Colossus
and
this boy can go to the kitchen.
this boy can go to the kitchen.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v05 - Bro to Cai
”
“Well done, Brother Gabriel! ” added Maria; Manuel shall
not be the demon tempter with his rebellious spirit, to incite
you to gormandize. ”
Upon this, the good old woman rose up and locked up in a
closet the plate which Dolores had served to the monk.
"I will keep it here for you until to-morrow morning, Brother
Gabriel. ”
Supper finished, the men, whose habit was always to keep
their hats on in the house, uncovered, and Maria said grace.
## p. 3017 (#591) ###########################################
3017
GEORGE W. CABLE
(1844-)
ERHAPS the first intimation given to the world of a literary
and artististic awakening in the Southern States of America
after the Civil War, was the appearance in Scribner's Mag-
azine of a series of short stories, written by an unknown and hith-
erto untried hand, and afterward collected and republished in Old
Creole Days. This was long before the vogue of the short story,
and that the publication of these tales was regarded as a literary
event in those days is sufficient testimony to their power.
They were fresh, full of color and po-
etic feeling — romantic with the romance
that abounds in the life they portrayed,
redolent of indigenous perfumes. - mag-
nolia, lemon, orange, and myrtle, mingled
with French exotics of the boudoir,- inter-
pretive in these qualities, through a fine
perception, of a social condition resulting
from the transplanting to a semi-tropical
soil of a conservative, wealthy, and aris-
tocratic French community.
Herein lay
much of their most inviting charm; but
more than this, they were racy with twink-
ling humor, tender with a melting pathos, GEORGE W. CABLE
and intensely dramatic.
An intermixture of races with strong caste prejudices, and a time
of revolution and change, present eminently the condition and the
moment for the romance. And when added to this, he finds to his
hand an almost tropical setting, and so picturesque a confusion of
liquid tongues as exists in the old Franco-Spanish-Afro-Italian-Amer-
ican city of New Orleans, there would seem to be nothing left to be
desired as "material. The artist who seized instinctively this oppor-
tunity was born at New Orleans on October 12th, 1844, of colonial
Virginia stock on the one side, and New England on the other. His
early life was full of vicissitudes, and he was over thirty before he
discovered story-telling to be his true vocation. From that time he
has diligently followed it, having published three novels, “The Grand-
issimes,' Dr. Sevier,' Bonaventure,' and John March, Southerner,'
besides another volume of short stories.
## p. 3018 (#592) ###########################################
3018
GEORGE W. CABLE
That having received his impressions in the period of transition
and ferment following the upheaval of 1861–1865, with the resulting
exaggerations and distortions of a normal social condition, he chose
to lay his scenes a half-century earlier, proclaims him still more the
artist; who would thus gain a freer play of fancy and a surer per-
spective, and who, saturated with his subject, is not afraid to trust
his imagination to interpret it.
That he saw with open sympathetic eyes and a loving heart, he
who runs may read in any chance page that a casual opening of his
books will reveal. That the people whom he has so affectionately
depicted have not loved him in return, is perhaps only a corrobora-
tion of his own words when he wrote, in his charming tale (Belles
Demoiselles Plantation, « The Creoles never forgive a public men-
tion. ” That they are tender of heart, sympathetic, and generous in
their own social and domestic relations, Mr. Cable's readers cannot
fail to know. But the caste line has ever been a dangerous boundary
- a live wire charged with a deadly if invisible fluid — and he is a
brave man who dares lay his hand upon it.
More than this, the old-time Creole was an aristocrat who chose
to live behind a battened door, as does his descendant to-day. His
privacy, so long undisturbed, has come to be his prerogative. Wit-
ness this spirit in the protest of the inimitable Jean-ah Poquelin -
the hero giving his name to one of the most dramatic stories ever
penned — when he presents himself before the American governor of
Louisiana to declare that he will not have his privacy invaded by a
proposed street to pass his door:-“I want you tell Monsieur le
President, strit -- can't — pass — at
me — 'ouse. »
The Creoles of Mr.
Cable’s generation are as jealous of their retirement as was the brave
old man Poquelin; and to have it invaded by a young American who
not only threw their pictures upon his canvas, but standing behind
it, reproduced their eccentricities of speech for applauding Northern
audiences, was a crime unforgivable in their moral code.
Added to this, Mr. Cable stands accused of giving the impression
that the Louisiana Creole is a person of African taint; but are there
not many refutations of this charge in the internal evidence of his
work? As for instance where in (The Grandissimes) he writes, “His
whole appearance was a dazzling contradiction of the notion that
a Creole is a person of mixed blood”; and again when he alludes
to the slave dialect,” is the implication not unequivocal that this
differed from the speech of the drawing-room? It is true that he
found many of his studies in the Quadroon population, who spoke a
patois that was partly French; but such was the “slave dialect of
the man of color who came into his English through a French strain,
or perhaps only through a generation of close French environment.
## p. 3019 (#593) ###########################################
GEORGE W. CABLE
3019
A civilization that is as protective in its conservatism as are the
ten-foot walls of brick with which its people surround their luxurious
dwellings may be counted on to resent portrayal at short range,
even though it were unequivocally eulogistic. That Mr. Cable is a
most conscientious artist, and that he has been absolutely true to
the letter as he saw it, there can be no question; but whether his
technical excellences are always broadly representative or not is not
so certain. That the writer who has so amply proven his own joy
in the wealth of his material, should have been beguiled by its pictur-
esqueness into a partisanship for the class making a special appeal,
is not surprising. But truth in art is largely a matter of selection;
and if Mr. Cable has sinned in the gleaning, it was undoubtedly
because of visual limitation, rather than a conscious discrimination.
In 'The Grandissimes,' his most ambitious work, we have an
important contribution to representative literature. In the pleasant
guise of his fascinating fiction he has essayed the history of a civili-
zation, and in many respects the result is a great book. That such
a work should attain its highest merit in impartial truth when taken
as a whole, goes without saying.
The dramatic story of Bras Coupé is true as belonging to the
time and the situation. So is that of Palmyrea the Octoroon, or of
Honoré Grandissime's “f. m. c. ” the half-brother, or of the pitiful
voudou woman Clemence, the wretched old marchande de calas. Had
he produced nothing more than his first small volume of seven tales,
he would have made for himself an honored place in literature.
As a collection, these stories are unrivaled for pictorial power and
dramatic form, and are so nearly of equal merit that any one would
be as representative in the popular mind as the one which is given
here.
« POSSON JONE' »
From (Old Creole Days): copyrighted 1879, 1881, 1883, by Charles Scribner's
Sons
The manhood we remembuat ciet le bheathen behere 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
## p. 3020 (#594) ###########################################
3020
GEORGE W. CABLE
matter with that faithful friend and confidant, Baptiste, his yel-
low 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 fili-
bustering 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 pro-
nounced 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. Up-street, and across the Rue du Canal, one
could get glimpses of the gardens in Faubourg Ste. -Marie stand-
ing 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 café's the masculine
gentility stood leaning on canes, with which now one and now
## p. 3021 (#595) ###########################################
GEORGE W. CABLE
3021
Is
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 cir-
cus, 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 com-
menced 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.
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 at-
tempt to accommodate himself to ordinary doors and ceilings.
His bones were those of an His face was marked more by
OX.
## p. 3022 (#596) ###########################################
3022
GEORGE W. CABLE
(
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 atten-
tion, by both gesture and speech, to a singular object on top of
the still uncovered head, when the nervous motion of the Améri.
cain 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 ddyou know my name was Jones ? ” he asked; but,
without pausing for the Creole's answer, furnished in his reck-
less 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
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-servant of d'Rev'n' Mr. Jones. ”
Both pairs enlivened their walk with conversation. Parson
Jones descanted upon the doctrine he had mentioned, as illus-
on,
## p. 3023 (#597) ###########################################
GEORGE W. CABLE
3023
a
trated 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 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. Parceque, 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
## p. 3024 (#598) ###########################################
3024
GEORGE W. CABLE
(
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 ? ”
"Oh 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 must 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 eddica-
tion 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 bywords, dey is de fo' sins of de
conscience, an' if any man sin de fo' sins of de conscience, de
dcbble done sharp his fork fo' dat man. - Ain't dat 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-
## p. 3025 (#599) ###########################################
GEORGE W. CABLE
3025
«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, Pos-
son 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 'abit; c'est tout. What a man thing is
right, is right; 'tis all 'abit. A man muz nod go again' his con
scien'. 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 ’abit. 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 'abit. Mais, come, Pos-
son 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 shamefaced
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.
V-190
## p. 3026 (#600) ###########################################
3026
GEORGE W. CABLE
man
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
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 ban-
quette, “do you think you have any shore hopes of heaven? ”
“Yass! ” replied St. -Ange; “I am sure-sure.
I thing every.
body 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'nt him, though. ” And they went on.
The street they now entered was a very quiet one.
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, honeycombed 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,
The eye
## p. 3027 (#601) ###########################################
GEORGE W. CABLE
3027
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 offense, 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 opinion; 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. »
(
(C
## p. 3028 (#602) ###########################################
3028
GEORGE W. CABLE
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
gayly decked wives and daughters of the Gascons, from the
métairies 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, milk-
men, butchers, bakers, black-bearded fishermen, Sicilian fruit-
erers, swarthy Portuguese sailors in little woolen 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
1
## p. 3029 (#603) ###########################################
GEORGE W. CABLE
3029
tinkling spurred heels. Yonder in that quieter section are the
quadroon women in their black lace shawls — and there is Bap-
tiste; 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
quadroons. The marines 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 ter-
rible 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 flatboatmen, ha-ha-ing and cheering,
will not suffer it.
“Well done, Brother Gabriel! ” added Maria; Manuel shall
not be the demon tempter with his rebellious spirit, to incite
you to gormandize. ”
Upon this, the good old woman rose up and locked up in a
closet the plate which Dolores had served to the monk.
"I will keep it here for you until to-morrow morning, Brother
Gabriel. ”
Supper finished, the men, whose habit was always to keep
their hats on in the house, uncovered, and Maria said grace.
## p. 3017 (#591) ###########################################
3017
GEORGE W. CABLE
(1844-)
ERHAPS the first intimation given to the world of a literary
and artististic awakening in the Southern States of America
after the Civil War, was the appearance in Scribner's Mag-
azine of a series of short stories, written by an unknown and hith-
erto untried hand, and afterward collected and republished in Old
Creole Days. This was long before the vogue of the short story,
and that the publication of these tales was regarded as a literary
event in those days is sufficient testimony to their power.
They were fresh, full of color and po-
etic feeling — romantic with the romance
that abounds in the life they portrayed,
redolent of indigenous perfumes. - mag-
nolia, lemon, orange, and myrtle, mingled
with French exotics of the boudoir,- inter-
pretive in these qualities, through a fine
perception, of a social condition resulting
from the transplanting to a semi-tropical
soil of a conservative, wealthy, and aris-
tocratic French community.
Herein lay
much of their most inviting charm; but
more than this, they were racy with twink-
ling humor, tender with a melting pathos, GEORGE W. CABLE
and intensely dramatic.
An intermixture of races with strong caste prejudices, and a time
of revolution and change, present eminently the condition and the
moment for the romance. And when added to this, he finds to his
hand an almost tropical setting, and so picturesque a confusion of
liquid tongues as exists in the old Franco-Spanish-Afro-Italian-Amer-
ican city of New Orleans, there would seem to be nothing left to be
desired as "material. The artist who seized instinctively this oppor-
tunity was born at New Orleans on October 12th, 1844, of colonial
Virginia stock on the one side, and New England on the other. His
early life was full of vicissitudes, and he was over thirty before he
discovered story-telling to be his true vocation. From that time he
has diligently followed it, having published three novels, “The Grand-
issimes,' Dr. Sevier,' Bonaventure,' and John March, Southerner,'
besides another volume of short stories.
## p. 3018 (#592) ###########################################
3018
GEORGE W. CABLE
That having received his impressions in the period of transition
and ferment following the upheaval of 1861–1865, with the resulting
exaggerations and distortions of a normal social condition, he chose
to lay his scenes a half-century earlier, proclaims him still more the
artist; who would thus gain a freer play of fancy and a surer per-
spective, and who, saturated with his subject, is not afraid to trust
his imagination to interpret it.
That he saw with open sympathetic eyes and a loving heart, he
who runs may read in any chance page that a casual opening of his
books will reveal. That the people whom he has so affectionately
depicted have not loved him in return, is perhaps only a corrobora-
tion of his own words when he wrote, in his charming tale (Belles
Demoiselles Plantation, « The Creoles never forgive a public men-
tion. ” That they are tender of heart, sympathetic, and generous in
their own social and domestic relations, Mr. Cable's readers cannot
fail to know. But the caste line has ever been a dangerous boundary
- a live wire charged with a deadly if invisible fluid — and he is a
brave man who dares lay his hand upon it.
More than this, the old-time Creole was an aristocrat who chose
to live behind a battened door, as does his descendant to-day. His
privacy, so long undisturbed, has come to be his prerogative. Wit-
ness this spirit in the protest of the inimitable Jean-ah Poquelin -
the hero giving his name to one of the most dramatic stories ever
penned — when he presents himself before the American governor of
Louisiana to declare that he will not have his privacy invaded by a
proposed street to pass his door:-“I want you tell Monsieur le
President, strit -- can't — pass — at
me — 'ouse. »
The Creoles of Mr.
Cable’s generation are as jealous of their retirement as was the brave
old man Poquelin; and to have it invaded by a young American who
not only threw their pictures upon his canvas, but standing behind
it, reproduced their eccentricities of speech for applauding Northern
audiences, was a crime unforgivable in their moral code.
Added to this, Mr. Cable stands accused of giving the impression
that the Louisiana Creole is a person of African taint; but are there
not many refutations of this charge in the internal evidence of his
work? As for instance where in (The Grandissimes) he writes, “His
whole appearance was a dazzling contradiction of the notion that
a Creole is a person of mixed blood”; and again when he alludes
to the slave dialect,” is the implication not unequivocal that this
differed from the speech of the drawing-room? It is true that he
found many of his studies in the Quadroon population, who spoke a
patois that was partly French; but such was the “slave dialect of
the man of color who came into his English through a French strain,
or perhaps only through a generation of close French environment.
## p. 3019 (#593) ###########################################
GEORGE W. CABLE
3019
A civilization that is as protective in its conservatism as are the
ten-foot walls of brick with which its people surround their luxurious
dwellings may be counted on to resent portrayal at short range,
even though it were unequivocally eulogistic. That Mr. Cable is a
most conscientious artist, and that he has been absolutely true to
the letter as he saw it, there can be no question; but whether his
technical excellences are always broadly representative or not is not
so certain. That the writer who has so amply proven his own joy
in the wealth of his material, should have been beguiled by its pictur-
esqueness into a partisanship for the class making a special appeal,
is not surprising. But truth in art is largely a matter of selection;
and if Mr. Cable has sinned in the gleaning, it was undoubtedly
because of visual limitation, rather than a conscious discrimination.
In 'The Grandissimes,' his most ambitious work, we have an
important contribution to representative literature. In the pleasant
guise of his fascinating fiction he has essayed the history of a civili-
zation, and in many respects the result is a great book. That such
a work should attain its highest merit in impartial truth when taken
as a whole, goes without saying.
The dramatic story of Bras Coupé is true as belonging to the
time and the situation. So is that of Palmyrea the Octoroon, or of
Honoré Grandissime's “f. m. c. ” the half-brother, or of the pitiful
voudou woman Clemence, the wretched old marchande de calas. Had
he produced nothing more than his first small volume of seven tales,
he would have made for himself an honored place in literature.
As a collection, these stories are unrivaled for pictorial power and
dramatic form, and are so nearly of equal merit that any one would
be as representative in the popular mind as the one which is given
here.
« POSSON JONE' »
From (Old Creole Days): copyrighted 1879, 1881, 1883, by Charles Scribner's
Sons
The manhood we remembuat ciet le bheathen behere 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
## p. 3020 (#594) ###########################################
3020
GEORGE W. CABLE
matter with that faithful friend and confidant, Baptiste, his yel-
low 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 fili-
bustering 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 pro-
nounced 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. Up-street, and across the Rue du Canal, one
could get glimpses of the gardens in Faubourg Ste. -Marie stand-
ing 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 café's the masculine
gentility stood leaning on canes, with which now one and now
## p. 3021 (#595) ###########################################
GEORGE W. CABLE
3021
Is
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 cir-
cus, 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 com-
menced 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.
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 at-
tempt to accommodate himself to ordinary doors and ceilings.
His bones were those of an His face was marked more by
OX.
## p. 3022 (#596) ###########################################
3022
GEORGE W. CABLE
(
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 atten-
tion, by both gesture and speech, to a singular object on top of
the still uncovered head, when the nervous motion of the Améri.
cain 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 ddyou know my name was Jones ? ” he asked; but,
without pausing for the Creole's answer, furnished in his reck-
less 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
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-servant of d'Rev'n' Mr. Jones. ”
Both pairs enlivened their walk with conversation. Parson
Jones descanted upon the doctrine he had mentioned, as illus-
on,
## p. 3023 (#597) ###########################################
GEORGE W. CABLE
3023
a
trated 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 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. Parceque, 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
## p. 3024 (#598) ###########################################
3024
GEORGE W. CABLE
(
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 ? ”
"Oh 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 must 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 eddica-
tion 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 bywords, dey is de fo' sins of de
conscience, an' if any man sin de fo' sins of de conscience, de
dcbble done sharp his fork fo' dat man. - Ain't dat 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-
## p. 3025 (#599) ###########################################
GEORGE W. CABLE
3025
«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, Pos-
son 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 'abit; c'est tout. What a man thing is
right, is right; 'tis all 'abit. A man muz nod go again' his con
scien'. 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 ’abit. 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 'abit. Mais, come, Pos-
son 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 shamefaced
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.
V-190
## p. 3026 (#600) ###########################################
3026
GEORGE W. CABLE
man
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
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 ban-
quette, “do you think you have any shore hopes of heaven? ”
“Yass! ” replied St. -Ange; “I am sure-sure.
I thing every.
body 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'nt him, though. ” And they went on.
The street they now entered was a very quiet one.
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, honeycombed 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,
The eye
## p. 3027 (#601) ###########################################
GEORGE W. CABLE
3027
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 offense, 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 opinion; 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. »
(
(C
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3028
GEORGE W. CABLE
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
gayly decked wives and daughters of the Gascons, from the
métairies 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, milk-
men, butchers, bakers, black-bearded fishermen, Sicilian fruit-
erers, swarthy Portuguese sailors in little woolen 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
1
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GEORGE W. CABLE
3029
tinkling spurred heels. Yonder in that quieter section are the
quadroon women in their black lace shawls — and there is Bap-
tiste; 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
quadroons. The marines 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 ter-
rible 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 flatboatmen, ha-ha-ing and cheering,
will not suffer it.
