THE GOODNESS OF ST. ROCQUE AND OTHER STORIES(善良的圣·罗克白)

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THE GOODNESS OF ST. ROCQUE AND OTHER STORIES

THE GOODNESS OF ST.

ROCQUE AND OTHER

STORIES

By ALICE DUNBAR

To My best Comrade My Husband

THE GOODNESS OF ST. ROCQUE AND OTHER STORIES

THE GOODNESS OF SAINT

ROCQUE

Manuela was tall and slender and graceful, and once you knew her the

lithe form could never be mistaken. She walked with the easy spring that

comes from a perfectly arched foot. To-day she swept swiftly down

Marais Street, casting a quick glance here and there from under her heavy

veil as if she feared she was being followed. If you had peered under the

veil, you would have seen that Manuela's dark eyes were swollen and

discoloured about the lids, as though they had known a sleepless, tearful

night. There had been a picnic the day before, and as merry a crowd

of giddy, chattering Creole girls and boys as ever you could see boarded

the ramshackle dummy-train that puffed its way wheezily out wide

Elysian Fields Street, around the lily-covered bayous, to Milneburg-on-

the-Lake. Now, a picnic at Milneburg is a thing to be remembered for

ever. One charters a rickety-looking, weather-beaten dancing-pavilion,

built over the water, and after storing the children--for your true Creole

never leaves the small folks at home--and the baskets and mothers

downstairs, the young folks go up-stairs and dance to the tune of the best

band you ever heard. For what can equal the music of a violin, a guitar, a

cornet, and a bass viol to trip the quadrille to at a picnic?

Then one can fish in the lake and go bathing under the prim bath-

houses, so severely separated sexually, and go rowing on the lake in a trim

boat, followed by the shrill warnings of anxious mamans. And in the

evening one comes home, hat crowned with cool gray Spanish moss,

hands burdened with fantastic latanier baskets woven by the brown bayou

boys, hand in hand with your dearest one, tired but happy.

At this particular picnic, however, there had been bitterness of spirit.

Theophile was Manuela's own especial property, and Theophile had

proven false. He had not danced a single waltz or quadrille with

Manuela, but had deserted her for Claralie, blonde and petite. It was

Claralie whom Theophile had rowed out on the lake; it was Claralie whom

Theophile had gallantly led to dinner; it was Claralie's hat that he

THE GOODNESS OF ST. ROCQUE AND OTHER STORIES

wreathed with Spanish moss, and Claralie whom he escorted home after

the jolly singing ride in town on the little dummy-train.

Not that Manuela lacked partners or admirers. Dear no! she was too

graceful and beautiful for that. There had been more than enough for her.

But Manuela loved Theophile, you see, and no one could take his place.

Still, she had tossed her head and let her silvery laughter ring out in the

dance, as though she were the happiest of mortals, and had tripped home

with Henri, leaning on his arm, and looking up into his eyes as though she

adored him.

This morning she showed the traces of a sleepless night and an aching

heart as she walked down Marais Street. Across wide St. Rocque Avenue

she hastened. "Two blocks to the river and one below--" she repeated to

herself breathlessly. Then she stood on the corner gazing about her, until

with a final summoning of a desperate courage she dived through a small

wicket gate into a garden of weed-choked flowers.

There was a hoarse, rusty little bell on the gate that gave querulous

tongue as she pushed it open. The house that sat back in the yard was

little and old and weather-beaten. Its one-story frame had once been

painted, but that was a memory remote and traditional. A straggling

morning-glory strove to conceal its time-ravaged face. The little walk of

broken bits of brick was reddened carefully, and the one little step was

scrupulously yellow-washed, which denoted that the occupants were

cleanly as well as religious.

Manuela's timid knock was answered by a harsh "Entrez."

It was a small sombre room within, with a bare yellow-washed floor

and ragged curtains at the little window. In a corner was a diminutive

altar draped with threadbare lace. The red glow of the taper lighted a

cheap print of St. Joseph and a brazen crucifix. The human element in

the room was furnished by a little, wizened yellow woman, who, black-

robed, turbaned, and stern, sat before an uncertain table whereon were

greasy cards.

Manuela paused, her eyes blinking at the semi-obscurity within. The

Wizened One called in croaking tones:

"An' fo' w'y you come here? Assiez-la, ma'amzelle."

THE GOODNESS OF ST. ROCQUE AND OTHER STORIES

Timidly Manuela sat at the table facing the owner of the voice.

"I want," she began faintly; but the Mistress of the Cards understood:

she had had much experience. The cards were shuffled in her long grimy

talons and stacked before Manuela.

"Now you cut dem in t'ree part, so--un, deux, trois, bien! You mek'

you' weesh wid all you' heart, bien! Yaas, I see, I see!"

Breathlessly did Manuela learn that her lover was true, but "dat light

gal, yaas, she mek' nouvena in St. Rocque fo' hees love."

"I give you one lil' charm, yaas," said the Wizened One when the

seance was over, and Manuela, all white and nervous, leaned back in the

rickety chair. "I give you one lil' charm fo' to ween him back, yaas.

You wear h'it 'roun' you' wais', an' he come back. Den you mek prayer at

St. Rocque an' burn can'le. Den you come back an' tell me, yaas.

Cinquante sous, ma'amzelle. Merci. Good luck go wid you."

Readjusting her veil, Manuela passed out the little wicket gate,

treading on air. Again the sun shone, and the breath of the swamps came

as healthful sea-breeze unto her nostrils. She fairly flew in the direction

of St. Rocque.

There were quite a number of persons entering the white gates of the

cemetery, for this was Friday, when all those who wish good luck pray to

the saint, and wash their steps promptly at twelve o'clock with a wondrous

mixture to guard the house. Manuela bought a candle from the keeper of

the little lodge at the entrance, and pausing one instant by the great sun-

dial to see if the heavens and the hour were propitious, glided into the tiny

chapel, dim and stifling with heavy air from myriad wish-candles blazing

on the wide table before the altar-rail. She said her prayer and lighting

her candle placed it with the others.

Mon Dieu! how brightly the sun seemed to shine now, she thought,

pausing at the door on her way out. Her small finger-tips, still bedewed

with holy water, rested caressingly on a gamin's head. The ivy which

enfolds the quaint chapel never seemed so green; the shrines which serve

as the Way of the Cross never seemed so artistic; the baby graves, even,

seemed cheerful.

Theophile called Sunday. Manuela's heart leaped. He had been

THE GOODNESS OF ST. ROCQUE AND OTHER STORIES

spending his Sundays with Claralie. His stay was short and he was

plainly bored. But Manuela knelt to thank the good St. Rocque that night,

and fondled the charm about her slim waist. There came a box of

bonbons during the week, with a decorative card all roses and fringe, from

Theophile; but being a Creole, and therefore superstitiously careful, and

having been reared by a wise and experienced maman to mistrust the gifts

of a recreant lover, Manuela quietly thrust bonbons, box, and card into the

kitchen fire, and the Friday following placed the second candle of her

nouvena in St. Rocque.

Those of Manuela's friends who had watched with indignation

Theophile gallantly leading Claralie home from High Mass on Sundays,

gasped with astonishment when the next Sunday, with his usual bow, the

young man offered Manuela his arm as the worshippers filed out in step to

the organ's march. Claralie tossed her head as she crossed herself with

holy water, and the pink in her cheeks was brighter than usual.

Manuela smiled a bright good-morning when she met Claralie in St.

Rocque the next Friday. The little blonde blushed furiously, and Manuela

rushed post-haste to the Wizened One to confer upon this new issue.

"H'it ees good," said the dame, shaking her turbaned head. "She ees

'fraid, she will work, mais you' charm, h'it weel beat her."

And Manuela departed with radiant eyes.

Theophile was not at Mass Sunday morning, and murderous glances

flashed from Claralie to Manuela before the tinkling of the Host-Bell.

Nor did Theophile call at either house. Two hearts beat furiously at the

sound of every passing footstep, and two minds wondered if the other

were enjoying the beloved one's smiles. Two pair of eyes, however, blue

and black, smiled on others, and their owners laughed and seemed none

the less happy. For your Creole girls are proud, and would die rather

than let the world see their sorrows.

Monday evening Theophile, the missing, showed his rather sheepish

countenance in Manuela's parlour, and explained that he, with some

chosen spirits, had gone for a trip--"over the Lake."

"I did not ask you where you were yesterday," replied the girl, saucily.

Theophile shrugged his shoulders and changed the conversation.

THE GOODNESS OF ST. ROCQUE AND OTHER STORIES

The next week there was a birthday fete in honour of Louise,

Theophile's young sister. Everyone was bidden, and no one thought of

refusing, for Louise was young, and this would be her first party. So,

though the night was hot, the dancing went on as merrily as light young

feet could make it go. Claralie fluffed her dainty white skirts, and cast

mischievous sparkles in the direction of Theophile, who with the maman

and Louise was bravely trying not to look self-conscious. Manuela, tall

and calm and proud-looking, in a cool, pale yellow gown was apparently

enjoying herself without paying the slightest attention to her young host.

"Have I the pleasure of this dance?" he asked her finally, in a lull of

the music.

She bowed assent, and as if moved by a common impulse they strolled

out of the dancing-room into the cool, quaint garden, where jessamines

gave out an overpowering perfume, and a caged mocking-bird complained

melodiously to the full moon in the sky.

It must have been an engrossing tete-a-tete, for the call to supper had

sounded twice before they heard and hurried into the house. The march

had formed with Louise radiantly leading on the arm of papa. Claralie

tripped by with Leon. Of course, nothing remained for Theophile and

Manuela to do but to bring up the rear, for which they received much

good-natured chaffing.

But when the party reached the dining-room, Theophile proudly led

his partner to the head of the table, at the right hand of maman, and smiled

benignly about at the delighted assemblage. Now you know, when a

Creole young man places a girl at his mother's right hand at his own table,

there is but one conclusion to be deduced therefrom.

If you had asked Manuela, after the wedding was over, how it

happened, she would have said nothing, but looked wise.

If you had asked Claralie, she would have laughed and said she always

preferred Leon.

If you had asked Theophile, he would have wondered that you thought

he had ever meant more than to tease Manuela.

If you had asked the Wizened One, she would have offered you a

charm.

THE GOODNESS OF ST. ROCQUE AND OTHER STORIES

But St. Rocque knows, for he is a good saint, and if you believe in him

and are true and good, and make your nouvenas with a clean heart, he will

grant your wish.

THE GOODNESS OF ST. ROCQUE AND OTHER STORIES

TONY'S WIFE

"Gimme fi' cents worth o' candy, please." It was the little Jew girl

who spoke, and Tony's wife roused herself from her knitting to rise and

count out the multi-hued candy which should go in exchange for the dingy

nickel grasped in warm, damp fingers. Three long sticks, carefully

wrapped in crispest brown paper, and a half dozen or more of pink candy

fish for lagniappe, and the little Jew girl sped away in blissful contentment.

Tony's wife resumed her knitting with a stifled sigh until the next customer

should come.

A low growl caused her to look up apprehensively. Tony himself

stood beetle-browed and huge in the small doorway.

"Get up from there," he muttered, "and open two dozen oysters right

away; the Eliots want 'em." His English was unaccented. It was long

since he had seen Italy.

She moved meekly behind the counter, and began work on the thick

shells. Tony stretched his long neck up the street.

"Mr. Tony, mama wants some charcoal." The very small voice at his

feet must have pleased him, for his black brows relaxed into a smile, and

he poked the little one's chin with a hard, dirty finger, as he emptied the

ridiculously small bucket of charcoal into the child's bucket, and gave a

banana for lagniappe.

The crackling of shells went on behind, and a stifled sob arose as a bit

of sharp edge cut into the thin, worn fingers that clasped the knife.

"Hurry up there, will you?" growled the black brows; "the Eliots are

sending for the oysters."

She deftly strained and counted them, and, after wiping her fingers,

resumed her seat, and took up the endless crochet work, with her usual

stifled sigh.

Tony and his wife had always been in this same little queer old shop

on Prytania Street, at least to the memory of the oldest inhabitant in the

neighbourhood. When or how they came, or how they stayed, no one

knew; it was enough that they were there, like a sort of ancestral fixture to

the street. The neighbourhood was fine enough to look down upon these

THE GOODNESS OF ST. ROCQUE AND OTHER STORIES

two tumble-down shops at the corner, kept by Tony and Mrs. Murphy, the

grocer. It was a semi-fashionable locality, far up-town, away from the

old-time French quarter. It was the sort of neighbourhood where

millionaires live before their fortunes are made and fashionable, high-

priced private schools flourish, where the small cottages are occupied by

aspiring school-teachers and choir-singers. Such was this locality, and

you must admit that it was indeed a condescension to tolerate Tony and

Mrs. Murphy.

He was a great, black-bearded, hoarse-voiced, six-foot specimen of

Italian humanity, who looked in his little shop and on the prosaic

pavement of Prytania Street somewhat as Hercules might seem in a

modern drawing-room. You instinctively thought of wild mountain-

passes, and the gleaming dirks of bandit contadini in looking at him.

What his last name was, no one knew. Someone had maintained once

that he had been christened Antonio Malatesta, but that was unauthentic,

and as little to be believed as that other wild theory that her name was

Mary.

She was meek, pale, little, ugly, and German. Altogether part of his

arms and legs would have very decently made another larger than she.

Her hair was pale and drawn in sleek, thin tightness away from a pinched,

pitiful face, whose dull cold eyes hurt you, because you knew they were

trying to mirror sorrow, and could not because of their expressionless

quality. No matter what the weather or what her other toilet, she always

wore a thin little shawl of dingy brick-dust hue about her shoulders. No

matter what the occasion or what the day, she always carried her knitting

with her, and seldom ceased the incessant twist, twist of the shining steel

among the white cotton meshes. She might put down the needles and

lace into the spool-box long enough to open oysters, or wrap up fruit and

candy, or count out wood and coal into infinitesimal portions, or do her

housework; but the knitting was snatched with avidity at the first spare

moment, and the worn, white, blue-marked fingers, half enclosed in kid-

glove stalls for protection, would writhe and twist in and out again.

Little girls just learning to crochet borrowed their patterns from Tony's

wife, and it was considered quite a mark of advancement to have her

THE GOODNESS OF ST. ROCQUE AND OTHER STORIES

inspect a bit of lace done by eager, chubby fingers. The ladies in larger

houses, whose husbands would be millionaires some day, bought her lace,

and gave it to their servants for Christmas presents.

As for Tony, when she was slow in opening his oysters or in cooking

his red beans and spaghetti, he roared at her, and prefixed picturesque

adjectives to her lace, which made her hide it under her apron with a

fearsome look in her dull eyes.

He hated her in a lusty, roaring fashion, as a healthy beefy boy hates a

sick cat and torments it to madness. When she displeased him, he beat

her, and knocked her frail form on the floor. The children could tell

when this had happened. Her eyes would be red, and there would be blue

marks on her face and neck. "Poor Mrs. Tony," they would say, and

nestle close to her. Tony did not roar at her for petting them, perhaps,

because they spent money on the multi-hued candy in glass jars on the

shelves.

Her mother appeared upon the scene once, and stayed a short time; but

Tony got drunk one day and beat her because she ate too much, and she

disappeared soon after. Whence she came and where she departed, no

one could tell, not even Mrs. Murphy, the Pauline Pry and Gazette of the

block.

Tony had gout, and suffered for many days in roaring helplessness, the

while his foot, bound and swathed in many folds of red flannel, lay on the

chair before him. In proportion as his gout increased and he bawled from

pure physical discomfort, she became light-hearted, and moved about the

shop with real, brisk cheeriness. He could not hit her then without such

pain that after one or two trials he gave up in disgust.

So the dull years had passed, and life had gone on pretty much the

same for Tony and the German wife and the shop. The children came on

Sunday evenings to buy the stick candy, and on week-days for coal and

wood. The servants came to buy oysters for the larger houses, and to

gossip over the counter about their employers. The little dry woman

knitted, and the big man moved lazily in and out in his red flannel shirt,

exchanged politics with the tailor next door through the window, or

lounged into Mrs. Murphy's bar and drank fiercely. Some of the children

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