wrapped roun’ ‘im, an’ he face lookin’ like it did dat mawnin’ down in
de low groun’s, wid de new sun shinin’ on it so peaceful.
“Miss Anne she nuver went home to stay arfter dat; she stay wid ole
marster an’ ole missis ez long ez dey lived. Dat warn’ so mighty
long, ’cause ole marster he died dat fall, when dey wuz fallerin’ fur
wheat—I had jes’ married Judy den—an’ ole missis she warn’ long
behine him. We buried her by him next summer. Miss Anne she went in de
hospitals toreckly arfter ole missis died; an’ jes’ fo’ Richmond fell
she come home sick wid de fever. Yo’ nuver would ’a’’ knowed her fur
de same ole Miss Anne. She wuz light ez a piece o’ peth, an’ so white,
’cep’ her eyes an’ her sorrel hyar, an’ she kep’ on gittin’ whiter an’
weaker. Judy she sut’n’y did nuss her faithful. But she nuver got no
betterment! De fever an’ Marse Chan’s bein’ kilt hed done strain her,
an’ she died jes’ fo’ de folks wuz sot free.
“So we buried Miss Anne right by Marse Chan, in a place whar ole missis
hed tole us to leave, an’ dey’s bofe on ’em sleep side by side over in
de ole grabeyard at home.
“An’ will yo’ please tell me, marster? Dey tells me dat de Bible sey
dyar won’ be marryin’ nor givin’ in marriage in heaven, but I don’
b’lieve it signifies dat—does you?”
I gave him the comfort of my earnest belief in some other
interpretation, together with several spare “eighteen-pences,” as he
called them, for which he seemed humbly grateful. And as I rode away I
heard him calling across the fence to his wife, who was standing in the
door of a small whitewashed cabin, near which we had been standing for
some time:
“Judy, have Marse Chan’s dawg got home?”
“POSSON JONE’”
BY
GEORGE W. CABLE
Bliss Perry mentions this story as one that presents “people and
events and circumstances, blended into an artistic whole that defies
analysis.” It illustrates dramatic incident, local color, and complex
character analysis.
“POSSON JONE’”[20]
To Jules St.-Ange—elegant little heathen—there yet remained at
manhood a remembrance of having been to school, and of having been
taught by a stony-headed Capuchin that the world is round—for example,
like a cheese. This round world is a cheese to be eaten through, and
Jules had nibbled quite into his cheeseworld already at twenty-two.
He realized this as he idled about one Sunday morning where the
intersection of Royal and Conti streets some seventy years ago formed
a central corner of New Orleans. Yes, yes, the trouble was he had been
wasteful and honest. He discussed the matter with that faithful friend
and confidant, Baptiste, his yellow body-servant. They concluded that,
papa’s patience and _tante’s_ pin-money having been gnawed away quite
to the rind, there were left open only these few easily enumerated
resorts: to go to work—they shuddered; to join Major Innerarity’s
filibustering expedition; or else—why not?—to try some games of
confidence. At twenty-two one must begin to be something. Nothing else
tempted; could that avail? One could but try. It is noble to try; and,
besides, they were hungry. If one could “make the friendship” of some
person from the country, for instance, with money, not expert at cards
or dice, but, as one would say, willing to learn, one might find cause
to say some “Hail Marys.”
The sun broke through a clearing sky, and Baptiste pronounced it good
for luck. There had been a hurricane in the night. The weed-grown
tile-roofs were still dripping, and from lofty brick and low adobe
walls a rising steam responded to the summer sunlight. Upstreet, and
across the Rue du Canal, one could get glimpses of the gardens in
Faubourg Ste.-Marie standing in silent wretchedness, so many tearful
Lucretias, tattered victims of the storm. Short remnants of the wind
now and then came down the narrow street in erratic puffs heavily laden
with odors of broken boughs and torn flowers, skimmed the little pools
of rain-water in the deep ruts of the unpaved street, and suddenly went
away to nothing, like a juggler’s butterflies or a young man’s money.
It was very picturesque, the Rue Royale. The rich and poor met
together. The locksmith’s swinging key creaked next door to the bank;
across the way, crouching, mendicant-like, in the shadow of a great
importing-house, was the mud laboratory of the mender of broken combs.
Light balconies overhung the rows of showy shops and stores open for
trade this Sunday morning, and pretty Latin faces of the higher class
glanced over their savagely pronged railings upon the passers below. At
some windows hung lace curtains, flannel duds at some, and at others
only the scraping and sighing one-hinged shutter groaning toward Paris
after its neglectful master.
M. St.-Ange stood looking up and down the street for nearly an hour.
But few ladies, only the inveterate mass-goers, were out. About the
entrance of the frequent _cafés_ the masculine gentility stood leaning
on canes, with which now one and now another beckoned to Jules, some
even adding pantomimic hints of the social cup.
M. St.-Ange remarked to his servant without turning his head that
somehow he felt sure he should soon return those _bons_ that the
mulatto had lent him.
“What will you do with them?”
“Me!” said Baptiste, quickly; “I will go and see the bull-fight in the
Place Congo.”
“There is to be a bull-fight? But where is M. Cayetano?”
“Ah, got all his affairs wet in the tornado. Instead of his circus,
they are to have a bull-fight—not an ordinary bull-fight with sick
horses, but a buffalo-and-tiger fight. I would not miss it——”
Two or three persons ran to the opposite corner, and commenced striking
at something with their canes. Others followed. Can M. St.-Ange and
servant, who hasten forward—can the Creoles, Cubans, Spaniards, San
Domingo refugees, and other loungers—can they hope it is a fight?
They hurry forward. Is a man in a fit? The crowd pours in from the
side-streets. Have they killed a so-long snake? Bareheaded shopmen
leave their wives, who stand upon chairs. The crowd huddles and packs.
Those on the outside make little leaps into the air, trying to be tall.
“What is the matter?”
“Have they caught a real live rat?”
“Who is hurt?” asks some one in English.
“_Personne_,” replies a shopkeeper; “a man’s hat blow’ in the gutter;
but he has it now. Jules pick’ it. See, that is the man, head and
shoulders on top the res’.”
“He in the homespun?” asks a second shopkeeper. “Humph! an
_Américain_—a West-Floridian; bah!”
“But wait; ’st! he is speaking; listen!”
“To who is he speak——?”
“Sh-sh-sh! to Jules.”
“Jules who?”
“Silence, you! To Jules St.-Ange, what howe me a bill since long time.
Sh-sh-sh!”
Then the voice was heard.
Its owner was a man of giant stature, with a slight stoop in his
shoulders, as if he was making a constant, good-natured attempt to
accommodate himself to ordinary doors and ceilings. His bones were
those of an ox. His face was marked more by weather than age, and his
narrow brow was bald and smooth. He had instantaneously formed an
opinion of Jules St.-Ange, and the multitude of words, most of them
lingual curiosities, with which he was rasping the wide-open ears of
his listeners, signified, in short, that, as sure as his name was
Parson Jones, the little Creole was a “plum gentleman.”
M. St.-Ange bowed and smiled, and was about to call attention, by both
gesture and speech, to a singular object on top of the still uncovered
head, when the nervous motion of the _Américain_ anticipated him, as,
throwing up an immense hand, he drew down a large roll of bank-notes.
The crowd laughed, the West-Floridian joining, and began to disperse.
“Why, that money belongs to Smyrny Church,” said the giant.
“You are very dengerous to make your money expose like that, Misty
Posson Jone’,” said St.-Ange, counting it with his eyes.
The countryman gave a start and smile of surprise.
“How d’dyou know my name was Jones?” he asked; but, without pausing
for the Creole’s answer, furnished in his reckless way some further
specimens of West-Floridian English; and the conciseness with
which he presented full intelligence of his home, family, calling,
lodging-house, and present and future plans, might have passed for
consummate art, had it not been the most run-wild nature. “And I’ve
done been to Mobile, you know, on busi_ness_ for Bethesdy Church.
It’s the on’yest time I ever been from home; now you wouldn’t of
believed that, would you? But I admire to have saw you, that’s so.
You’ve got to come and eat with me. Me and my boy ain’t been fed
yit. “What might one call yo’ name? Jools? Come on, Jools. Come on,
Colossus. That’s my niggah—his name’s Colossus of Rhodes. Is that yo’
yallah boy, Jools? Fetch him along, Colossus. It seems like a special
provi_dence_.—Jools, do you believe in a special provi_dence_?”
Jules said he did.
The new-made friends moved briskly off, followed by Baptiste and a
short, square, old negro, very black and grotesque, who had introduced
himself to the mulatto, with many glittering and cavernous smiles, as
“d’body-sarvant of d’Rev’n’ Mr. Jones.”
Both pairs enlivened their walk with conversation. Parson Jones
descanted upon the doctrine he had mentioned, as illustrated in the
perplexities of cotton-growing, and concluded that there would always
be “a special provi_dence_ again’ cotton untell folks quits a-pressin’
of it and haulin’ of it on Sundays!”
“_Je dis_,” said St.-Ange, in response, “I thing you is juz right. I
believe, me, strong-strong in the improvidence, yes. You know my papa
he hown a sugah-plantation, you know. ’Jules, me son,’ he say one
time to me, ’I goin’ to make one baril sugah to fedge the moze high
price in New Orleans.’ Well, he take his bez baril sugah—I nevah see
a so careful man like me papa always to make a so beautiful sugah _et
sirop_. ’Jules, go at Father Pierre an’ ged this lill pitcher fill with
holy-water, an’ tell him sen’ his tin bucket, and I will make it fill
with _quitte_.’ I ged the holy-water; my papa sprinkle it over the
baril, an’ make one cross on the ’ead of the baril.”
“Why, Jools,” said Parson Jones, “that didn’t do no good.”
“Din do no good! Id broughd the so great value! You can strike me dead
if thad baril sugah din fedge the more high cost than any other in the
city. _Parce-que_, the man what buy that baril sugah he make a mistake
of one hundred pound”—falling back—“_Mais_ certainlee!”
“And you think that was growin’ out of the holy-water?” asked the
parson.
“_Mais_, what could make it else? Id could not be the _quitte_, because
my papa keep the bucket, an’ forget to sen’ the _quitte_ to Father
Pierre.”
Parson Jones was disappointed.
“Well, now, Jools, you know, I don’t think that was right. I reckon you
must be a plum Catholic.”
M. St.-Ange shrugged. He would not deny his faith.
“I am a _Catholique_, _mais_”—brightening as he hoped to recommend
himself anew—“not a good one.”
“Well, you know,” said Jones—“where’s Colossus? Oh! all right.
Colossus strayed off a minute in Mobile, and I plum lost him for two
days. Here’s the place; come in. Colossus and this boy can go to the
kitchen.—Now, Colossus, what _air_ you a-beckonin’ at me faw?”
He let his servant draw him aside and address him in a whisper.
“Oh, go ’way!” said the parson with a jerk. “Who’s goin’ to throw me?
What? Speak louder. Why, Colossus, you shayn’t talk so, saw. ’Pon my
soul, you’re the mightiest fool I ever taken up with. Jest you go down
that alley-way with this yalla boy, and don’t show yo’ face untell yo’
called!”
The negro begged; the master wrathily insisted.
“Colossus, will you do ez I tell you, or shell I hev to strike you,
saw?”
“O Mahs Jimmy, I—I’s gwine; but”—he ventured nearer—“don’t on no
account drink nothin’, Mahs Jimmy.”
Such was the negro’s earnestness that he put one foot in the gutter,
and fell heavily against his master. The parson threw him off angrily.
“Thar, now! Why, Colossus, you most of been dosted with sumthin’; yo’
plum crazy.—Humph, come on, Jools, let’s eat! Humph! to tell me that
when I never taken a drop, exceptin’ for chills, in my life—which he
knows so as well as me!”
The two masters began to ascend a stair.
“_Mais_, he is a sassy; I would sell him, me,” said the young Creole.
“No, I wouldn’t do that,” replied the parson; “though there is people
in Bethesdy who says he is a rascal. He’s a powerful smart fool. Why,
that boy’s got money, Jools; more money than religion, I reckon. I’m
shore he fallen into mighty bad company”—they passed beyond earshot.
Baptiste and Colossus, instead of going to the tavern kitchen, passed
to the next door and entered the dark rear corner of a low grocery,
where, the law notwithstanding, liquor was covertly sold to slaves.
There, in the quiet company of Baptiste and the grocer, the colloquial
powers of Colossus, which were simply prodigious, began very soon to
show themselves.
“For whilst,” said he, “Mahs Jimmy has eddication, you know—whilst he
has eddication, I has ’scretion. He has eddication and I has ’scretion,
an’ so we gits along.”
He drew a black bottle down the counter, and, laying half his length
upon the damp board, continued:
“As a p’inciple I discredits de imbimin’ of awjus liquors. De imbimin’
of awjus liquors, de wiolution of de Sabbaf, de playin’ of de fiddle,
and de usin’ of by-words, dey is de fo’ sins of de conscience; an’ if
any man sin de fo’ sins of de conscience, de debble done sharp his fork
fo’ dat man.—Ain’t that so, boss?”
The grocer was sure it was so.
“Neberdeless, mind you”—here the orator brimmed his glass from the
bottle and swallowed the contents with a dry eye—“mind you, a roytious
man, sech as ministers of de gospel and dere body-sarvants, can take a
_leetle_ for de weak stomach.”
But the fascinations of Colossus’s eloquence must not mislead us; this
is the story of a true Christian; to wit, Parson Jones.
The parson and his new friend ate. But the coffee M. St.-Ange declared
he could not touch; it was too wretchedly bad. At the French Market,
near by, there was some noble coffee. This, however, would have to be
bought, and Parson Jones had scruples.
“You see, Jools, every man has his conscience to guide him, which it
does so in——”
“Oh, yes!” cried St.-Ange, “conscien’; thad is the bez, Posson Jone’.
Certainlee! I am a _Catholique_, you is a _schismatique_; you thing it
is wrong to dring some coffee—well, then, it _is_ wrong; you thing it
is wrong to make the sugah to ged the so large price—well, then, it
_is_ wrong; I thing it is right—well, then, it _is_ right; it is all
’a’bit; _c’est tout_. What a man thing is right, _is right_; ’tis all
’a’bit. A man muz nod go again’ his conscien’. My faith! do you thing
I would go again’ my conscien’? _Mais allons_, led us go and ged some
coffee.”
“Jools.”
“W’at?”
“Jools, it ain’t the drinkin’ of coffee, but the buyin’ of it on a
Sabbath. You must really excuse me, Jools, it’s again’ conscience, you
know.”
“Ah!” said St.-Ange, “_c’est_ very true. For you it would be a sin,
_mais_ for me it is only ’a’bit. Rilligion is a very strange; I know a
man one time, he thing it was wrong to go to cock-fight Sunday evening.
I thing it is all ’a’bit. _Mais_, come, Posson Jone’; I have got one
friend, Miguel; led us go at his house and ged some coffee. Come;
Miguel have no familie; only him and Joe—always like to see friend;
_allons_, led us come yonder.”
“Why, Jools, my dear friend, you know,” said the shame-faced parson, “I
never visit on Sundays.”
“Never w’at?” asked the astounded Creole.
“No,” said Jones, smiling awkwardly.
“Never visite?”
“Exceptin’ sometimes amongst church-members,” said Parson Jones.
“_Mais_,” said the seductive St.-Ange, “Miguel and Joe is
church-member’—certainlee! They love to talk about rilligion. Come at
Miguel and talk about some rilligion. I am nearly expire for me coffee.”
Parson Jones took his hat from beneath his chair and rose up.
“Jools,” said the weak giant, “I ought to be in church right now.”
“_Mais_, the church is right yonder at Miguel’, yes. Ah!” continued
St.-Ange, as they descended the stairs, “I thing every man muz have the
rilligion he like’ the bez—me, I like the _Catholique_ rilligion the
bez—for me it _is_ the bez. Every man will sure go to heaven if he
like his rilligion the bez.”
“Jools,” said the West-Floridian, laying his great hand tenderly upon
the Creole’s shoulder, as they stepped out upon the _banquette_, “do
you think you have any shore hopes of heaven?”
“Yass!” replied St.-Ange; “I am sure-sure. I thing everybody will go
to heaven. I thing you will go, _et_ I thing Miguel will go, _et_
Joe—everybody, I thing—_mais_, hof course, not if they not have been
christen’. Even I thing some niggers will go.”
“Jools,” said the parson, stopping in his walk—“Jools, I _don’t_ want
to lose my niggah.”
“You will not loose him. With Baptiste he _cannot_ ged loose.”
But Colossus’s master was not reassured.
“Now,” said he, still tarrying, “this is jest the way; had I of gone to
church——”
“Posson Jone’,” said Jules.
“What?”
“I tell you. We goin’ to church!”
“Will you?” asked Jones, joyously.
“_Allons_, come along,” said Jules, taking his elbow.
They walked down the Rue Chartres, passed several corners, and by and
by turned into a cross street. The parson stopped an instant as they
were turning and looked back up the street.
“W’at you lookin’?” asked his companion.
“I thought I saw Colossus,” answered the parson, with an anxious face;
“I reckon ’twa’n’t him, though.” And they went on.
The street they now entered was a very quiet one. The eye of any chance
passer would have been at once drawn to a broad, heavy, white brick
edifice on the lower side of the way, with a flag-pole standing out
like a bowsprit from one of its great windows, and a pair of lamps
hanging before a large closed entrance. It was a theatre, honey-combed
with gambling-dens. At this morning hour all was still, and the only
sign of life was a knot of little barefoot girls gathered within its
narrow shade, and each carrying an infant relative. Into this place the
parson and M. St.-Ange entered, the little nurses jumping up from the
sills to let them pass in.
A half-hour may have passed. At the end of that time the whole juvenile
company were laying alternate eyes and ears to the chinks, to gather
what they could of an interesting quarrel going on within.
“I did not, saw! I given you no cause of offence, saw! It’s not
so, saw! Mister Jools simply mistaken the house, thinkin’ it was a
Sabbath-school! No such thing, saw; I _ain’t_ bound to bet! Yes, I kin
git out. Yes, without bettin’! I hev a right to my _o_pinion; I reckon
I’m _a white man_, saw! No, saw! I on’y said I didn’t think you could
get the game on them cards. ’Sno such thing, saw! I do _not_ know how
to play! I wouldn’t hev a rascal’s money ef I should win it! Shoot, ef
you dare! You can kill me, but you cayn’t scare me! No, I shayn’t bet!
I’ll die first! Yes, saw; Mr. Jools can bet for me if he admires to; I
ain’t his mostah.”
Here the speaker seemed to direct his words to St.-Ange.
“Saw, I don’t understand you, saw. I never said I’d loan you money to
bet for me. I didn’t suspicion this from you, saw. No, I won’t take any
more lemonade; it’s the most notorious stuff I ever drank, saw!”
M. St.-Ange’s replies were in _falsetto_ and not without effect; for
presently the parson’s indignation and anger began to melt. “Don’t ask
me, Jools, I can’t help you. It’s no use; it’s a matter of conscience
with me, Jools.”
“Mais oui! ’tis a matt’ of conscien’ wid me, the same.”
“But, Jools, the money’s none o’ mine, nohow; it belongs to Smyrny, you
know.”
“If I could make jus’ _one_ bet,” said the persuasive St.-Ange, “I
would leave this place, fas’-fas’, yes. If I had thing—_mais_ I did
not soupspicion this from you, Posson Jone’——”
“Don’t, Jools, don’t!”
“No! Posson Jone’.”
“You’re bound to win?” said the parson, wavering.
“_Mais certainement!_ But it is not to win that I want; ’tis me
conscien’—me honor!”
“Well, Jools, I hope I’m not a-doin’ no wrong. I’ll loan you some
of this money if you say you’ll come right out ’thout takin’ your
winnin’s.”
All was still. The peeping children could see the parson as he
lifted his hand to his breast-pocket. There it paused a moment in
bewilderment, then plunged to the bottom. It came back empty, and fell
lifelessly at his side. His head dropped upon his breast, his eyes
were for a moment closed, his broad palms were lifted and pressed
against his forehead, a tremor seized him, and he fell all in a lump
to the floor. The children ran off with their infant-loads, leaving
Jules St.-Ange swearing by all his deceased relatives, first to Miguel
and Joe, and then to the lifted parson, that he did not know what had
become of the money “except if” the black man had got it.
* * * * *
In the rear of ancient New Orleans, beyond the sites of the old
rampart, a trio of Spanish forts, where the town has since sprung
up and grown old, green with all the luxuriance of the wild Creole
summer, lay the Congo Plains. Here stretched the canvas of the
historic Cayetano, who Sunday after Sunday sowed the sawdust for his
circus-ring.
But to-day the great showman had fallen short of his printed promise.
The hurricane had come by night, and with one fell swash had made an
irretrievable sop of everything. The circus trailed away its bedraggled
magnificence, and the ring was cleared for the bull.
Then the sun seemed to come out and work for the people. “See,” said
the Spaniards, looking up at the glorious sky with its great, white
fleets drawn off upon the horizon—“see—heaven smiles upon the
bull-fight!”
In the high upper seats of the rude amphitheatre sat the gaily-decked
wives and daughters of the Gascons, from the _métaries_ along the
Ridge, and the chattering Spanish women of the Market, their shining
hair unbonneted to the sun. Next below were their husbands and lovers
in Sunday blouses, milkmen, butchers, bakers, black-bearded fishermen,
Sicilian fruiterers, swarthy Portuguese sailors, in little woollen
caps, and strangers of the graver sort; mariners of England, Germany,
and Holland. The lowest seats were full of trappers, smugglers,
Canadian _voyageurs_, drinking and singing; _Américains_, too—more’s
the shame—from the upper rivers—who will not keep their seats—who
ply the bottle, and who will get home by and by and tell how wicked
Sodom is; broad-brimmed, silver-braided Mexicans, too, with their
copper cheeks and bat’s eyes, and their tinkling spurred heels. Yonder,
in that quieter section, are the quadroon women in their black lace
shawls—and there is Baptiste; and below them are the turbaned black
women, and there is—but he vanishes—Colossus.
The afternoon is advancing, yet the sport, though loudly demanded,
does not begin. The _Américains_ grow derisive and find pastime in
gibes and raillery. They mock the various Latins with their national
inflections, and answer their scowls with laughter. Some of the more
aggressive shout pretty French greetings to the women of Gascony, and
one bargeman, amid peals of applause, stands on a seat and hurls a
kiss to the quad-rooms. The mariners of England, Germany, and Holland,
as spectators, like the fun, while the Spaniards look black and cast
defiant imprecations upon their persecutors. Some Gascons, with timely
caution, pick their women out and depart, running a terrible fire of
gallantries.
In hope of truce, a new call is raised for the bull: “The bull, the
bull!—hush!”
In a tier near the ground a man is standing and calling—standing head
and shoulders above the rest—calling in the _Américaine_ tongue.
Another man, big and red, named Joe, and a handsome little Creole
in elegant dress and full of laughter, wish to stop him, but the
flat-boatmen, ha-ha-ing and cheering, will not suffer it. Ah, through
some shameful knavery of the men, into whose hands he has fallen, he is
drunk! Even the women can see that; and now he throws his arms wildly
and raises his voice until the whole great circle hears it. He is
preaching!
Ah! kind Lord, for a special providence now! The men of his own
nation—men from the land of the open English Bible and temperance cup
and song are cheering him on to mad disgrace. And now another call for
the appointed sport is drowned by the flat-boatmen singing the ancient
tune of Mear. You can hear the words—
“Old Grimes is dead, that good old soul”