GRITNY PEOPLE
GRITNY
PEOPLE
R. EMMET KENNEDY
_Design & Decoration by
Edward Larocque Tinker_
[Illustration]
DODD MEAD & COMPANY NEW YORK
1927
COPYRIGHT, 1927
BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
BY THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC., BINGHAMTON, N. Y.
“_At night was come into that hostelrie_
_Wel nyne and twenty in a companye,_
_Of sondry folk, by adventure i-falle_
_In felawschipe...._
_Me thinketh it acordant to resoun,_
_To telle yow alle the condicioun_
_Of eche of hem, so as it seemed me,_
_And which they weren, and of what degre._”
—PROLOGUE TO CANTERBURY TALES.
HIST’RIES
AUNT SUSAN SMILEY 1
TOM AND BELL 5
THE INTERPRISE 9
SCILLA 11
FELO AND NOOKIE 16
UNCLE FOTEEN 23
PLUNKUM 28
UNCLE NAT 31
ROVING ROXY 34
CARMELITE, SOONGY AND DINK 38
DINK’S MUSIC 47
GUSSIE FISKY 53
MAGGIE HUTSON 55
LIZZIE AND CHESTER 61
SCANDALIZIN’ 76
LETHE AND AUNT AMY 81
FELO’S WHITE FOLKS 88
UPSETMENT 91
FELO AND LETHE 106
’CROSS THE PASTURE 113
TEMPE 124
SPERRET NOISES 133
SCILLA’S DISCOVERY 138
CARMELITE AND AUNT FISKY 144
DINK AT HOME 156
GUSSIE AND MR. HOOBLITZ 165
CARMELITE’S RAFFLE 174
THE SWITCH ENGINE 193
NEWS FROM GRITNY 201
HOUSEKEEPING 205
GUSSIE’S WAKE 216
TO FURREN PARTS 221
BUZZUM FRIENDS 237
[Illustration]
To be looked upon as a favored “member” of Aunt Susan Smiley’s cook shop,
all the requisites one need have were the ability to appreciate her gumbo
and sweet potato pies, coupled with a talent for telling a good story.
The gumbo and pies were not only a pride to Aunt Susan, but were things
of great marvel to the whole colored population the full length of the
river “coast.” Of course the pies were best when yams were in season. But
with a little “sweet milk” and a dash of vanilla extract, she was able
to work wonders with the commoner variety of sweet potato, and few of
her patrons knew the difference; unless they had some knowledge of truck
gardening and were “well-posted ’bout potato-time.”
Like all good cooks, Aunt Susan was careful not to reveal to her dusky
sisters the secret of her original recipes. And if any white person asked
her to tell how she prepared some of her dainty concoctions, she never
went beyond saying: “Honey, de firs’ thing you gotta have is a black
han’.”
The telling of stories was a thing Aunt Susan looked to with the
discrimination of a true judge of oral literature. Her patrons were free
to pass the whole night in her shop, sitting before the cheerful fire
on the hearth, provided they had a good story to tell or a good song
to sing, whatever the model might be; it being understood that pies and
gumbo were available for the growing appetite, and drip coffee could be
furnished when needed to soothe the husky throats of the indefatigable
singers. If the season happened to be summer, bountiful pitchers of
lemonade with raspberry syrup took the place of black coffee; and every
one could “lap up limonade an’ spread joy to a comfut.”
Alcoholic drinks were taboo. Not because Aunt Susan had any religious
scruples; for she frankly admitted she was “no licentage Chrishtun;” but
because she felt that “a nigger in licker ain’ no fittin’ comp’ny for
nobody decen’, Chrishtun or w’atsomeever.”
It mattered little if a “member” hadn’t any money. If he could tell an
interesting story, his credit was good until the end of the week, at
which time he was expected to pay. Failing in this, he was declared
“on-finanshul,” and was denied the privilege of the house until he
reinstated himself.
A black space on the side wall carried the various accounts marked up
in chalk; a stroke for each pie or plate of gumbo, in one column; and a
like marking for the drinks in another column. As each mark stood for a
nickel, it was an easy matter to reckon when the time came for settling
up.
Although unable to read, Aunt Susan’s manner of counting and making
change had the accuracy of a primitive Chinese abacus-Pythagoricus. On
the mantelshelf she kept a blue bowl half-filled with grains of corn.
If a dollar bill were given in settlement of an account, grains of corn
equalling the amount of the bill were counted out on the table. Then
the strokes on the wall were counted, and as many grains of corn were
taken from the whole; the remaining grains representing the change to be
returned. Fortunately, the patrons seldom presented her with anything
higher than a two dollar bill. However slow the process, the method was
sure; and even though she had to change a five dollar note now and then,
no one ever complained of wrong count.
Aunt Susan was a kindly, soft-voiced, full-bosomed woman, about sixty
years old. She had no family of her own; but living with her, as a
sort of charge, was a blind man named Tom Lakes, some twenty years her
junior. She had known Tom from his early childhood, and had always taken
a motherly interest in him; mending his clothes, cooking his meals, and
taking care of his money for him, long before he married and met with the
horrible accident which caused his blindness.
Tom married a young woman who came to the village a stranger,—“some wile
Georgia nigger out de wilderness,” as she was called by Tom’s friends,
few of whom had any regard for her because of her arrogance and “scawnful
ways.”
After his marriage, Tom continued to pay his daily visits to Aunt Susan;
helping her peel potatoes, clean crabs for the gumbo, chop wood, and
redden the floor with brick-dust; just as he had always done. These
little attentions awakened a feeling of resentment in the suspicious mind
of the scornful Georgia lady. Tom was kind to her and provided for every
humble need; but why must he go and do work for another woman?... And his
visits at night; going to take part in the singing and story-telling with
other people before Susan’s fireplace;—another thorn in her jealous soul.
Every invitation from Tom to go along with him, she refused; preferring
to remain at home, brooding and wondering. She was sure something more
than “ole lady” interest held Tom to Aunt Susan. No woman kept a man’s
money unless there was something secret between them,—and the man with a
“natchal wife of his own”.... “Who? Do I look like I got any green in my
eye, keep me from seein’ w’at direction de win’ blowin’ in?—Tom mus’ be
take me for a fool!”
So she mused to herself when he was away by day; brooding deeper on the
seeming deception when he was away at night revelling in the pleasant
flow of song and story and the wholesome regalement of crab gumbo and
sweet potato pie.
The night of July 4th was to be a “big interprise” at Aunt Susan’s. Three
“good altone songsters” were coming to lend added luster to the meeting,
and make the “buildin’ rock wid ole-time shoutin’ praise.” Aunt Susan was
over the stove the greater part of the day, making pies; and to give the
gumbo an extra flavor, Tom had gone crawfishing and brought home a basket
full of crawfish, which he would give as his donation. Bell told him she
would boil them and pick them, a wifely condescension which pleased Tom
as much as it caused him to wonder.
“Maybe her min’ done change at las’. An’ maybe she’ll go ’long wid me
tonight to Sis’ Susan house,” thought Tom, as he dragged a chair out on
the front gallery and sat down in the shade of the honeysuckle vines.
“Bell alright; ’cep’ for her nasty, jealous-hearted ways,” he argued to
himself.
The afternoon was hot and still. A quivering, dancing heat was visible in
the brilliant sunlight. Not a leaf stirred on the chinaberry trees by the
front fence. A few dejected chickens hid under the castor oil bush by the
step, their wings drooping, their mouths open, panting like jaded runners
after a weary race.
Bell was inside, looking after the pot of crawfish boiling on the
charcoal furnace. The swampy smell of the crawfish mingled with the odor
of red pepper, floated through the house and over the gallery, where Tom
was already in a deep slumber.
Bell came out to the front door and looked at him, then went back to
the kitchen. She sat down, gazing at the pot on the furnace, a strange
expression creeping over her face. For a long time she sat like one in
a profound study. Her eyes contracted, and she began to gnaw her thumb
nail abstractedly, a mask-like vacancy covering her face with dark
inscrutability. Passing her hand across her face slowly, she got up and
looked at the boiling crawfish. They were bright scarlet; they were
done. Taking a colander from the wall, she put it in the dishpan on the
table; then, lifting the pot from the fire, she emptied the seething mass
into the colander, shaking it well until all the water was out, then
put it on the window-sill to cool. Passing her hand across her mouth in
a cryptic manner, she went again to the front door and looked at Tom
furtively. He was sleeping soundly. She went back to the kitchen, and
taking the dishpan of hot water from the table, walked out to the front
gallery.
Tom was asleep. A deep, manly, snoring sleep held him fast.
“He wouldn’ know.... It’s so easy to trip,—to stumble. For de handle to
slip out my han’”.... The thoughts went chasing through her mind, as she
stood over him with the steam rising from the crawfish water like an
ominous mist.
“Dey say linseed oil good for scaldin’.... Tom got some in a bottle
yonder in de woodshed.... I know how to look aft’ him. Den he _gotta_
stay ’way from Susan”....
An unearthly yell started the quivering air.... The dishpan fell to
the floor with a jangling crash. “Have mercy! Lawd, have mercy!” Tom’s
reiterated cry sounded across the yard with pathetic appeal, the scalding
water tinctured with red pepper torturing him viciously.
No one saw the savage deed but the frightened chickens hiding under
the castor oil bush, and Bell swore that it was an accident. She was
arrested and sent to jail, but Tom maintained that she was innocent;
believing Bell’s flimsy story that she had stumbled against his foot.
“Who? Tom ain’ nothin’ but a plumb fool,” commented Seelan, as she left
the house after her visit of sympathy.
“Ain’ Tom know it never was Bell practice habit to th’ow trash water in
de front yard?... Comin’ clean th’oo de house to de front do’ to empty a
dishpan o’ scaldin’ water? Shucks! Tom des natchally childish.”
“You sho is right,” agreed Felo. “I ain’ never like Bell from de firs’
beginnin’. I ain’ trus’ _no_ ooman w’at got side-b’yeards growin’
’long-side her jaws like Bell got. Da’s a _bad_ sign.”
And so the comment continued for weeks among Tom’s friends wherever they
met.
After the bandage was removed from Tom’s eyes, the doctor told him that
he was hopelessly blind. His face took on a look of sudden despair, and
in a pleading tone, he said:
“Please suh, doctor, don’ joke me in my mis’ry.”
No one spoke. After a few seconds, Susan took hold of his hand, her
affectionate grasp, more eloquent than any spoken word, revealing to him
the awful truth of the doctor’s statement.
“Sweet man, Jesus,” he exclaimed, raising his head imploringly; “please
tell me w’at po’ Tom goin’ do!”
“You goin’ go home wid Susan, an’ set in yo’ chair yonder ’fo de fire,”
came the soft-toned, comforting reply. “An’ Susan goin’ look aft’ you des
like she did befo’.”
Then leading him by the hand, they left the doctor’s office and started
up the coast towards home.
Bell was tried before a jury, but as there was no available witness to
give testimony in the case, she was acquitted as innocent and ordered
by the court to go back to Georgia. “Back to de wilderness, whah she
b’lonks.” As Tom’s friends declared, with picturesque indignation.
The 4th of July meeting having been postponed on account of Tom’s
accident, it was scheduled to take place on All Saints’ Day, he being
sufficiently recovered to participate in the “interprise.”
In honor of his coming to live with Susan, the old house was “treated to
a fine fixin’-up.” The clapboard front was given a coat of pink-wash,
and the horseshoe over the door painted a vivid green. New turkey red
curtains were hung on all the windows; a new white marbled oilcloth
was bought for the long guest table in the middle of the room; fresh
shelf coverings of newspaper cut in fantastic scallops were put in the
safe and on the pot shelf against the wall; and the hearth bricks and
chimney-piece were treated to a new coat of red ochre. The floor was
scrubbed and sprinkled with brick dust; the cypress benches, scrubbed
and rubbed until the water-waves of the grain took on the appearance of
old satin. And Tom’s chair beside the hearth was given a comfortable
cushion covered with a piece of old plaid shawl. The mantelshelf was hung
with garlands of garlic and bay leaf, long strings of red pepper pods,
and bunches of onions. Two brightly-polished tomato cans, supporting
cocoanuts, filled the place of ornaments at each end of the mantelpiece;
and in the center stood a venerable steeple-top clock, telling that it
was near the time for the “members” to arrive. A glowing fire of magnolia
burrs and driftwood burned on the hearth; and the place had an impressive
air of humble, medieval cheer.
Aunt Susan came in from the next room, followed by Tom carrying an armful
of driftwood. She helped him put it on the pile in the chimney-corner,
then led him to his chair, handing him a corncob pipe, which she lighted
with an ember from the ashes. He began smoking, and Susan busied herself
fixing the pies in the safe, and raking the coals of fire about the large
iron pot of gumbo on the hearth. She had the air of the true mistress
of the inn. The careful precision with which her green-and-yellow
head-handkerchief was tied, and the dignity with which she wore her
stiff-starched gingham apron, might be looked upon as badges of innate
cleanliness and gentility.
Another entertaining detail was her cascade of bosoms in their
snug-fitting sacque of gray woolen, making one think of those large,
healthy, double-breasted Dutch women Rembrandt loved to paint with such
startling fidelity.
“Susan,” Tom called to her softly, “befo’ anybody git hyuh, I wan’ ax you
somh’n.”
“Yas, Tom, I’m list’nin’,” she answered.
He took a long pull at his pipe, blew the smoke out slowly, then said:
“If any de members hyuh tonight raise de queshton concernin’ Bell, you
ain’ goin’ leave ’um specify, is you?”
Walking over to his chair, Susan put her hand on his shoulder, and said
quietly:
“Is you ever known me to tamper wid de devil aft’ I done beat ’im out my
track?”
“You right, Susan. Da’s sufficien’,” he answered, and went on with his
peaceful smoking.
The first member to arrive was Scilla, a tall, buxom, good-natured young
woman with a snub nose and surprised-looking eyes. Her dress was a guinea
blue, of plain make, the “josey” very close-fitting. Her head was bare;
and her only ornamentation, a pair of large, flat, pearl earrings, which
seemed to heighten the bizarre expression of her humorous face and the
velvety sheen of her ebon complexion.
She came bursting into the room suddenly, calling out in mock-excitement:
“But no, Sis’ Susan! W’at you an’ Mr. Tom doin’, settin’ hyuh in de dark
together like ole folks? Nobody ain’ come yet? Dis de right night, ain’
it?”
“For Gawd sake, Scilla, don’ be so boist’us,” Susan replied, getting up
to light the lamps on the table, and quietly putting them in their places.
“O ’scuse me, Sis’ Susan; I didn’ know y’all was holin’ a wake,” returned
Scilla playfully.
“Gal, set down an’ be still like people,” said Tom. “You ain’ bin hyuh
for a week, an’ you mus’ be got some news to tell, ’side yo’ random talk.
Susan, bring de gal a cup o’ coffee an’ leave her git to business.”
“Da’s right, Mr. Tom. I wan’ make you laugh ’bout my w’ite folks,” Scilla
answered.
Susan brought her a cup of coffee, and took a seat on the opposite side
of the table. Scilla helped herself generously to sugar, and as she
stirred her coffee, began her gossip.
“You ain’ goin’ b’lieve me w’en I tell you I ain’ workin’ for Miss Mimi
no longer.” (Looks of astonishment from Tom and Susan.) “I des _had_ to
leave. You know, dey say niggers ain’ got no principle. But dey got a
whole lot o’ w’ite folks w’at ain’ a bit better.”
“Scilla, ain’ you shame to scandalize de people you gits yo’ livin’
from?” Susan asked in honest surprise.
“Who? Sis’ Susan, I ain’ say’n nothin’ w’at ain’ true. Is Miss Mimi ever
paid you anything for de many times I comed hyuh an’ borried yo’ gahlic
an’ peppers an’ seas’nin’ an’ things to put in her vittuls w’en she had
big comp’ny to her house? Try’n to make a show, an’ lookin’ to de niggers
to help her out?... Who? Dat ain’ w’at I calls principle.”
“Gal, don’ talk so fas’,” Susan told her. “I’m knowin’ Miss Mimi ever
since she was a baby-chile.”
“But she done los’ her baby-ways now; an’ you ain’ know her since she
growed up an’ got ways like dey say us niggers got.”
“Scilla, you sho is crittacul,” said Tom. “Go ’head an’ talk w’at you
start to talk.”
Scilla looked towards Susan for permission to go on. Finding no
objection, she continued:
“’Tain much to tell. I des wan’ let you know I lef’ Miss Mimi ’cause I
des natchally got tired seein’ her losin’ her self-respec’, an’ hyeahin’
w’ite folks talkin’ ’bout her behin’ her back evvy time dey seen me.
Bein’ a nigger, how could I make ’um shut dey mouth? So de bes’ thing for
me to do was to quit.”
“You didn’t go ’way hap-hazzud, widout givin’ notice, did you?” Susan
inquired, with a note of severity in her voice.
“No,” Scilla answered. “We come to a understannin’ a whole day befo’ I
lef’.... ’Twas on a Sad’dy mawnin’; an’ she was goin’ have comp’ny for
dinner de nex’ day; an’ she say she want me to try and git her some
vi’lets for de table, same as I always bin doin’.
“You see, evvy time she gived a big dinner, she had to have flowers for
de front room an’ de dinner table; an’ nothin’ but vi’lets would please
her. She ain’ had but a few scat’rin’ vi’lets in her own yard; so w’at
she mus’ do but sen’ me all over Gritny to git vi’lets from anybody w’at
had ’um in dey gahden.—An’ she ain’ offer to pay for ’um, no.
“So you kin un’stan how shame’ I felt;—callin’ at people gate an’ axin’
for vi’lets for Miss Mimi, an’ ain’ had a dry nickel to pay for ’um.
“One nice w’ite lady dey calls Miss Tillie, always gimme w’at she had in
her gahden. But some dem stingy Dutch people w’at had plenny vi’lets,
wouldn’ gimme nothin’.
“One day, one ole red-head lady tol’ me I was lyin’. Dat Miss Mimi ain’
sont me for no vi’lets; dat I was beggin’ ’um for my own self.... Den I
got mad.—People takin’ me for a fatal rogue; an’ I ain’ had no way to
convince ’um I was jes’ try’n to do de w’ite folks wishes. So I went
straight back an’ give Miss Mimi de complete un’stannin’, an’ let her
know ’bout her position wid de vi’lets de same as mine. Den I tol’ her
I’d come cook de dinner dat Sunday, an’ help her out wid de comp’ny; but
she cert’ny had to git somebody else to hunt flowers for her; ’cause it
sho made me feel strange to have all Gritny suspicion me on a cheap li’l
thing like a few scat’ring vi’lets.”
As she paused for breath, Tom gave an emphatic grunt by way of surprise,
and asked rather dubiously:
“So da’s how come you quit? I thought w’en you commence to talk you was
goin’ tell somh’n; but you done talked all ove’ yo’ mouth an’ ain’ tol’
nothin’ yet.”
“Who, Mr. Tom?” Scilla returned, having recovered sufficiently to being
another pasquinade. “You ain’ think I’m play’n’, is you? Jes’ lemme git
started talkin’ ’bout w’ite folks funny ways, an’ you sho will lissen
w’at I’m tellin’ you.... But lemme shet up,” she added hurriedly; seeing
the form of another visitor entering the front door. “’Cause hyuh come
Mr. Felo; an’ too many witness ain’ good w’en it come to havin’ a
coat-scrape.”
Felo was a short, stoop-shouldered, yellow man of about thirty; his
face having a set look which seemed to give the impression that he was
constantly anticipating unpleasant news. He was dressed in a neat,
heterogeneous fashion, his garments quietly declaring themselves
donations from various male members of his “white folks family.”
As he came into the room, he saluted the house with an eloquent gesture,
then exclaimed, raising his right hand high above his head:
“Peace an’ happiness to de castle; an’ glad titus (tidings) to
who-some-ever gathered hyuh tonight in Gawd’s name!”
Going over to the fire, he shook hands with Tom; then turning to the
women, said:
“Sis’ Susan, how you do? An’ ole loud-mouth Scilla, w’at you got to say?”
Scilla laughed good-naturedly at the sally, and before she could reply,
Tom said:
“Leave Scilla stay quiet, Felo, for Gawd sake. She done talk so till my
head feel feev’ish lis’nin’ at her.” Then addressing Scilla, he said:
“Gal, shet yo’ mouth, an’ leave Felo tell us how him an’ Sis’ Fanny
gittin’ ’long yonder.”
Sis’ Fanny was Felo’s mother. She was a small, gentle-mannered, energetic
old woman, whose sole interest in life was the comfort and welfare of
her numerous grandchildren. She sold cakes and vegetables about the
village for a livelihood; accepting from Felo whatever assistance he
felt inclined to give her from his limited income as butler “to Mr. Amos
house, ’cross de river.”
“Ma Fanny home, yonder”; Felo answered, “runnin’ roun’ worrin’ ’bout dem
no-count chillun. She well; but she cert’ny a p’ovokin’ ole soul ’bout
dat hog she got yonder. She ain’ sattafy havin’ seven head o’ chillun to
wait on her, but gotta wait for me to come home from ’way ’cross de river
on Sunday, for me to run all over Gritny to hunt slop. Da’s w’at make me
so late gittin’ hyuh tonight; had to tote slop from fo’ diffunt places.”
“Who, Mr. Felo?” Scilla exclaimed in astonishment. “Had to tote slop on
Sunday, an’ big All Saints Day, too?”
“Hog got to eat on Sunday same as people, ain’t it?” Felo asked,
rebukingly.
“You gotta watch out whah you take slop from dese days, Mr. Felo,” she
advised warningly. “Some people got nice slop, an’ some people slop is
sho treach’ous. My cousin, down de coas’, had a hog w’at got his th’oat
cut clean thoo, from eatin’ slop w’at had razor blades in it. Sho did.
An’ ever since dat time, my cousin make her chillun sif’ evvy bit o’ slop
dey brings home.”
“How come Sis’ Fanny don’ sell de hog?” asked Susan. “Hog meat bringin’
good price at the butcher shop dis time o’ year.”
“Da’s w’at I bin tellin’ her”; said Felo, “but she so cawntrary she won’
lissen. She say she keepin’ it to be a mother hog.”
The sudden arrival of Nookie put an end to any further intimate details
which might have embroidered Felo’s domestic plaint. Her fantastic
attire, as well as her dramatic entrance, made her the immediate object
of attention.
She was a fat, glossy-black young woman, with shining eyes and teeth,
fully conscious of the charms of both. Her dress was an antiquated
blue silk creation of long-past glory; the skirt much-beruffled; the
basque-front prodigal with “coffee-dipped” oriental lace, cascading from
her neck far below the waist line. Her hat was a piece of home-evolved
millinery, large and laborious; made of plaited pink crepe paper,
a home-cured sea gull encompassing its luxuriant dimensions, with
outspread, tethered wings. She carried a long handled parasol of blue
silk, rich in rents and uncovered ribs; and over her arm was a faded,
black cashmere cape, with remnants of fringe and ravished beads.
“But no, Nookie!” Susan exclaimed, after she had recovered from her
surprise. “Whah you bin paradin’ today, droped-up in all yo’ curuss
clo’se an’ gommux (garments)? Dis ain’ no Mardi Gras day.”
“Maybe Nookie bin yonder to de simmetery to put flow’hs on somebody
grave. You know dis All Saints day,” volunteered Felo, with a playful
smile. “No I ain’t,” replied Nookie, arranging her lips with studied care
so as to display the whiteness of her fine teeth. “I des come from up
de road; from seein’ dat ooman w’at give birth to a baby half-chile an’
half-turtle.”
“Nookie, set down an’ stop yo’ humbug, for Gawd sake,” said Tom,
reprovingly. “You ain’ talkin’ to no chillun.”
“Gawd knows, Mr. Tom”; she assured him, “I ain’ tellin’ no false. Ain’t
you bin read de newspaper day-befo’ yistiddy? Evvybody was talkin’ ’bout
it. An’ I say: I’m goin’ see for myself. De paper say dey was goin’
sell it to de Chaddy Hospitle for $8,000 to put in a’kahol. An’ dey had
flocks o’ people goin’ up yonder in misheens to see it. Dey say de ’ooman
husban’ ain’ had nothin’ to do but stan’ at de front do’ an’ c’leck all
dem fifty-censes in a hat. Dey was chargin’ only a dime; but de crowd
got so plennyful, dey had to raise de price to fo’-bits. So I thought I
better go see befo’ dey raise it higher.”
As she paused for breath, Susan said to her:
“Nookie, stop yo’ random, an’ talk somh’n people kin b’lieve w’en dey
lissen at you.”
“Gawd knows, Sis’ Susan,” declared Nookie with emotion, “w’at I’m say’n
is de dyin’ truth from hyuh to heav’n. I bin yonder an’ seen de chile,
sho’ nuff. An’ I bet if you seen all dem people droppin’ money in de hat,
it goin’ make you feel like wishin’ you had bawned de chile yo’ own self.
Yas Ma’am, I bin went to look at it.”
“An’ ain’ seen nothin’ but a ill-form chile,” scoffed Felo. “Somh’n kin
happen to any fam’ly.”
“Who, Mr. Felo?” she retorted. “I know w’at I seen. I went ’long-side de
bed, an’ w’en I look at him, de chile commence wavin’ his li’l turtle
han’ at me, an’ I say: ‘Feet help body!’—An’ I ain’ wait to see no mo’.
’Cause I know if dat thing start to talk, da’s goin’ be de end o’ de
worl’. So I broke out de house an’ made for de road.”
“An’ runned up in hyuh wid a lie in yo’ mouth,” Felo added quickly.
“Mr. Felo, g’way from hyuh!” Nookie replied, with apparent irritation.
“You might know a heap o’ things ’bout keepin’ house for w’ite folks an’
lookin’ after Sis’ Fanny hog yonder, but Gawd got a whole lot o’ seecut
ways you sho don’ know nothin’ ’bout.”
“Ain’t it true,” commented Susan, with a grunt of Christian approval.
“Sho is.” Nookie continued. “I know one cullud lady back o’ Gritny, was
_comme ça_ one time; an’ she went to go take her daughter place an’ wash
for a strange w’ite ooman. An’ w’en she went in de shed to fix de tubs
an’ things, w’en she raise up de tub, she seen it full o’ duck feathers.
Den a li’l w’ile aft’wuds, w’en her chile was bawn, ’stid it havin’
natchal furze und’ de arms an’ on de ches’, like people got; de thing
had duck feathers growin’ on him. An’ evvy time it rained w’en he growed
up, he had to go swimmin’ in de cunnal. Sho did. An’ he live’ to be
thirty-some-odd years old; w’en he got drownded try’n to harpoon a buf’lo
feesh.”
With a look of playful commiseration, Felo said to her:
“Gal, come set down to de table an’ take a li’l nur’shment.” Then
addressing Susan: “Give de gal a plate o’ gumbo, Sis’ Susan. She talkin’
out her head bein’ hongry an’ patigue aft’ dat long walk she had up de
road.”
Susan got up and filled a plate with gumbo and put it on the table.
Nookie went over to Felo and gave him a gentle slap of appreciation on
the back of his head, saying to him, as she sat down to eat:
“Gawd knows, Mr. Felo, you sho kin read people mind.”
Further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of old Uncle Foteen;
a venerable, picturesque relic of antebellum days, leaning heavily on a
broom handle walking stick.
Felo placed a chair for him near the fire; and after taking his tattered
hat and walking stick and putting them on the bench across the room,
Susan handed him a cup of coffee, giving him kindly greeting:
“Unc’ Foteen, we sho please’ to see you. You ain’ bin hyuh for a long
time. But look like evvything alright wid you; an’ you got yo’ good
strank yet.”
“Yas, Sis’ Susan,” he replied thoughtfully, nodding his impressive white
head. “Ole Foteen still hyuh ’munks de livin’ to wait on de fam’ly an’
give thanks in de kingdom. W’en I puts my right foot down, I say: Thank
Gawd. An’ w’en I takes my lef’ foot up, I say: Praise de Lawd.”
“A-men.” Came the fervent response from Tom.
“Drink yo’ coffee, Unc’ Foteen; an’ lemme fix you a plate o’ gumbo, an’
you kin eat ’fo de fire to yo’ sattafaction,” said Susan, uncovering the
fragrant pot.
Uncle Foteen had become a legend in the village, as simple country people
often do. Everybody knew of his connection with the Guillaume family;
and his story of loyalty and faithful servitude was told again and again
by the new generation of colored people; with admiration by some, with
undue censure by others. For many years before the Civil War, Uncle
Foteen’s genial usefulness in the Guillaume household resembled that of
Coventry Patmore’s “Briggs,” who was
“Factotum, butler, footman, groom,
Who helped the gardener, fed the pigs,
Preserved the game, and drove the brougham”....
Being sometime valet to “ole Marse Sylvain,” coachman to Mamzelle Olympe,
and impressive major domo of the dining-room on every festive occasion.
After emancipation was declared, and old Foteen was given his freedom,
he asked to remain with the family in the old capacity; and he was given
a home in the quarters, rent free as long as he lived; wages for his
services; and was taken care of with every attention due so worthy a
retainer.
One by one, the members of the family passed on to the Great Beyond, none
remaining to enjoy the luxury of the fine old house and carry on the
splendid family tradition except Madame Guillaume and young Sylvain,
her son; who was away availing himself of the benefits of one of the
“big Yankee colleges”;—a fact both abhorrent and inexplicable to many of
Madame’s unreconstructed Creole friends.
Picturesque and solitary, she lived on through the changing years,
dreaming of the fateful past and looking forward with childish
expectation to the home-coming of her accomplished son.
Her daily life was ordered with little change from the old-time dignity
and convention: Aunt Choote and her numerous children looking after the
household and kitchen; Uncle Foteen driving her to church on Sunday in
the old creaking barouche, taking part in her sentimental reminiscences,
and sharing the fitful dreams and wandering fancies of forgetfulness that
became actualities to both their weary minds.
One morning old Choote announced to the astonished members of her family
that Madame Guillaume was “ceasded.”
Going to the bedroom door with the customary cup of early morning black
coffee, there was no response to her gentle knock. She approached the
bed-side fearfully, and lifting the mosquito net, found her old Madame
“stone-col’, her body hyuh an’ her soul yonder.”
Young Sylvain being abroad with a party of tourists, the funeral was held
without his being present. Several weeks later, he was expected home, and
the lonely old house was undergoing elaborate preparations befitting his
return. Uncle Foteen was going about, a pathetic figure, re-living the
seeming reality of his past importance; mistaking young Sylvain for his
old master, and telling everyone he met, that “ole Marse Sylvain done
come home, an’ de fam’ly goin’ have big jubilation.”
When Sylvain arrived, Uncle Foteen embraced him with unrestrained
emotion; calling him master; giving him lively accounts of the imaginary
doings of the departed family; and rejoicing in the prospect of driving
him to church on Sunday, “to show him off to all Gritny, settin’ up proud
in de barouche, ’long wid Ma’am Guillaume, Mamzelle Olympe, an’ all dem
chillun.”
Sylvain soon discovered that the old man’s memory was uncertain, and he
humored his infirmity. “He bin childish for a good w’ile,” Choote told
him. “An’ he mistake evvbody for somebody else bin dead a long time.”
Knowing her husband’s vagaries would be overlooked with understanding
sympathy, Choote permitted Uncle Foteen to take his old post in the
diningroom and preside in the usual, formal way. When evening came and
Sylvain was called to dinner, he arose to go, a reluctant, solitary
guest. On entering the diningroom, he was amazed to find the table
arranged for six persons. No detail was overlooked. The guest linen and
fine china had been brought out; cape jasmines, his mother’s favorite
flowers, were in the old rock crystal bowl as a center piece; and the
quaint old silver candlesticks, lugubrious with towering white candles,
lighted the silent room with an eerie glow he remembered as a little
child. Uncle Foteen, in his faded uniform, was standing behind his chair,
ready to see him comfortably seated in the master’s place at the head of
the table.
Leaving Sylvain’s chair, he visited the vacant chairs each in turn,
sliding them in place gently, until each imaginary member of his
respected family was seated in the accustomed manner. Each in turn,
throughout the various courses of the meal, he visited the spectral
guests, watching attentively as he saw them in fancy helping themselves
to the tempting food; and smiling with grateful pleasure on beholding his
honored family gathered once more in convivial assembly.
It was a well-known tale in the village; a tale Uncle Foteen loved to
repeat. The facts were real to him; the occasion, a memorable one; and
the actors, living personalities. No one thought of arguing with him the
verity of his story, or regarding his vision as a worthless, fleeting
dream. It was a fancy that brought him comfort and solace to brighten the
hours of his waning years. He knew that his beloved white folks lived
again, and he walked and talked with their gentle spirits wherever he
happened to be.
Uncle Foteen sat before the pleasant fire enjoying his plate of gumbo
with childish satisfaction, apparently oblivious of the rumble of
conversation in the room.
“Po’ ole soul sho havin’ a party by his own self wid dat plate o’ gumbo.”
Scilla remarked softly.
“An’ he ain’ to be blame for it, either.” replied Nookie. “’Cause Sis’
Susan gumbo des natchally make you _leche li doigts_,—like my ole man use
to say, ’fo he went away.”
“Whah old ugly Plunkum gone, Nookie?” asked Felo. “Nobody ain’ seen him
for Gawd knows how long.”
“An’ nobody ain’ carin’ to see him, either; if dey feels like I feel
’bout ole Plunkum,” she answered disdainfully.
“Go ’long, gal, wid yo’ reckless talk,” said Susan. “Leave Plunkum come
back home tomorrow, an’ nobody but _you_ goin’ turn out full fo’ce to
give him welcome; an’ you know it good.”
“Who, me, Sis’ Susan? It be only one way you see me turn out to give
Plunkum welcome. An’ dat’ll be to cut his head in fo’ diffunt ways,—shawt
an’ long, an’ wide an’ deep. An’ cut de palms his feets in de bargain, so
he can’t run no mo’. Yas Ma’am.”
“Gawd knows, Nookie,” said Tom, speaking slowly, “for a young ooman w’at
bin well-raise’, you sho kin make a whole lot o’ nigger noise.”
“Anybody come to be a nigger, Mr. Tom, w’en dey git mixed up wid a nasty
Pharisee like ole Plunkum ... layin’ up in my house for seven long mont’s
aft’ he done marry me lawful; livin’ on my good bounty, an’ ain’ done a
lick o’ work, an’ ain’ thinkin’ ’bout doin’ none; lookin’ for me to feed
an’ suppoat him; an’ raisin’ a roocus w’en I refuse to leave him put on
de w’ite folks clo’se I was washin’, so’s he could go ’long wid de Odd
Fellows purrade an’ strut like Pompey!... Who?... You know yo’self, Mr.
Tom, Gawd ain’ goin’ be patient wid a rogue like dat.”
“An’ it tuck you seven long mont’s to make up yo’ min’ ’bout Plunkum
ways?” Scilla asked, quizzically.
“I was lookin’ ove’ my min’ for a long time ’bout w’at I was goin’ do,”
she answered. “But my passion struck me all at once. So one evenin’, w’en
Plunkum had plague’ me so till I des couldn’ stan’ it no longer; I up wid
my potato-stomper was stannin’ on de pot shelf, an’ I played de thing
all up an’ down de back his head, till he vomit.... Den w’en I seen him
look so mizzabul an’ downcas’; I went an’ fix him some sedlitz powders to
quiet him.
“I fix de blue paper one in a cup o’ water firs’, an’ made him drink it;
den I fix de w’ite paper one in de cup, an’ made him drink dat.... An’
people, you ain’ goin’ b’lieve me w’en I tell you; ’twasn’ no time befo’
dey had to ride him to de hospital in de groc’ry wagon, de tawment inside
him was carryin’ him such a road! Yas Lawd.... Dat nigger was fit to
explode any minute. An’ he sho did holler an’ cry.
“W’at dey did to him yonder, I ain’ never hyeah’d tell. But he mus’ bin
make up his min’ to go some yuther direction; ’cause Plunkum ain’ _never_
come back to my house.”
“An’ you call yo’self a Chrishtun, an’ practice devilment like dat?”
Felo asked, reprovingly. “Is Plunkum any child o’ Gawd?” she asked,
indignantly. “De Bible say: overcome yo’ enemy; don’t it?... Plunkum ain’
nothin’ but gutter water!”
The running laughter of the women at this juncture broke into a merry
peal. Uncle Foteen awakened from a pleasant doze and looked around
bewildered, just as the stentorian sound of a man’s voice was heard
outside, exclaiming:
“Great-day-in-de-mawnin’! Who is you? Makin’ all dis racket up in hyuh so
soon, an’ night ain’ begin to fall good yet.”
Coming into the room, he announced himself:
“Good evenin’ to evvbody; an’ peace to de hyuhafter.”
Pointing to a chair near Tom, Susan said to him:
“Take a chair, an’ set down, Nat; an’ take dat hat off yo’ head w’en you
come befo’ comp’ny.”
Nat rolled his large, shining eyes at her in playful annoyance, and
walked over to the chair and sat down; throwing his hat across the floor
with a sweeping gesture.
Nat was a notable personality in the village, and was the exclusive
pride and perennial delight of every one along the coast. He was
a composite of farmer, philosopher and clown; with the face of a
contemplative monk and the manner of a harmless mountebank. He was
very black and very bow-legged; the latter being accepted by him as a
fortunate asset rather than a calamity. It served him as an individual
trade mark in his calling, which was that of truck gardening. His
vegetables, he declared, were unlike the product of any other planters of
seeds; they were distinctive, facsimiles of himself, and he took great
pleasure in making it known. Everybody knew his “bow-legged punkins
an’ bow-legged egg-plants”; and no other vendor could boast of the
“bow-legged butterbeans and fat bow-legged squash” like Nat’s.
He peddled his seasonable wares through the village in a large, flat
basket made of willow slats, placed on top of a clumsy sled built of
rough-hewn cypress fence pickets, dragged by an unshorn, meditative old
mule he called Maybe-so. Walking bare-footed Nat followed behind; his
loose-fitting blue cottonade trousers flapping about his dusty ankles; a
broad-brimmed Chinese-looking hat made of palmetto, tilted humorously on
his round woolly head.
As he went along, he kept up a confidential conversation with the mule,
about the weather; the condition of the road; the pest of bugs on the
young potato plants; or any subject that occupied his mind when he was
not vociferating the virtues of his bow-legged merchandise to attract the
attention of chance customers.
He also had a company of two or three nondescript dogs following in his
wake. They seemed to understand all his moods and movements; looking
at him with rapt interest when he talked to them; and watching with
appealing glances when he shouted some vehement command. They knew they
were not to move another step when they heard him call to Maybe-so, and
saw the old mule stop before the gate of one of his regular customers.
They would sit down in the road precipitously and wait patiently while an
argument ensued; and as soon as orders were given to march, they rose up
with renewed anticipation; and with tails erect, they started off as soon
as Maybe-so made the first step.
If at any time they disregarded the rule, Nat would call to the mule to
halt; the dogs would be reprimanded for being “too much in a hurry,” and
would be told to “wait till Nat’s ready to go. Nat ain’ fol’rin’ you; you
fol’rin’ _Nat_.”
Whether they wanted to buy or not, the people came out to greet him as
soon as they heard the sound of his superb voice. He would stand in the
road and call out his rhythmic chant, announcing himself, his wares, his
companionable mule and family of dogs:
“Hyuh bow-legged Nat,
Early in de mawnin’.
Maybe-so, Nat, an’ bow-legged onions;
Bow-legged cawn, an’ bow-legged punkins;
Leave-it-lay, Scawl, an’ one-eye Companyun.
Come out an’ peep at Nat bow-legged cucumbers;
Bow-legged Maybe-so fresh from de country.
Bow-legged red peppers picked off de pepper bush;
Come buy yo’ vegetables,
Early in de mawnin’.”
After the bartering was finished, Nat would take up the reins again; and
as soon as the mule heard him say, “Nat’s gone,” off he would start; the
dogs following with wagging tails, apparently pleased with the thought of
another pilgrimage.
Susan crossed the room and picked up the hat from the floor where Nat had
thrown it, and as she hung it on the rack, said to him:
“You mus’ bin strollin’ out today. I see you got on yo’ shoes an’ a clean
shirt, an’ done took off yo’ cottonade breeches; but you ain’ laid aside
dis ole palmeeter hat. W’at Rose doin’, she can’t look after you no
better, an’ make you dress yo’self ’cawdin’ to de season?”
“Rose too busy, Sis’ Susan.” he answered.
“W’at Rose got to do make her so busy?” she asked in surprise. “Nobody
but Roxy an’ you in de house to bother ’bout, ain’t it?”
“Rose ’tenshun so taken up wid dat sweet Lucy wine she git yonder to
Mr. Camille sto’, Sis’ Susan, she don’ know de diffunce twix’ July an’
Janawerry.”
“Ain’t Roxy ole enough to take charge an’ look aft’ yo’ clo’se an’ things
for you?” asked Felo.
“Roxy ole enough,” Nat answered assuringly, “but she too occapied lookin’
aft’ dem boys, an’ makin’ matrimony wid evvy one comin’ ’long de road.”
“Unc’ Nat, ain’t you shame?” Scilla exclaimed. “Settin’ hyuh befo’ all
dese people, scand’lizin’ yo’ own chile name like dat?”
“Roxy ain’ shame, is she?” he replied bluntly. “She ain’ talkin’ ’bout
it, but dat ain’ keepin’ people from knowin’ she totin’ somh’n under her
a-pun right now, is it?”
“Y’oughta chastise her if you feel sho you ain’ makin’ no mistake,” said
Tom.
“Mistake or no mistake,” commented Nookie, “y’oughta quit yo’ blabbin’
’bout it.”
“W’at y’all mean?” Nat asked with impatience. “Roxy ain’ commit no
terr’ble crime, is she? She ain’t hurt nobody fatal. Roxy ain’ did
nothin’ but follow de feelin’s of a natchal ooman, curuss to know somh’n
convincin’ concernin’ de seecut workin’ of a ’ooman life. An’ all she
done was de li’l thing some foolish ole misun’stannin’ people done
classify in de bad lis’ und’ de headin’ o’ sinful ways.”
“Den you means to uphol’ Roxy ’long de brazen road she takin’?” asked
Scilla, staring at him in amazement.
He deliberated a few seconds, then answered:
“I means to keep my min’ from gittin’ upset ’bout somh’n I ain’ got no
cuntrol over. Roxy jus’ like she come hyuh to dis life; wid evvything
jus’ like ’twus inten’ to be. An’ Roxy ain’ no diffunt from you an’ no
yuther wimmins. An’ nature ways is Gawd ways; an’ I ain’ got no right to
meddle. An’ you can’t say I ain’ correck, if you wan’ leave yo’self tell
de true.”
“Dah, bless Gawd!” Felo exclaimed with enthusiasm. “Unc’ Nat, you sho
spoke somh’n dat time.”
“W’at you know ’bout wimmin ways, ole ugly Felo?” Nookie inquired
indignantly. “Is you done come to be a big jedge, like all de yuther
hypocrite niggers w’at spen’ all dey time livin’ ’munks de w’ite
folks?... Lookin’ down scawnful on yo’ own color ways; tryin’ to make us
nigger people pattun aft’ de w’ite folks?”
“Anybody heard me say a word ’bout w’ite folks bein’ diffunt?” Felo
demanded, looking about from one to the other. “Far as I bin able to
’zern, dey ways resemble each-another. Only de w’ite folks ways mo’
seecut.... Dey thinks a heap ’bout w’at dey doin’. Dey does it on de sly.
’Tain’ nobody business.... But you never see ’um lose dey self-respec’.
Dey puts on a front, an’ dey all gits by. Dey hides dey looseness, an’
you gotta give ’um praise. But look at de cullud folks. How dey do?...
Dey ain’ stop to bother ’bout self-respec’; w’at people goin’ think. Dey
jus’ cuts loose.... Dey natchal as de cattle an’ fowls’ an’ things. An’
_Gawd_ de only man to tell if dey doin’ somh’n wrong.”
Apprehensive that an unpleasant dispute was under way, Susan said to them:
“Y’all better stop talkin’ to one-’nother so plain. Firs’ thing you know,
you goin’ be sorry.”
Almost immediately she became aware that her fears were needless; for
she heard outside the sound of voices mingled with the drone of weird
music played on a comb covered with tissue paper; and she knew that other
members had arrived.
The new-comers were Carmelite and Soongy, two pleasant-looking,
neatly-dressed young colored women; accompanied by a light brown-skin boy
about fourteen years old, known to every one as Dink, the comb-player. He
was a merry-faced, accommodating young troubadour, willing to lend his
talent on any chance occasion; making his ravishing music on the comb for
the sheer love of the thing itself, and the simple reward of a “plate
full o’ vittuls an’ a cup o’ somh’n-’nother to drink.”
Soongy was his aunt, and was extravagantly proud of his musical ability.
“Dink ain’ no master min’ by no means”; she would say, when speaking of
his attainments, “but he sho got it all in his head. An’ nobody ain’
learned him, either.”
Dink’s repertoire was a remarkable one. It included all the “himes” and
mellows and “Dr. Watts” sung by the Baptist and Methodist congregations,
reaching from “Wes’wego ferry landin’, clean down de coas’ to Gritny
in de Eas’ Green”; all the “ballets” and “sinful songs” disseminated by
“backsliders” and “evil-workers”; and many haunting fragments of “make-up
songs,” the invention of Dick’s harmonious mind.
His voice, whether used for singing, or for making music through the
comb, was true and melodious; having the clear, sensuous timbre of
adolescence that won the admiration of his most orthodox listeners. “De
Sperret goin’ stop his shoo-fly ways one dese days; an’ den dey ain’
goin’ be _nobody_ kin tetch him raisin’ his voice to give Gawd de praise
he done helt back for so long;” the old church members would comment,
after having listened to some of the “shoo-fly ballets.”
After friendly greetings were exchanged all around, and the new arrivals
were seated comfortably, Susan asked Carmelite:
“W’at you doin’ on dis side de river tonight? You ain’ give up yo’ place
to Miss Newgeem house, is you?”
“Yas ma’am,” Carmelite answered languidly. “I bin lef’ her a long time.”
“An’ you ain’ doin’ nothin’?” Susan questioned.
“Yas ma’am; I ain’ idle,” she answered reassuringly. “I’m sewin’ on
quilts, yonder to my house. An’ I sho got some nice ones to sell. Made
out o’ all kind o’ pretty scraps I gethered up ’munks de w’ite folks;
an’ dey ain’ cos’ me a nickel.”
With calm misgiving, Susan asked her:
“An’ quilts goin’ suppoat you an’ put clo’se on yo’ back, an’ puvvide you
wid shoes an’ vittuls an’ things?”
“If I can’t sell ’um, I sho kin raffle ’um.” Carmelite answered with
conviction. “An’ make much as I made workin’ up in Miss Newgeem
scrooched-up kitchen; onsatafied an’ fretful as I was all de time.”
“I thought you was please wid de place,” ventured Scilla.
“Who? Miss Newgeem de wrong one to make people feel please. She got such
fussy ways, she ain’ to be please her _own_ self. So da’s w’at make me
quit an’ go yonder to my quilts; whah I ain’ had to worry ’bout bein’
plagued all day long.”
“But Carm’lite,” began Soongy, by way of pleasant argument, “don’t you
fin’ sewin’ on quilts is mo’ taxin’ work den cookin’ for a small fam’ly
like Miss Newgeem got? I fin’ it mo’ combinin’, me.”
“’Tain de cookin’, Soongy,” Carmelite explained. “It’s all de hum-bug you
gotta do: passin’ de dishes thoo hot water befo’ you brings ’um to de
table. An’ a fresh plate for evvy diffunt dish dey has to eat. An’ you
know yo’self, how long it take for dishes to dreen aft’ you done pass ’um
thoo hot water, an’ dey gotta be wipe besides.
“An’ Miss Newgeem got a whole lot o’ Japanee china dishes so thin you kin
see thoo ’um, an’ you gotta be careful how you tetch ’um. So one day, I
say to myself: I’m goin’ put de things in de oven an’ heat ’um all at
once an’ be done. So I put de plates an’ de cups in de oven, an’ push de
stove-do’ half-to, an’ set down to wait on ’um. An’ chile! Aft’ a w’ile,
I could hyeah dem things crackin’ up in de oven,—an’ I ain’ never had
_tetch_ ’um.
“An’ w’en I open de stove-do’ an’ looked at ’um,—chile, de dishes was so
wreckded, it took me _three_ dish towels to pull out _one_ plate.”
“You had good sense to go yonder to yo’ quilts,” Felo murmured in a
humorous undertone.