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'"
[Footnote: From "Old Creole Days," by George W. Cable. Copyright,
1890, by Charles Scribner's Sons.]
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 cheese-world 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 cafes 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
Americain--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 Americain
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
busiNESS 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 proviDENCE.-
Jools, do you believe in a special proviDENCE?"
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 proviDENCE 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."