private his
Spanish spite against this poor friend of his, that Don Benito, by his
sullen manner, impelled me to withdraw? Ah this slavery breeds ugly
passions in man.—Poor fellow!
He was about to speak in sympathy to the negro, but with a timid
reluctance he now re-entered the cuddy.
Presently master and man came forth; Don Benito leaning on his servant
as if nothing had happened.
But a sort of love-quarrel, after all, thought Captain Delano.
He accosted Don Benito, and they slowly walked together. They had gone
but a few paces, when the steward—a tall, rajah-looking mulatto,
orientally set off with a pagoda turban formed by three or four Madras
handkerchiefs wound about his head, tier on tier—approaching with a
saalam, announced lunch in the cabin.
On their way thither, the two captains were preceded by the mulatto,
who, turning round as he advanced, with continual smiles and bows,
ushered them on, a display of elegance which quite completed the
insignificance of the small bare-headed Babo, who, as if not
unconscious of inferiority, eyed askance the graceful steward. But in
part, Captain Delano imputed his jealous watchfulness to that peculiar
feeling which the full-blooded African entertains for the adulterated
one. As for the steward, his manner, if not bespeaking much dignity of
self-respect, yet evidenced his extreme desire to please; which is
doubly meritorious, as at once Christian and Chesterfieldian.
Captain Delano observed with interest that while the complexion of the
mulatto was hybrid, his physiognomy was European—classically so.
- title
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