Becoming America - An Exploration of American Literature from Precolonial to Post-Revolution, 2018a

BECOMING AMERICA
REVOLUTIONARY AND EARLY NATIONAL PERIOD LITERATURE
conduct something in the light of an intentional aront, of course the idea of lunacy
was virtually vacated. But if not a lunatic, what then? Under the circumstances,
would a gentleman, nay, any honest boor, act the part now acted by his host? The
man was an impostor. Some low-born adventurer, masquerading as an oceanic
grandee; yet so ignorant of the rst requisites of mere gentlemanhood as to be
betrayed into the present remarkable indecorum. That strange ceremoniousness,
too, at other times evinced, seemed not uncharacteristic of one playing a part above
his real level. Benito Cereno—Don Benito Cereno—a sounding name. One, too,
at that period, not unknown, in the surname, to super-cargoes and sea captains
trading along the Spanish Main, as belonging to one of the most enterprising and
extensive mercantile families in all those provinces; several members of it having
titles; a sort of Castilian Rothschild, with a noble brother, or cousin, in every great
trading town of South America. The alleged Don Benito was in early manhood,
about twenty-nine or thirty. To assume a sort of roving cadetship in the maritime
aairs of such a house, what more likely scheme for a young knave of talent and
spirit? But the Spaniard was a pale invalid. Never mind. For even to the degree of
simulating mortal disease, the craft of some tricksters had been known to attain.
To think that, under the aspect of infantile weakness, the most savage energies
might be couched—those velvets of the Spaniard but the silky paw to his fangs.
From no train of thought did these fancies come; not from within, but from
without; suddenly, too, and in one throng, like hoar frost; yet as soon to vanish as
the mild sun of Captain Delano’s good-nature regained its meridian.
Glancing over once more towards his host—whose side-face, revealed above
the skylight, was now turned towards him—he was struck by the prole, whose
clearness of cut was rened by the thinness, incident to ill-health, as well as
ennobled about the chin by the beard. Away with suspicion. He was a true oshoot
of a true hidalgo Cereno.
Relieved by these and other better thoughts, the visitor, lightly humming a tune,
now began indierently pacing the poop, so as not to betray to Don Benito that he
had at all mistrusted incivility, much less duplicity; for such mistrust would yet be
proved illusory, and by the event; though, for the present, the circumstance which
had provoked that distrust remained unexplained. But when that little mystery
should have been cleared up, Captain Delano thought he might extremely regret
it, did he allow Don Benito to become aware that he had indulged in ungenerous
surmises. In short, to the Spaniard’s black-letter text, it was best, for awhile, to
leave open margin.
Presently, his pale face twitching and overcast, the Spaniard, still supported by
his attendant, moved over towards his guest, when, with even more than his usual
embarrassment, and a strange sort of intriguing intonation in his husky whisper,
the following conversation began:—
“Señor, may I ask how long you have lain at this isle?”
“Oh, but a day or two, Don Benito.”
“And from what port are you last?”
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