Carmelite answered, artlessly. “Miss Newgeem des natchally had too much
shiftin’ o’ de dishes for de fewness o’ de vittuls; an’ I ain’ never bin
used to eatin’ light.” At this reference to food, Susan became conscious
of a sense of lax hospitality, whereupon she said: “Dey got plenny gumbo
in dat pot you see stannin’ on de h’af; an’ plenny sweet potato pies
yonder in de safe; so you ain’ need to feel strange ’bout breakin’ yo’
fas’—lessen you bin et heavy befo’ you come hyuh dis evenin’.”
The suggestion was opportune. Smiles of appreciation from one to the
other showed that the invitation was agreeable to all.
Susan went to the safe and distributed plates to the women, and Nat and
Felo began placing chairs around the table. She filled the plates with a
generous portion of snowy rice and fragrant gumbo, and the women arranged
them on the shining new oil cloth.
“Great-day-in-de-mawnin’!” Nat exclaimed. “Sis’ Susan, you sho spoons out
dat gumbo wid a tantalizin’ scent! Set down, members, an’ smack yo’ lips;
an’ Gawd bless de cook for de feas’ dis evenin’.”
They gathered about the table with lively interest and sat down and
began eating. Uncle Foteen was sleeping quietly before the fire. Dink
was sitting across the room, looking on with wistful glances, and making
querulous music on the comb. On discovering his aloofness, Susan called
to him: “Boy, put dat comb out yo’ han’, an’ come set to de table an’ eat
yo’ vittuls. You ain’ hongry?”
Looking at her timidly, Dink answered:
“Yassam. But I come ’way from home in a hurry, an’ my haid ain’ comb’.”
Susan studied his face for a second, then said reprovingly:
“Boy, take dat comb you got in yo’ han’ an’ pass it thoo’ yo’ head, den
come set to de table.”
Having a better knowledge of the nature of Dink’s hirsute endowment than
Susan had, Soongy came to the rescue.
“Leave ’im be, Sis’ Susan,” she told her. “Leave ’im eat whah he settin’.
Wid dem grape-twisses Dink got on ’is head, it’ll take ’im all night to
git thoo bat’lin wid ’um.”
Accepting the plausibility of Soongy’s statement, Susan took Dink a plate
of gumbo and left him to enjoy it in his quiet corner alone. She went
back to the table to see that Tom was made thoroughly comfortable, and to
ply her guests with coffee and pies, and refill their plates with rice
and gumbo if they wanted more. Their enjoyment was keen and genuine;
enlivened with much playful banter and merry laughter, and amusing gossip
about the doings and sayings of the “w’ite folks;” which, after a while,
developed into a sort of philosophic commentary.
Nat’s oratory was in full flower, and Felo applauded him, an encouraging
ally. Always unorthodox in his views, his over-enthusiasm now became
offensive to the women, and their dissenting voices began to fill the
room with shrill echoes. Susan realized that a harsh dispute was imminent
and something had to be done to prevent it. The fortuitous whimpering of
Dink’s comb arrested her attention, and she welcomed the plaintive sound
as a divine interruption. Fixing her eyes on the front door, she arose
from her chair with unusual energy, and tapping her spoon on her plate
with a ringing sound, she called out:
“Stop dis racket up in hyuh! Y’all take my house for a honky-tonk? Quit
yo’ racket an’ try an’ talk like people.”
Her positive tone brought immediate silence. Everyone looked uneasily
towards the door, anticipating the entrance of some accusing moderator of
the peace. Seeing no one appear, Nat said:
“Gawd knows, Sis’ Susan, you oughta stop play’n chillun tricks, ole as
you is. W’at sattafaction you fin’ try’n to frighten people like dat?”
“You ain’ too ole to make racket, is you?” Susan asked quietly. “An’ w’at
sattafaction you fin’, mult’plyin’ words an’ ’sputin’ wid wimmins till
you stirs ’um up to hot blood an’ spiteful wranglin’,—an’ und’ my roof,
too? W’at you gotta say ’bout it?”
“For Gawd sake, stop y’all quoilin’ an’ set down,” interposed Tom. “Y’all
had to wait till big Sunday to gether hyuh an’ make a ruckus?... Susan,
whah dat boy gone wid de comb? Tell him to blow music on de thing an’
change dese niggers ’maginashun.”
A second request was unnecessary. Dink’s appetite being gratefully
appeased, his mental attitude was one of harmonious sociability.
Adjusting the tissue paper on his comb, he put the outlandish instrument
to his lips and began playing with spirit the old shout called “De
W’ite Horse Pawin’ in de Valley.” The merry melody floated through the
room, the infectious lilt taking possession of the listeners’ thoughts
and holding them captives to its insistent appeal. They began to sway
gently to-and-fro, their bodies, like their minds, intoxicated by the
captivating rhythm. The women began to hum; a low, melodious hum, like
the far-away sound of a colony of wood birds awakening at day-break. Then
the men joined the humming, and the sound recalled the droning of distant
village church bells, floating over quiet fields at sunset. And the
mingling of the voices made one think of the rumbling of November winds
chasing among the telegraph wires.
After a while, Felo began to sing the narrative lines of the song, the
others taking up the burden, and responding with growing fervor after
each line:
“My Lawd command me to go in de wilderness.
(W’ite horse pawin’ in de valley)
W’at did I see w’en I went in de wilderness?
(W’ite horse pawin’ in de valley).”
Then like a majestic wave of sound, rose the noble refrain:
“In de valley, my Lawd,
On my knees;
In de valley, my Lawd,
In de valley.
In de valley, my Lawd,
Down on my knees,
I seen de w’ite horse pawin’ in de valley.”
Then back again to the tuneful story of adventure in the land of the
spirit:
“Who heard my pray’rs w’en I prayed in de wilderness?
(W’ite horse pawin’ in de valley)
Who foun’ de road w’en I comed out de wilderness?
(W’ite horse pawin’ in de valley).”
Then the chorus again, full, swinging and triumphant:
“In de valley, my Lawd,
On my knees;
In de valley, my Lawd,
In de valley.
In de valley, my Lawd,
Down on my knees,
I seen de w’ite horse pawin’ in de valley.”
The tuneful tumult awakened Uncle Foteen from his peaceful sleep, and he
looked around the room bewildered, uncertain of his whereabouts. What did
the gathering mean? Why were they sitting around the long white table,
singing church songs? Whose wake was it? Who were they waiting for in the
dim, lamp-lighted room?
Looking at Susan appealingly, he asked:
“He ain’ come yet?”
She went over to the old man, and said to him quietly:
“Evvything alright, Unc’ Foteen. You bin sleepin’.”
Looking at her thoughtfully, he said with tremulous voice:
“If dat candle burn out befo’ Marse Sylvain git hyuh, we gotta put Ma’am
Guillaume away. You know, we ain’ ’lowed to keep her too long.”
“Unc’ Foteen, lemme fix you some coffee an’ milk,” Susan said pleasantly;
meaning to divert the old man’s thoughts. “An’ you all members, stop w’at
you singin’,” she called to the chorus, “an’ sing somh’n w’at goin’ make
Unc’ Foteen feel gay.”
Obeying Susan’s request, Dink began playing a rollicking melody on the
comb; patting his foot vehemently on the brick-sprinkled floor, to mark
the even time.
“Boy!” Felo called out to him indignantly, causing Dink to immediately
stop playing. “Quit yo’ ratty music, an’ play somh’n decen’ w’at goes wid
Sunday an’ fittin’ for Chrishtun people to sing.”
“Don’ pay ’im no ’tenshun, li’l boy,” Susan interposed. “Dis house my
meetin’-house; an’ if dey got people in de buildin’ displease wid de
himes an’ music an’ things, den leave ’um go some yuther place an’ hunt
till dey finds de thing w’at suits ’um. So go ’head, li’l boy, an’ play
an’ sing jes’ like yo’ min’ tell you.”
Further objection was useless after this declaration. Dink laid his comb
on the bench along-side of him, and leaning back against the wall, began
singing gaily:
“W’en de moon be riz
An’ come a-peepin’ thoo de branches o’ de ’simmon tree;
Look like I hyeah ’im say:
How come evvy night I see you watchin’ for me?...
He don’ know I got a reason
Brings me out hyuh evvy season,
Lessen it be w’en de clouds is po’in down rain.”
It was a glorious moment. He knew that he was soloist supreme; that the
song was his individual possession, and nobody would venture to sing it
with him. He had them in his power. He would make Felo listen, whether or
no. Almost rapturously he went on:
“Go ’long, moon,
I want you to th’ow yo’ light behin’ de ’simmon tree.
P’int de road
So her w’ats comin’ hyuh to meet me’ll see.
Th’ow yo’ shadders kind o’ fancy,
Des for me an’ my Nancy,
Her w’at you hyeah come singin’ yonder in de lane.”
Having reached the end of the verse, his eyes skimmed the room for looks
of approval. Several of the listeners were smiling appreciatively.
Drawing a deep breath, he extended his chest imposingly, and went on with
the chorus:
“W’en I hyeahs dat black gal sing,
’Tain no use to try an’ do another blessed thing;
Feel like my foots done clean tuck wing,
An’ my buzzum feel so strong.
Umph-umph, people, you kin b’lieve my word,
Her kind o’ singin’ you ain’ never, never, never heard.
She des de same as a natchal wil’ mawkin’-bird,
Bustin’ wid song!”
When Dink finished his happy serenade, Nat called to him:
“Boy, come over hyuh an’ tell me how ole you is.”
Dink looked appealingly at his aunt, and as he crossed over to Nat’s
chair, Soongy answered for him:
“He be fifteen years ole nex’ June, Unc’ Nat.”
“Boy, you sho got a gif’ straight from Gawd, quiv’in’ in dat th’oat o’
yone,” Nat said to him, patting him on the head patronizingly.
“A gif’ straight from de devil,” muttered Felo, looking at Nat and
batting his eyelids with impatience.
Nat reflected a while on the difference of opinion, then asked drily:
“Since w’en you got to be so frien’ly wid de devil, he done showed you
how to make ’videnashun ’twix w’at b’lonks to him an’ w’at b’lonks to
Gawd?”
“Is Gawd give people gif’s to th’ow ’way, tellin’ ’bout devilment,—goin’
’round singin’ all kind o’ sinful random; ’stid o’ raisin’ up dey voice
to give praise to de things Gawd done sanctify?”
“W’at things de boy tol’ about in de song you cunsider Gawd ain’
sanctify?” Nat asked solemnly. “Can’t be de man watchin’ for de moon
to come up behin’ de ’simmon tree. Dat ain’ natchal? Gawd ain’ sen’
de moon to shine, an’ make de water move, an’ help de plants to grow
in de groun’, an’ give light so people kin know de right road from
de wrong?—Dat ain’ natchal?... An’ Gawd ain’ make de sap rise in de
young ooman an’ de young man, stirrin’ ’um up like de sap stirrin’
in de ’simmon tree, till dey feels somh’n curuss drawin’ ’um to’ads
one-’nother?” He went on. “Dat ain’ natchal?
“An’ Gawd ain’ make de mawkin’-bird sing, settin’ in de aw’inge tree in
de moonlight whah ’is ole lady kin ketch de a-ko ’is voice, w’en she
settin’ lonely on top de aigs in de nes’?—Dat ain’ natchal?...
“Des like Gawd make de young man lif’ up ’is tenshun w’en he hyeah de
soun’ o’ de young gal voice, comin’ up de lane, singin’ bol’ so she kin
’tract ’im?—Dat ain’ natchal?... Shucks! Ole crazy nigger. You gotta
study yo’ lesson a heap mo’, befo’ you go ’roun’ hyuh preachin’ to
people so biggidy.”
Appearing fully satisfied with the delivery of his colorful remonstrance,
Nat turned to Dink and said quietly:
“Boy, go yonder an’ play on yo’ comb till you make dese squinched-up
niggers ’maginashun change, an’ dey finds out dat de sperret got yuther
ways o’ movin’ ’um ’sides preachin’ on Bible texes an’ things.”
“Dah, bless Gawd!” Nookie exclaimed. “Unc’ Nat done win. Done put Mr.
Felo out on a home run.”
“Felo ain’ gone, is he?” Tom inquired.
“No. Felo hyuh,” Susan told him.
“Mr. Felo, you ain’ goin’, is you?” Scilla asked solicitously.
“Who?” Felo replied, with calm amazement. “Felo goin’ stay right hyuh wid
y’all till de party break up.”
His resolve was greeted with merry laughter and good-natured raillery;
during which, Dink went back to his seat and began playing on the comb:
“I’m goin’-a lay down my burden down by de river-side,
Down by de river-side, down by de river-side;
I’m goin’-a lay down my burden down by de river-side,
An’ I ain’ goin’ study war no mo’.”
He came to the refrain, and every voice took up the words, singing with
increasing fervor, until the song rolled like a pæan of deliverance:
“Ain’ goin’ study war no mo’
Ain’ goin’ study war no mo’
Ain’ goin’ study ... war ... no ... mo’....”
The stirring refrain was drawing towards the end, when the door opened
and another member came in.
The new-comer was a man about thirty years old; known to everybody in the
village as Gussie Fisky. He was well-built; with a wealth of unkempt,
reddish-blond hair, and a shaggy mustache of the same color. His eyes
were large and gray, and stared with a reckless, determined air. His
complexion was one of remarkable sallowness; and his features, while
plain and commonplace, were free from every negroid characteristic;
having certain regularities of cast that declared him indubitably a white
man, however ordinary the extraction.
A strange mystery surrounded Gussie’s origin. A mystery known to no one
except old Aunt Fisky, the kindly colored woman with whom he lived, the
only mother he had ever known.
There were many legends related regarding Gussie’s origin, his birth,
and his abandonment by his white family; some ribald, some romantic; any
of which Gussie never troubled himself to comment on or disprove. He
knew that he was white; that Aunt Fisky had raised him from infancy, and
had given him her name; that he had lived his inconsequent years among
illiterate Negroes; that it was sheer madness to hope to be received as
a fellow-man by white people who despised him; and that life was nothing
more than a merry game for anyone who could play it with a reckless
spirit.
And so he spent his days among his chosen companions, resigned to his
humble fate; satisfied with old Aunt Fisky’s motherly attentions, and
the squalid atmosphere of the poor shanty they called home; comfortable
with the boisterous young colored women who permitted him to bestow
upon them the freedom of his prodigal affection; and companionable with
the roustabouts and longshoremen with whom he worked and gambled and
caroused; imbibing their thoughts and ideas, adopting their dialect, and
imitating their manners and ways.
Gussie came lumbering into the room, scanning the faces of the singers
nervously. Finding himself suddenly yielding to the melody’s insistent
appeal, he lifted his raucous voice to join the chorus just as the song
came to an end.
With a disappointed look, he asked:
“W’at y’all stop for? Go ’head agin, an’ lemme sing wid you.”
“W’at you know ’bout singin’, ole w’ite nigger?” Felo asked,
half-jestingly. “Sho time to stop, w’en you come lopin’ up in hyuh an’
wan’ sing.”
It was a thrust that went deeper than Felo intended. Gussie understood
that the feeling with which he was accepted by his colored companions was
something more like tolerance than a feeling of genuine friendship; and
the fact, unpleasant as it was, made him conscious of a natural sense of
race pride and prejudice not easily overlooked.
With an indignant glare at Felo, he said:
“I know I’m w’ite, ole ugly nigger. But you ain’ got to tell me ’bout it.
I bin knowin’ you ever sence we was chillun playin’ together; but you
ain’ need to talk like dat befo’ all dis crowd.”
“Gussie,” Susan called to him quietly, “put yo’ hat yonder, an’ set down,
an’ don’ ack so boist’us. You ain’ bin hyuh for over three weeks, an’ now
you come an’ wan’ raise a confusion? Go set down an’ ack like people.”
Taking in the awkwardness of the situation with admirable tact, Carmelite
asked:
“Gussie, how much Aun’ Fisky chahges for a dozen duck aigs? I got one
muskovy duck home yonder I wan’ set befo’ de weather git too col’.”
“She bin gittin’ two-bits a dozen for ’um.” Gussie answered sullenly.
“But she ain’ got no mo’, now.”
“You mean she done sol’ all her ducks?” Carmelite persisted.
“No. She done sol’ all de aigs she had to Mr. Gully baker-shop.”
“Go ’way from hyuh, Gussie,” Carmelite answered, laughing. “W’at Mr.
Gully wan’ do wid duck aigs in a baker-shop?”
“To put in de cake for de weddin’, las’ night.”
“Who? Dey had a weddin’ yonder in Gritny las’ night?” Inquired Susan,
eager to hear further particulars.
“Yas’m.” Gussie replied, becoming more amiable. “Dat w’ite ooman dey call
Maggie Hutson. ’Twas her weddin.’”
“Lawd!” exclaimed Nookie in tones of great surprise. “You mean to say
ole Maggie Hutson done got her a husban’, aft’ de sinful life she bin
carryin’ all dese years up an’ down de road wid so many diffunt mens?...
Lawd! Gussie, tell it agin; so I kin lissen if w’at you tellin’ is somh’n
true.”
“Sho Gawd is.” Gussie assured her. “Maggie got her one husban’; an’
had her one sho-nuff weddin’, wid all de church bells ringin’; went
ridin’ all thoo de town, settin’ back on de ca’idge seat ’long-side her
fright’nes’-lookin’ skinny old man; wid a weepin’ veil hangin’ down
ove’ her face, an’ a aw’inge flower wreath settin’ ’cross her fawid;
jes’ a-bowin’ an’ smilin’ at people, like she wan’ show ’um she kin put
on wreath an’ veil even if she is look like somebody come off a bad
street.... Sho did. ’Twas like a fatal purrade goin’ roun’ Gritny.”
“Lawd, people! Lissen w’at Gussie sayin’.” Nookie exclaimed, laughing
heartily. “Settin’ up in a ca’idge, wid aw’inge flowers on her head,
brazen as she is! Lawd, people! Don’t you know da’s comical?”
“W’at make Maggie ain’ got de right to put aw’inge flowers in her head if
da’s her pleasure?” Came Nat’s dissenting voice. “Y’all niggers sho like
to fin’ somh’n wrong wid yuther people ways. Maggie got a right to put
mustud-greens, an’ twis’ cow-pea vines in her head if she fin’ it make
her look good; an’ if da’s de way her min’ be workin’.”
“But, Unc’ Nat,” Scilla essayed to explain in behalf of the sisterhood,
“de wimmins gotta think a li’l somh’n ’bout form an’ fashion, ain’t
dey?... Wearin’ aw’inge flowers public like dat sho is redic’lus; cheap
as Maggie bin made herself yonder in Gritny wid de mens.”
Getting up from his chair and gesticulating with both arms, as though
addressing a crowd on an open road, Felo called out:
“Stan’ back, members! Stan’ back, an’ make room. ’Cause us sanctified
sisters done commence pitchin’ rocks an’ stones.”
“Scilla ain’ spoke nothin’ w’at ain’ true,” Gussie interposed. “Evvybody
yonder know Maggie hist’ry.”
At this point Susan’s rumination became audible: “An’ all dem w’at don’t,
dey ain’ goin’ be long findin’ out, w’en yo’ mouf start runnin’.”
“Can’t help from knowin’ w’at I know, Aun’ Susan,” Gussie replied
hurriedly in self-vindication. “Ain’ I bin worked for Maggie, spadin’ her
garden, an’ w’ite-washin’ her kitchen; an’ bin had de freedom o’ de whole
house, day-time an’ night-time, too?”
With sharp impatience Nat called to him:
“Stop right whah you is, Gussie; befo’ you try to make we-all b’lieve you
had de freedom o’ somh’n else besides.”
Laughing boisterously, Gussie said:
“Money ain’ nothin’ but money w’en somebody got somh’n to sell, ain’t
it?... An’ one man ain’ look much diffunt from a yuther man in de
dark,—even if he do be w’ite.”
A sudden reprimand from Susan interrupted his laughter.
“Look, Gussie!” He heard her call. “Black or w’ite,—w’ichever color
you wan’ call it,—but you ain’ in no bar-room. Either yonder on de
levee-front. So you better talk diffunt talk, if you wanna stay hyuh a
li’l w’ile soshable dis evenin’.”
“I ain’ try’n to ack ugly, Aun’ Susan.” Gussie insisted. “I jes’ wan’
p’int out how Maggie try’n to make herself look like somh’n she _ain’t_.
Da’s all.”
Nat leaned forward in his chair, and clasping his knees with his brawny
black hands, braced himself for a philosophic argument.
“Nobody ain’ wan’ dispute Gussie dat he bin seen de aw’inge flowers an’
things Maggie had settin’ on top her head,” he went on. “But w’at we does
wan’ know: Is Gussie bin able to see de change w’at moughta took place in
Maggie tahminashun; an’ w’at de feelin’ inside de ’ooman was,—direckin’
Maggie to do w’at she was cunsider right?... You know de sperret ways
is sho myste’rous. An’ people gotta move accawdin’, w’en it strike you
un-beknownce.”
“Yas, Lawd.” Came a fervid antiphon of soprano voices.
“Who?... Yas indeed.” Carmelite agreed. “Sweet man Jesus is a heart-fixer
an’ a mind-regalator, too.”
“An’ nobody ain’ need to scawn Maggie aw’inge flowers, either”; Susan
added with calm assurance, “’aft de church ain’ found ’um comical, an’ de
pries’ done sprinkle ’um wid holy water.”
Felo got up and gave the fire a vigorous poke, and turned to the company,
saying:
“Stop y’all preachin’ on Maggie, for Gawd sake; an’ take yo’ tex’ from
somh’n cuncernin’ we-all color. Maggie ain’ nothin’ to we-all, no way.”
“You sho right, Felo,” Aunt Susan concurred. “An’ thank you for sayin’
so.... An’ look,” she suggested genially, “some you mens oughta go yonder
in de shed an’ fetch me a few sticks o’ wood for dis fire, befo’ it git
too low.”
Gussie and Felo left the room to get the wood. Susan began pottering
about the hearth. Nat fixed a pipe of tobacco, lighted it, and gave it to
Tom; then fixed one for himself and sat down and began smoking. Uncle
Foteen was nodding in his chair by the fireside. Dink began playing
softly on the comb, the women humming pleasantly with him, the soothing
melody of “Po’ Moanuh got a Home at Las’.” Before long, the wave of
discord had passed on, and the room became pervaded with a flood of
harmony; the potent spell of music lifting their emotional natures to a
sense of quiet, singing ecstasy and spiritual introspection. Felo and
Gussie came in with several sticks of wood, and before putting them down,
stood listening attentively.
“Lay ’um down easy, an’ leave Unc’ Foteen sleep.” Susan told them in a
half-whisper.
“Y’all peaceful an’ nice now,” Felo remarked, “but you sho goin’ have
noise up in hyuh w’en de circus come. Yonder Lizzie Cole an’ Chester
Frackshun comin’ outside. So you better make up yo’ min’ to lissen at a
loud racket w’en dey git hyuh.”
They took the announcement indifferently, and continued to sing until the
new arrivals appeared in the doorway.
Lizzie Cole was a buxom, merry-faced, happy-go-lucky young colored woman;
always eager for some new humorous adventure; and fully enamoured of the
thought that “time goes merry when the heart is young.” Likewise, equally
determined to keep her thought from anticipating the time when the heart
grows old.
Although the daughter of a genteel, respected Baptist minister, Lizzie
gave no evidence of possessing a single trait resembling dignity,
discretion, docility, or any other element reflecting the reputed
influence of the holy church, or the divinity of mortal man.
She earned her livelihood as a maid of any task, wherever chance might
lead her. And however onerous the duties imposed upon her, she seldom
failed to transliterate into vocal records of lasting mirth the nature of
any experience.
Chester Frackshun was a tall, gaunt, pecan-faced young man; with a
high-pitched voice and mincing manners. By a strange whim of inconsistent
Fate, Lizzie was endowed with every masculine characteristic that Chester
lacked; and Chester possessed many of the feminine traits that Lizzie
could never hope to assume. These discrepancies, it would seem, welded
the unusual bond of friendship existing between them. Chester depended on
Lizzie with a feeling of childish trust; knowing that she would champion
his weakness and timidity. And Lizzie was devoted to him because he
relied on her protection, and because he amused her, and understood her
humor as well.
Chester usually worked as cook on the passenger boats running across
Lake Pontchartrain, up the Amite river, from New Orleans to the French
Settlement. Lizzie had made a number of trips with him, working as
chambermaid, getting small pay but having a “good time an’ plenny fun
laughin’ at de Cajuns.”
Sometimes Chester would take a position as cook with a large family in
the city; and frequently managed to have Lizzie with him, doing odd
jobs and making the time pass merrily while it lasted. They shared many
humorous experiences, and their retelling of them was always a feature of
any gathering where they happened to be present.