The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon, and other humorous tales — A Closer Reading

A Steward’s Sacred Ritual

The title story opens with Monsieur Pettipon treating his work as a high art. He “lowered himself to his plump knees” to sweep, humming a song whose chorus is a string of “Oo la las.” Connell’s narrator compares him to a poet, but the humor lies in the gap between Pettipon’s self-image and his actual station. The cabin is described as “perfection,” and his sigh of happiness is “the happy little sigh of work well done.” This meticulous attention to detail—the “almost imperceptible speck of dust,” the “neat, folded triangles” of blankets—establishes a character whose pride is both admirable and absurd. The excerpt does not reveal the “sin” of the title, but the setup suggests it will involve a disruption of this orderly world.

The Geography of Failure

In “Where is the Tropic of Capricorn?” the humor turns on a single piece of knowledge. Peter Mullaney, a small man with “empty hands hung heavily at his sides,” is dismissed from the police force because he cannot answer that question. The Commissioner is “gruffly” final. Peter’s plea to wear the uniform one last time—so that Judy McNulty might see him in it—shifts the tone from farce to pathos. Officer Gaffney’s Irish-accented wisdom (“a man may be able to tell where the—now—Tropic of Unicorn is… but he ain’t a cop at all if he iver runs away”) frames the exam as arbitrary. The recurring phrase “Damn the Tropic of Capricorn” becomes a bitter refrain, linking a trivial fact to a ruined dream.

Voice and Dialect as Comic Tools

Connell uses dialect to distinguish characters and heighten humor. Gaffney’s speech is peppered with “me bye,” “’tis,” and “whin,” giving him a folksy authority. Pettipon’s French-accented song and his formal, almost courtly manner contrast with the mundane setting. The narrator’s own voice is wry and literary, calling Pettipon “a Keats of the sheets.” These vocal layers create a texture that rewards attention: the humor often comes from the clash between how characters speak and what they do. In the Mullaney story, the contrast between Peter’s silent bitterness and Gaffney’s loquacious reassurance deepens the emotional impact.

From Berth to Beat: Structural Variety

The two excerpts represent different story types in the collection. The first is a closed, almost theatrical scene in a single stateroom; the second is a more open, urban narrative with dialogue and movement. Connell moves from the liner’s confined luxury to a “quiet, deserted street” where a frightened woman reports burglars. This shift suggests the collection’s range: some tales may be domestic comedies of manners, others action-driven farces. The excerpts do not reveal how the stories end, but the pattern of a meticulous setup followed by a deflating or surprising turn seems likely. Readers should expect each story to establish a distinct world before undercutting it.

These excerpts suggest that Connell’s humor depends on precise observation of character flaws—Pettipon’s obsessive pride, Mullaney’s crushed hope. The stories reward readers who attend to small details: a handkerchief, a song, a repeated question. The collection’s title promises humor, but the tone can shift from light to somber within a single paragraph. Approach each tale as a self-contained vignette, and watch for the moment when the comic surface cracks.

I’ve always loved how The Sin of Monsieur Pettipon finds comedy in a man’s pride in his berth-making, so precise, so doomed. It reminds me of another old friend, Joe Miller's Jests, with Copious Additions — Reading Notes, where the jokes are worn smooth by centuries, yet still hold a quiet wit about human folly. Both simply wait for a patient reader.