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If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Cane - -Author: Jean Toomer - -Contributor: Waldo Frank - -Release Date: August 12, 2019 [eBook #60093] -[Most recently updated: March 19, 2021] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Tim Lindell, Robert Tonsing, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CANE *** - - - - - CANE - - - Jean Toomer - - _With a Foreword - by_ - Waldo Frank - - _Oracular. - Redolent of fermenting syrup, - Purple of the dusk, - Deep-rooted cane._ - - [Illustration] LIVERIGHT - NEW YORK - - COPYRIGHT © 1923 BY BONI & LIVERIGHT - ® 1951 BY JEAN TOOMER - - 1.987654 - - STANDARD BOOK NUMBER: 87140-535-0 - LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER: 23-12749 - - MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - - To my grandmother... - - - - - FOREWORD - - -Reading this book, I had the vision of a land, heretofore sunk in -the mists of muteness, suddenly rising up into the eminence of song. -Innumerable books have been written about the South; some good books -have been written in the South. This book _is_ the South. I do not -mean that _Cane_ covers the South or is the South’s full voice. Merely -this: a poet has arisen among our American youth who has known how to -turn the essences and materials of his Southland into the essences and -materials of literature. A poet has arisen in that land who writes, not -as a Southerner, not as a rebel against Southerners, not as a Negro, -not as apologist or priest or critic: who writes as a _poet_. The -fashioning of beauty is ever foremost in his inspiration: not forcedly -but simply, and because these ultimate aspects of his world are to him -more real than all its specific problems. He has made songs and lovely -stories of his land ... not of its yesterday, but of its immediate -life. And that has been enough. - -How rare this is will be clear to those who have followed with -concern the struggle of the South toward literary expression, and the -particular trial of that portion of its folk whose skin is dark. The -gifted Negro has been too often thwarted from becoming a poet because -his world was forever forcing him to recollect that he was a Negro. -The artist must lose such lesser identities in the great well of life. -The English poet is not forever protesting and recalling that he is -English. It is so natural and easy for him to be English that he can -sing as a man. The French novelist is not forever noting: “This is -French.” It is so atmospheric for him to be French, that he can devote -himself to saying: “This is human.” This is an imperative condition for -the creating of deep art. The whole will and mind of the creator must -go below the surfaces of race. And this has been an almost impossible -condition for the American Negro to achieve, forced every moment of his -life into a specific and superficial plane of consciousness. - -The first negative significance of _Cane_ is that this so natural -and restrictive state of mind is completely lacking. For Toomer, -the Southland is not a problem to be solved; it is a field of -loveliness to be sung: the Georgia Negro is not a downtrodden soul -to be uplifted; he is material for gorgeous painting: the segregated -self-conscious brown belt of Washington is not a topic to be discussed -and exposed; it is a subject of beauty and of drama, worthy of creation -in literary form. - -It seems to me, therefore, that this is a first book in more ways -than one. It is a harbinger of the South’s literary maturity: of its -emergence from the obsession put upon its minds by the unending racial -crisis—an obsession from which writers have made their indirect escape -through sentimentalism, exoticism, polemic, “problem” fiction, and -moral melodrama. It marks the dawn of direct and unafraid creation. -And, as the initial work of a man of twenty-seven, it is the harbinger -of a literary force of whose incalculable future I believe no reader of -this book will be in doubt. - -How typical is _Cane_ of the South’s still virgin soil and of its -pressing seeds! and the book’s chaos of verse, tale, drama, its -rhythmic rolling shift from lyrism to narrative, from mystery to -intimate pathos! But read the book through and you will see a -complex and significant form take substance from its chaos. Part One -is the primitive and evanescent black world of Georgia. Part Two is -the threshing and suffering brown world of Washington, lifted by -opportunity and contact into the anguish of self-conscious struggle. -Part Three is Georgia again ... the invasion into this black womb of -the ferment seed: the neurotic, educated, spiritually stirring Negro. -As a broad form this is superb, and the very looseness and unexpected -waves of the book’s parts make _Cane_ still more _South_, still more of -an æsthetic equivalent of the land. - -What a land it is! What an Æschylean beauty to its fateful problem! -Those of you who love our South will find here some of your love. Those -of you who know it not will perhaps begin to understand what a warm -splendor is at last at dawn. - - A feast of moon and men and barking hounds, - An orgy for some genius of the South - With bloodshot eyes and cane-lipped scented mouth - Surprised in making folk-songs.... - -So, in his still sometimes clumsy stride (for Toomer is finally a -poet in prose) the author gives you an inkling of his revelation. An -individual force, wise enough to drink humbly at this great spring of -his land ... such is the first impression of Jean Toomer. But beyond -this wisdom and this power (which shows itself perhaps most splendidly -in his complete freedom from the sense of persecution), there rises -a figure more significant: the artist, hard, self-immolating, the -artist who is not interested in races, whose domain is Life. The book’s -final Part is no longer “promise”; it is achievement. It is no mere -dawn: it is a bit of the full morning. These materials ... the ancient -black man, mute, inaccessible, and yet so mystically close to the new -tumultuous members of his race, the simple slave Past, the shredding -Negro Present, the iridescent passionate dream of the To-morrow ... -are made and measured by a craftsman into an unforgettable music. The -notes of his counterpoint are particular, the themes are of intimate -connection with us Americans. But the result is that abstract and -absolute thing called Art. - - WALDO FRANK. - - - Certain of these pieces have appeared in _Broom_, _Crisis_, - _Double Dealer_, _Liberator_, _Little Review_, _Modern Review_, - _Nomad_, _Prairie_, and _S 4 N_. - - To these magazines: thanks. - - - - - CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - FOREWORD, by _Waldo Frank_ vii - - - KARINTHA 1 - - REAPERS 6 - - NOVEMBER COTTON FLOWER 7 - - BECKY 8 - - FACE 14 - - COTTON SONG 15 - - CARMA 16 - - SONG OF THE SON 21 - - GEORGIA DUSK 22 - - FERN 24 - - NULLO 34 - - EVENING SONG 35 - - ESTHER 36 - - CONVERSION 49 - - PORTRAIT IN GEORGIA 50 - - BLOOD-BURNING MOON 51 - - - SEVENTH STREET 71 - - RHOBERT 73 - - AVEY 76 - - BEEHIVE 89 - - STORM ENDING 90 - - THEATER 91 - - HER LIPS ARE COPPER WIRE 101 - - CALLING JESUS 102 - - BOX SEAT 104 - - PRAYER 131 - - HARVEST SONG 132 - - BONA AND PAUL 134 - - - KABNIS 157 - - - - - KARINTHA - - Her skin is like dusk on the eastern horizon, - O cant you see it, O cant you see it, - Her skin is like dusk on the eastern horizon - ... When the sun goes down. - - -Men had always wanted her, this Karintha, even as a child, Karintha -carrying beauty, perfect as dusk when the sun goes down. Old men rode -her hobby-horse upon their knees. Young men danced with her at frolics -when they should have been dancing with their grown-up girls. God grant -us youth, secretly prayed the old men. The young fellows counted the -time to pass before she would be old enough to mate with them. This -interest of the male, who wishes to ripen a growing thing too soon, -could mean no good to her. - -Karintha, at twelve, was a wild flash that told the other folks just -what it was to live. At sunset, when there was no wind, and the -pine-smoke from over by the sawmill hugged the earth, and you couldnt -see more than a few feet in front, her sudden darting past you was a -bit of vivid color, like a black bird that flashes in light. With the -other children one could hear, some distance off, their feet flopping -in the two-inch dust. Karintha’s running was a whir. It had the sound -of the red dust that sometimes makes a spiral in the road. At dusk, -during the hush just after the sawmill had closed down, and before -any of the women had started their supper-getting-ready songs, her -voice, high-pitched, shrill, would put one’s ears to itching. But no -one ever thought to make her stop because of it. She stoned the cows, -and beat her dog, and fought the other children... Even the preacher, -who caught her at mischief, told himself that she was as innocently -lovely as a November cotton flower. Already, rumors were out about -her. Homes in Georgia are most often built on the two-room plan. In -one, you cook and eat, in the other you sleep, and there love goes on. -Karintha had seen or heard, perhaps she had felt her parents loving. -One could but imitate one’s parents, for to follow them was the way of -God. She played “home” with a small boy who was not afraid to do her -bidding. That started the whole thing. Old men could no longer ride her -hobby-horse upon their knees. But young men counted faster. - - Her skin is like dusk, - O cant you see it, - Her skin is like dusk, - When the sun goes down. - -Karintha is a woman. She who carries beauty, perfect as dusk when the -sun goes down. She has been married many times. Old men remind her that -a few years back they rode her hobby-horse upon their knees. Karintha -smiles, and indulges them when she is in the mood for it. She has -contempt for them. Karintha is a woman. Young men run stills to make -her money. Young men go to the big cities and run on the road. Young -men go away to college. They all want to bring her money. These are -the young men who thought that all they had to do was to count time. -But Karintha is a woman, and she has had a child. A child fell out of -her womb onto a bed of pine-needles in the forest. Pine-needles are -smooth and sweet. They are elastic to the feet of rabbits... A sawmill -was nearby. Its pyramidal sawdust pile smouldered. It is a year before -one completely burns. Meanwhile, the smoke curls up and hangs in odd -wraiths about the trees, curls up, and spreads itself out over the -valley... Weeks after Karintha returned home the smoke was so heavy -you tasted it in water. Some one made a song: - - Smoke is on the hills. Rise up. - Smoke is on the hills, O rise - And take my soul to Jesus. - -Karintha is a woman. Men do not know that the soul of her was a growing -thing ripened too soon. They will bring their money; they will die not -having found it out... Karintha at twenty, carrying beauty, perfect -as dusk when the sun goes down. Karintha... - - Her skin is like dusk on the eastern horizon, - O cant you see it, O cant you see it, - Her skin is like dusk on the eastern horizon - ... When the sun goes down. - - Goes down... - - - - - REAPERS - - - Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones - Are sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones - In their hip-pockets as a thing that’s done, - And start their silent swinging, one by one. - Black horses drive a mower through the weeds, - And there, a field rat, startled, squealing bleeds, - His belly close to ground. I see the blade, - Blood-stained, continue cutting weeds and shade. - - - - - NOVEMBER COTTON FLOWER - - - Boll-weevil’s coming, and the winter’s cold, - Made cotton-stalks look rusty, seasons old, - And cotton, scarce as any southern snow, - Was vanishing; the branch, so pinched and slow, - Failed in its function as the autumn rake; - Drouth fighting soil had caused the soil to take - All water from the streams; dead birds were found - In wells a hundred feet below the ground— - Such was the season when the flower bloomed. - Old folks were startled, and it soon assumed - Significance. Superstition saw - Something it had never seen before: - Brown eyes that loved without a trace of fear, - Beauty so sudden for that time of year. - - - - - BECKY - - Becky was the white woman who had two Negro sons. She’s dead; - they’ve gone away. The pines whisper to Jesus. The Bible flaps - its leaves with an aimless rustle on her mound. - - -Becky had one Negro son. Who gave it to her? Damn buck nigger, said the -white folks’ mouths. She wouldnt tell. Common, God-forsaken, insane -white shameless wench, said the white folks’ mouths. Her eyes were -sunken, her neck stringy, her breasts fallen, till then. Taking their -words, they filled her, like a bubble rising—then she broke. Mouth -setting in a twist that held her eyes, harsh, vacant, staring... Who -gave it to her? Low-down nigger with no self-respect, said the black -folks’ mouths. She wouldnt tell. Poor Catholic poor-white crazy woman, -said the black folks’ mouths. White folks and black folks built her -cabin, fed her and her growing baby, prayed secretly to God who’d put -His cross upon her and cast her out. - -When the first was born, the white folks said they’d have no more to do -with her. And black folks, they too joined hands to cast her out... -The pines whispered to Jesus.. The railroad boss said not to say he -said it, but she could live, if she wanted to, on the narrow strip -of land between the railroad and the road. John Stone, who owned the -lumber and the bricks, would have shot the man who told he gave the -stuff to Lonnie Deacon, who stole out there at night and built the -cabin. A single room held down to earth... O fly away to Jesus ... by -a leaning chimney... - -Six trains each day rumbled past and shook the ground under her cabin. -Fords, and horse- and mule-drawn buggies went back and forth along the -road. No one ever saw her. Trainmen, and passengers who’d heard about -her, threw out papers and food. Threw out little crumpled slips of -paper scribbled with prayers, as they passed her eye-shaped piece of -sandy ground. Ground islandized between the road and railroad track. -Pushed up where a blue-sheen God with listless eyes could look at it. -Folks from the town took turns, unknown, of course, to each other, in -bringing corn and meat and sweet potatoes. Even sometimes snuff... O -thank y Jesus... Old David Georgia, grinding cane and boiling syrup, -never went her way without some sugar sap. No one ever saw her. The boy -grew up and ran around. When he was five years old as folks reckoned -it, Hugh Jourdon saw him carrying a baby. “Becky has another son,” was -what the whole town knew. But nothing was said, for the part of man -that says things to the likes of that had told itself that if there was -a Becky, that Becky now was dead. - -The two boys grew. Sullen and cunning... O pines, whisper to Jesus; -tell Him to come and press sweet Jesus-lips against their lips and -eyes... It seemed as though with those two big fellows there, there -could be no room for Becky. The part that prayed wondered if perhaps -she’d really died, and they had buried her. No one dared ask. They’d -beat and cut a man who meant nothing at all in mentioning that they -lived along the road. White or colored? No one knew, and least of all -themselves. They drifted around from job to job. We, who had cast out -their mother because of them, could we take them in? They answered -black and white folks by shooting up two men and leaving town. “Godam -the white folks; godam the niggers,” they shouted as they left town. -Becky? Smoke curled up from her chimney; she must be there. Trains -passing shook the ground. The ground shook the leaning chimney. Nobody -noticed it. A creepy feeling came over all who saw that thin wraith -of smoke and felt the trembling of the ground. Folks began to take -her food again. They quit it soon because they had a fear. Becky if -dead might be a hant, and if alive—it took some nerve even to mention -it... O pines, whisper to Jesus... - -It was Sunday. Our congregation had been visiting at Pulverton, and -were coming home. There was no wind. The autumn sun, the bell from -Ebenezer Church, listless and heavy. Even the pines were stale, sticky, -like the smell of food that makes you sick. Before we turned the bend -of the road that would show us the Becky cabin, the horses stopped -stock-still, pushed back their ears, and nervously whinnied. We urged, -then whipped them on. Quarter of a mile away thin smoke curled up from -the leaning chimney... O pines, whisper to Jesus... Goose-flesh came -on my skin though there still was neither chill nor wind. Eyes left -their sockets for the cabin. Ears burned and throbbed. Uncanny eclipse! -fear closed my mind. We were just about to pass... Pines shout to -Jesus!.. the ground trembled as a ghost train rumbled by. The chimney -fell into the cabin. Its thud was like a hollow report, ages having -passed since it went off. Barlo and I were pulled out of our seats. -Dragged to the door that had swung open. Through the dust we saw the -bricks in a mound upon the floor. Becky, if she was there, lay under -them. I thought I heard a groan. Barlo, mumbling something, threw his -Bible on the pile. (No one has ever touched it.) Somehow we got away. -My buggy was still on the road. The last thing that I remember was -whipping old Dan like fury; I remember nothing after that—that is, -until I reached town and folks crowded round to get the true word of -it. - - Becky was the white woman who had two Negro sons. She’s dead; - they’ve gone away. The pines whisper to Jesus. The Bible flaps - its leaves with an aimless rustle on her mound. - - - - - FACE - - - Hair— - silver-gray, - like streams of stars, - Brows— - recurved canoes - quivered by the ripples blown by pain, - Her eyes— - mist of tears - condensing on the flesh below - And her channeled muscles - are cluster grapes of sorrow - purple in the evening sun - nearly ripe for worms. - - - - - COTTON SONG - - - Come, brother, come. Lets lift it; - Come now, hewit! roll away! - Shackles fall upon the Judgment Day - But lets not wait for it. - - God’s body’s got a soul, - Bodies like to roll the soul, - Cant blame God if we dont roll, - Come, brother, roll, roll! - - Cotton bales are the fleecy way - Weary sinner’s bare feet trod, - Softly, softly to the throne of God, - “We aint agwine t wait until th Judgment Day! - - Nassur; nassur, - Hump. - Eoho, eoho, roll away! - We aint agwine t wait until th Judgment Day!” - - God’s body’s got a soul, - Bodies like to roll the soul, - Cant blame God if we dont roll, - Come, brother, roll, roll! - - - - - CARMA - - Wind is in the cane. Come along. - Cane leaves swaying, rusty with talk, - Scratching choruses above the guinea’s squawk, - Wind is in the cane. Come along. - - -Carma, in overalls, and strong as any man, stands behind the old brown -mule, driving the wagon home. It bumps, and groans, and shakes as it -crosses the railroad track. She, riding it easy. I leave the men around -the stove to follow her with my eyes down the red dust road. Nigger -woman driving a Georgia chariot down an old dust road. Dixie Pike is -what they call it. Maybe she feels my gaze, perhaps she expects it. -Anyway, she turns. The sun, which has been slanting over her shoulder, -shoots primitive rockets into her mangrove-gloomed, yellow flower face. -Hi! Yip! God has left the Moses-people for the nigger. “Gedap.” Using -reins to slap the mule, she disappears in a cloudy rumble at some -indefinite point along the road. - -(The sun is hammered to a band of gold. Pine-needles, like mazda, are -brilliantly aglow. No rain has come to take the rustle from the falling -sweet-gum leaves. Over in the forest, across the swamp, a sawmill -blows its closing whistle. Smoke curls up. Marvelous web spun by the -spider sawdust pile. Curls up and spreads itself pine-high above the -branch, a single silver band along the eastern valley. A black boy -... you are the most sleepiest man I ever seed, Sleeping Beauty ... -cradled on a gray mule, guided by the hollow sound of cow-bells, heads -for them through a rusty cotton field. From down the railroad track, -the chug-chug of a gas engine announces that the repair gang is coming -home. A girl in the yard of a whitewashed shack not much larger than -the stack of worn ties piled before it, sings. Her voice is loud. -Echoes, like rain, sweep the valley. Dusk takes the polish from the -rails. Lights twinkle in scattered houses. From far away, a sad strong -song. Pungent and composite, the smell of farmyards is the fragrance of -the woman. She does not sing; her body is a song. She is in the forest, -dancing. Torches flare .. juju men, greegree, witch-doctors .. -torches go out... The Dixie Pike has grown from a goat path in Africa. - - _Night._ - -Foxie, the bitch, slicks back her ears and barks at the rising moon.) - - Wind is in the corn. Come along. - Corn leaves swaying, rusty with talk, - Scratching choruses above the guinea’s squawk, - Wind is in the corn. Come along. - -Carma’s tale is the crudest melodrama. Her husband’s in the gang. And -its her fault he got there. Working with a contractor, he was away most -of the time. She had others. No one blames her for that. He returned -one day and hung around the town where he picked up week-old boasts and -rumors... Bane accused her. She denied. He couldnt see that she was -becoming hysterical. He would have liked to take his fists and beat -her. Who was strong as a man. Stronger. Words, like corkscrews, wormed -to her strength. It fizzled out. Grabbing a gun, she rushed from the -house and plunged across the road into a cane-brake.. There, in -quarter heaven shone the crescent moon... Bane was afraid to follow -till he heard the gun go off. Then he wasted half an hour gathering -the neighbor men. They met in the road where lamp-light showed tracks -dissolving in the loose earth about the cane. The search began. Moths -flickered the lamps. They put them out. Really, because she still -might be live enough to shoot. Time and space have no meaning in a -canefield. No more than the interminable stalks... Some one stumbled -over her. A cry went up. From the road, one would have thought that -they were cornering a rabbit or a skunk... It is difficult carrying -dead weight through cane. They placed her on the sofa. A curious, nosey -somebody looked for the wound. This fussing with her clothes aroused -her. Her eyes were weak and pitiable for so strong a woman. Slowly, -then like a flash, Bane came to know that the shot she fired, with -averted head, was aimed to whistle like a dying hornet through the -cane. Twice deceived, and one deception proved the other. His head went -off. Slashed one of the men who’d helped, the man who’d stumbled over -her. Now he’s in the gang. Who was her husband. Should she not take -others, this Carma, strong as a man, whose tale as I have told it is -the crudest melodrama? - - Wind is in the cane. Come along. - Cane leaves swaying, rusty with talk, - Scratching choruses above the guinea’s squawk, - Wind is in the cane. Come along. - - - - - SONG OF THE SON - - - Pour O pour that parting soul in song, - O pour it in the sawdust glow of night, - Into the velvet pine-smoke air to-night, - And let the valley carry it along. - And let the valley carry it along. - - O land and soil, red soil and sweet-gum tree, - So scant of grass, so profligate of pines, - Now just before an epoch’s sun declines - Thy son, in time, I have returned to thee, - Thy son, I have in time returned to thee. - - In time, for though the sun is setting on - A song-lit race of slaves, it has not set; - Though late, O soil, it is not too late yet - To catch thy plaintive soul, leaving, soon gone, - Leaving, to catch thy plaintive soul soon gone. - - O Negro slaves, dark purple ripened plums, - Squeezed, and bursting in the pine-wood air, - Passing, before they stripped the old tree bare - One plum was saved for me, one seed becomes - - An everlasting song, a singing tree, - Caroling softly souls of slavery, - What they were, and what they are to me, - Caroling softly souls of slavery. - - - - - GEORGIA DUSK - - - The sky, lazily disdaining to pursue - The setting sun, too indolent to hold - A lengthened tournament for flashing gold, - Passively darkens for night’s barbecue, - - A feast of moon and men and barking hounds, - An orgy for some genius of the South - With blood-hot eyes and cane-lipped scented mouth, - Surprised in making folk-songs from soul sounds. - - The sawmill blows its whistle, buzz-saws stop, - And silence breaks the bud of knoll and hill, - Soft settling pollen where plowed lands fulfill - Their early promise of a bumper crop. - - Smoke from the pyramidal sawdust pile - Curls up, blue ghosts of trees, tarrying low - Where only chips and stumps are left to show - The solid proof of former domicile. - - Meanwhile, the men, with vestiges of pomp, - Race memories of king and caravan, - High-priests, an ostrich, and a juju-man, - Go singing through the footpaths of the swamp. - - Their voices rise .. the pine trees are guitars, - Strumming, pine-needles fall like sheets of rain .. - Their voices rise .. the chorus of the cane - Is caroling a vesper to the stars.. - - O singers, resinous and soft your songs - Above the sacred whisper of the pines, - Give virgin lips to cornfield concubines, - Bring dreams of Christ to dusky cane-lipped throngs. - - - - - FERN - - -Face flowed into her eyes. Flowed in soft cream foam and plaintive -ripples, in such a way that wherever your glance may momentarily have -rested, it immediately thereafter wavered in the direction of her -eyes. The soft suggestion of down slightly darkened, like the shadow -of a bird’s wing might, the creamy brown color of her upper lip. Why, -after noticing it, you sought her eyes, I cannot tell you. Her nose was -aquiline, Semitic. If you have heard a Jewish cantor sing, if he has -touched you and made your own sorrow seem trivial when compared with -his, you will know my feeling when I follow the curves of her profile, -like mobile rivers, to their common delta. They were strange eyes. In -this, that they sought nothing—that is, nothing that was obvious and -tangible and that one could see, and they gave the impression that -nothing was to be denied. When a woman seeks, you will have observed, -her eyes deny. Fern’s eyes desired nothing that you could give her; -there was no reason why they should withhold. Men saw her eyes and -fooled themselves. Fern’s eyes said to them that she was easy. When -she was young, a few men took her, but got no joy from it. And then, -once done, they felt bound to her (quite unlike their hit and run with -other girls), felt as though it would take them a lifetime to fulfill -an obligation which they could find no name for. They became attached -to her, and hungered after finding the barest trace of what she might -desire. As she grew up, new men who came to town felt as almost -everyone did who ever saw her: that they would not be denied. Men were -everlastingly bringing her their bodies. Something inside of her got -tired of them, I guess, for I am certain that for the life of her she -could not tell why or how she began to turn them off. A man in fever -is no trifling thing to send away. They began to leave her, baffled -and ashamed, yet vowing to themselves that some day they would do some -fine thing for her: send her candy every week and not let her know whom -it came from, watch out for her wedding-day and give her a magnificent -something with no name on it, buy a house and deed it to her, rescue -her from some unworthy fellow who had tricked her into marrying him. -As you know, men are apt to idolize or fear that which they cannot -understand, especially if it be a woman. She did not deny them, yet the -fact was that they were denied. A sort of superstition crept into their -consciousness of her being somehow above them. Being above them meant -that she was not to be approached by anyone. She became a virgin. Now a -virgin in a small southern town is by no means the usual thing, if you -will believe me. That the sexes were made to mate is the practice of -the South. Particularly, black folks were made to mate. And it is black -folks whom I have been talking about thus far. What white men thought -of Fern I can arrive at only by analogy. They let her alone. - - • • • • • - -Anyone, of course, could see her, could see her eyes. If you walked -up the Dixie Pike most any time of day, you’d be most like to see her -resting listless-like on the railing of her porch, back propped against -a post, head tilted a little forward because there was a nail in the -porch post just where her head came which for some reason or other she -never took the trouble to pull out. Her eyes, if it were sunset, rested -idly where the sun, molten and glorious, was pouring down between the -fringe of pines. Or maybe they gazed at the gray cabin on the knoll -from which an evening folk-song was coming. Perhaps they followed a -cow that had been turned loose to roam and feed on cotton-stalks and -corn leaves. Like as not they’d settle on some vague spot above the -horizon, though hardly a trace of wistfulness would come to them. If it -were dusk, then they’d wait for the search-light of the evening train -which you could see miles up the track before it flared across the -Dixie Pike, close to her home. Wherever they looked, you’d follow them -and then waver back. Like her face, the whole countryside seemed to -flow into her eyes. Flowed into them with the soft listless cadence of -Georgia’s South. A young Negro, once, was looking at her, spellbound, -from the road. A white man passing in a buggy had to flick him with -his whip if he was to get by without running him over. I first saw her -on her porch. I was passing with a fellow whose crusty numbness (I -was from the North and suspected of being prejudiced and stuck-up) was -melting as he found me warm. I asked him who she was. “That’s Fern,” -was all that I could get from him. Some folks already thought that I -was given to nosing around; I let it go at that, so far as questions -were concerned. But at first sight of her I felt as if I heard a Jewish -cantor sing. As if his singing rose above the unheard chorus of a -folk-song. And I felt bound to her. I too had my dreams: something I -would do for her. I have knocked about from town to town too much not -to know the futility of mere change of place. Besides, picture if you -can, this cream-colored solitary girl sitting at a tenement window -looking down on the indifferent throngs of Harlem. Better that she -listen to folk-songs at dusk in Georgia, you would say, and so would I. -Or, suppose she came up North and married. Even a doctor or a lawyer, -say, one who would be sure to get along—that is, make money. You and -I know, who have had experience in such things, that love is not a -thing like prejudice which can be bettered by changes of town. Could -men in Washington, Chicago, or New York, more than the men of Georgia, -bring her something left vacant by the bestowal of their bodies? You -and I who know men in these cities will have to say, they could not. -See her out and out a prostitute along State Street in Chicago. See -her move into a southern town where white men are more aggressive. See -her become a white man’s concubine... Something I must do for her. -There was myself. What could I do for her? Talk, of course. Push back -the fringe of pines upon new horizons. To what purpose? and what for? -Her? Myself? Men in her case seem to lose their selfishness. I lost -mine before I touched her. I ask you, friend (it makes no difference -if you sit in the Pullman or the Jim Crow as the train crosses her -road), what thoughts would come to you—that is, after you’d finished -with the thoughts that leap into men’s minds at the sight of a pretty -woman who will not deny them; what thoughts would come to you, had -you seen her in a quick flash, keen and intuitively, as she sat there -on her porch when your train thundered by? Would you have got off at -the next station and come back for her to take her where? Would you -have completely forgotten her as soon as you reached Macon, Atlanta, -Augusta, Pasadena, Madison, Chicago, Boston, or New Orleans? Would you -tell your wife or sweetheart about a girl you saw? Your thoughts can -help me, and I would like to know. Something I would do for her... - - • • • • • - -One evening I walked up the Pike on purpose, and stopped to say hello. -Some of her family were about, but they moved away to make room for me. -Damn if I knew how to begin. Would you? Mr. and Miss So-and-So, people, -the weather, the crops, the new preacher, the frolic, the church -benefit, rabbit and possum hunting, the new soft drink they had at old -Pap’s store, the schedule of the trains, what kind of town Macon was, -Negro’s migration north, boll-weevils, syrup, the Bible—to all these -things she gave a yassur or nassur, without further comment. I began to -wonder if perhaps my own emotional sensibility had played one of its -tricks on me. “Lets take a walk,” I at last ventured. The suggestion, -coming after so long an isolation, was novel enough, I guess, to -surprise. But it wasnt that. Something told me that men before me had -said just that as a prelude to the offering of their bodies. I tried -to tell her with my eyes. I think she understood. The thing from her -that made my throat catch, vanished. Its passing left her visible in a -way I’d thought, but never seen. We walked down the Pike with people on -all the porches gaping at us. “Doesnt it make you mad?” She meant the -row of petty gossiping people. She meant the world. Through a canebrake -that was ripe for cutting, the branch was reached. Under a sweet-gum -tree, and where reddish leaves had dammed the creek a little, we sat -down. Dusk, suggesting the almost imperceptible procession of giant -trees, settled with a purple haze about the cane. I felt strange, as I -always do in Georgia, particularly at dusk. I felt that things unseen -to men were tangibly immediate. It would not have surprised me had -I had vision. People have them in Georgia more often than you would -suppose. A black woman once saw the mother of Christ and drew her in -charcoal on the courthouse wall... When one is on the soil of one’s -ancestors, most anything can come to one... From force of habit, I -suppose, I held Fern in my arms—that is, without at first noticing -it. Then my mind came back to her. Her eyes, unusually weird and open, -held me. Held God. He flowed in as I’ve seen the countryside flow -in. Seen men. I must have done something—what, I dont know, in the -confusion of my emotion. She sprang up. Rushed some distance from me. -Fell to her knees, and began swaying, swaying. Her body was tortured -with something it could not let out. Like boiling sap it flooded arms -and fingers till she shook them as if they burned her. It found her -throat, and spattered inarticulately in plaintive, convulsive sounds, -mingled with calls to Christ Jesus. And then she sang, brokenly. A -Jewish cantor singing with a broken voice. A child’s voice, uncertain, -or an old man’s. Dusk hid her; I could hear only her song. It seemed to -me as though she were pounding her head in anguish upon the ground. I -rushed to her. She fainted in my arms. - - • • • • • - -There was talk about her fainting with me in the canefield. And I -got one or two ugly looks from town men who’d set themselves up to -protect her. In fact, there was talk of making me leave town. But -they never did. They kept a watch-out for me, though. Shortly after, -I came back North. From the train window I saw her as I crossed her -road. Saw her on her porch, head tilted a little forward where the nail -was, eyes vaguely focused on the sunset. Saw her face flow into them, -the countryside and something that I call God, flowing into them... -Nothing ever really happened. Nothing ever came to Fern, not even I. -Something I would do for her. Some fine unnamed thing... And, friend, -you? She is still living, I have reason to know. Her name, against the -chance that you might happen down that way, is Fernie May Rosen. - - - - - NULLO - - - A spray of pine-needles, - Dipped in western horizon gold, - Fell onto a path. - Dry moulds of cow-hoofs. - In the forest. - Rabbits knew not of their falling, - Nor did the forest catch aflame. - - - - - EVENING SONG - - - Full moon rising on the waters of my heart, - Lakes and moon and fires, - Cloine tires, - Holding her lips apart. - - Promises of slumber leaving shore to charm the moon, - Miracle made vesper-keeps, - Cloine sleeps, - And I’ll be sleeping soon. - - Cloine, curled like the sleepy waters where the moon-waves start, - Radiant, resplendently she gleams, - Cloine dreams, - Lips pressed against my heart. - - - - - ESTHER - - - 1 - - _Nine._ - -Esther’s hair falls in soft curls about her high-cheek-boned -chalk-white face. Esther’s hair would be beautiful if there were -more gloss to it. And if her face were not prematurely serious, one -would call it pretty. Her cheeks are too flat and dead for a girl of -nine. Esther looks like a little white child, starched, frilled, as -she walks slowly from her home towards her father’s grocery store. -She is about to turn in Broad from Maple Street. White and black men -loafing on the corner hold no interest for her. Then a strange thing -happens. A clean-muscled, magnificent, black-skinned Negro, whom she -had heard her father mention as King Barlo, suddenly drops to his knees -on a spot called the Spittoon. White men, unaware of him, continue -squirting tobacco juice in his direction. The saffron fluid splashes -on his face. His smooth black face begins to glisten and to shine. -Soon, people notice him, and gather round. His eyes are rapturous -upon the heavens. Lips and nostrils quiver. Barlo is in a religious -trance. Town folks know it. They are not startled. They are not afraid. -They gather round. Some beg boxes from the grocery stores. From old -McGregor’s notion shop. A coffin-case is pressed into use. Folks line -the curb-stones. Business men close shop. And Banker Warply parks his -car close by. Silently, all await the prophet’s voice. The sheriff, -a great florid fellow whose leggings never meet around his bulging -calves, swears in three deputies. “Wall, y cant never tell what a -nigger like King Barlo might be up t.” Soda bottles, five fingers full -of shine, are passed to those who want them. A couple of stray dogs -start a fight. Old Goodlow’s cow comes flopping up the street. Barlo, -still as an Indian fakir, has not moved. The town bell strikes six. The -sun slips in behind a heavy mass of horizon cloud. The crowd is hushed -and expectant. Barlo’s under jaw relaxes, and his lips begin to move. - -“Jesus has been awhisperin strange words deep down, O way down deep, -deep in my ears.” - -Hums of awe and of excitement. - -“He called me to His side an said, ‘Git down on your knees beside me, -son, Ise gwine t whisper in your ears.’” - -An old sister cries, “Ah, Lord.” - -“‘Ise agwine t whisper in your ears,’ he said, an I replied, ‘Thy will -be done on earth as it is in heaven.’” - -“Ah, Lord. Amen. Amen.” - -“An Lord Jesus whispered strange good words deep down, O way down deep, -deep in my ears. An He said, ‘Tell em till you feel your throat on -fire.’ I saw a vision. I saw a man arise, an he was big an black an -powerful—” - -Some one yells, “Preach it, preacher, preach it!” - -“—but his head was caught up in th clouds. An while he was agazin at -th heavens, heart filled up with th Lord, some little white-ant biddies -came an tied his feet to chains. They led him t th coast, they led him -t th sea, they led him across th ocean an they didnt set him free. -The old coast didnt miss him, an th new coast wasnt free, he left -the old-coast brothers, t give birth t you an me. O Lord, great God -Almighty, t give birth t you an me.” - -Barlo pauses. Old gray mothers are in tears. Fragments of melodies -are being hummed. White folks are touched and curiously awed. Off to -themselves, white and black preachers confer as to how best to rid -themselves of the vagrant, usurping fellow. Barlo looks as though he is -struggling to continue. People are hushed. One can hear weevils work. -Dusk is falling rapidly, and the customary store lights fail to throw -their feeble glow across the gray dust and flagging of the Georgia -town. Barlo rises to his full height. He is immense. To the people he -assumes the outlines of his visioned African. In a mighty voice he -bellows: - -“Brothers an sisters, turn your faces t th sweet face of the Lord, an -fill your hearts with glory. Open your eyes an see th dawnin of th -mornin light. Open your ears—” - -Years afterwards Esther was told that at that very moment a great, -heavy, rumbling voice actually was heard. That hosts of angels and of -demons paraded up and down the streets all night. That King Barlo rode -out of town astride a pitch-black bull that had a glowing gold ring -in its nose. And that old Limp Underwood, who hated niggers, woke up -next morning to find that he held a black man in his arms. This much is -certain: an inspired Negress, of wide reputation for being sanctified, -drew a portrait of a black madonna on the court-house wall. And King -Barlo left town. He left his image indelibly upon the mind of Esther. -He became the starting point of the only living patterns that her mind -was to know. - - - 2 - - _Sixteen._ - -Esther begins to dream. The low evening sun sets the windows of -McGregor’s notion shop aflame. Esther makes believe that they really -are aflame. The town fire department rushes madly down the road. It -ruthlessly shoves black and white idlers to one side. It whoops. It -clangs. It rescues from the second-story window a dimpled infant -which she claims for her own. How had she come by it? She thinks of -it immaculately. It is a sin to think of it immaculately. She must -dream no more. She must repent her sin. Another dream comes. There -is no fire department. There are no heroic men. The fire starts. The -loafers on the corner form a circle, chew their tobacco faster, and -squirt juice just as fast as they can chew. Gallons on top of gallons -they squirt upon the flames. The air reeks with the stench of scorched -tobacco juice. Women, fat chunky Negro women, lean scrawny white women, -pull their skirts up above their heads and display the most ludicrous -underclothes. The women scoot in all directions from the danger zone. -She alone is left to take the baby in her arms. But what a baby! Black, -singed, woolly, tobacco-juice baby—ugly as sin. Once held to her -breast, miraculous thing: its breath is sweet and its lips can nibble. -She loves it frantically. Her joy in it changes the town folks’ jeers -to harmless jealousy, and she is left alone. - - _Twenty-two._ - -Esther’s schooling is over. She works behind the counter of her -father’s grocery store. “To keep the money in the family,” so he said. -She is learning to make distinctions between the business and the -social worlds. “Good business comes from remembering that the white -folks dont divide the niggers, Esther. Be just as black as any man -who has a silver dollar.” Esther listlessly forgets that she is near -white, and that her father is the richest colored man in town. Black -folk who drift in to buy lard and snuff and flour of her, call her a -sweet-natured, accommodating girl. She learns their names. She forgets -them. She thinks about men. “I dont appeal to them. I wonder why.” -She recalls an affair she had with a little fair boy while still in -school. It had ended in her shame when he as much as told her that for -sweetness he preferred a lollipop. She remembers the salesman from the -North who wanted to take her to the movies that first night he was in -town. She refused, of course. And he never came back, having found out -who she was. She thinks of Barlo. Barlo’s image gives her a slightly -stale thrill. She spices it by telling herself his glories. Black. -Magnetically so. Best cotton picker in the county, in the state, -in the whole world for that matter. Best man with his fists, best -man with dice, with a razor. Promoter of church benefits. Of colored -fairs. Vagrant preacher. Lover of all the women for miles and miles -around. Esther decides that she loves him. And with a vague sense of -life slipping by, she resolves that she will tell him so, whatever -people say, the next time he comes to town. After the making of this -resolution which becomes a sort of wedding cake for her to tuck beneath -her pillow and go to sleep upon, she sees nothing of Barlo for five -years. Her hair thins. It looks like the dull silk on puny corn ears. -Her face pales until it is the color of the gray dust that dances with -dead cotton leaves.. - - - 3 - - _Esther is twenty-seven._ - -Esther sells lard and snuff and flour to vague black faces that drift -in her store to ask for them. Her eyes hardly see the people to whom -she gives change. Her body is lean and beaten. She rests listlessly -against the counter, too weary to sit down. From the street some one -shouts, “King Barlo has come back to town.” He passes her window, -driving a large new car. Cut-out open. He veers to the curb, and steps -out. Barlo has made money on cotton during the war. He is as rich as -anyone. Esther suddenly is animate. She goes to her door. She sees him -at a distance, the center of a group of credulous men. She hears the -deep-bass rumble of his talk. The sun swings low. McGregor’s windows -are aflame again. Pale flame. A sharply dressed white girl passes by. -For a moment Esther wishes that she might be like her. Not white; she -has no need for being that. But sharp, sporty, with get-up about her. -Barlo is connected with that wish. She mustnt wish. Wishes only make -you restless. Emptiness is a thing that grows by being moved. “I’ll -not think. Not wish. Just set my mind against it.” Then the thought -comes to her that those purposeless, easy-going men will possess him, -if she doesnt. Purpose is not dead in her, now that she comes to think -of it. That loose women will have their arms around him at Nat Bowle’s -place to-night. As if her veins are full of fired sun-bleached southern -shanties, a swift heat sweeps them. Dead dreams, and a forgotten -resolution are carried upward by the flames. Pale flames. “They shant -have him. Oh, they shall not. Not if it kills me they shant have him.” -Jerky, aflutter, she closes the store and starts home. Folks lazing -on store window-sills wonder what on earth can be the matter with Jim -Crane’s gal, as she passes them. “Come to remember, she always was a -little off, a little crazy, I reckon.” Esther seeks her own room, and -locks the door. Her mind is a pink mesh-bag filled with baby toes. - - • • • • • - -Using the noise of the town clock striking twelve to cover the creaks -of her departure, Esther slips into the quiet road. The town, her -parents, most everyone is sound asleep. This fact is a stable thing -that comforts her. After sundown a chill wind came up from the west. -It is still blowing, but to her it is a steady, settled thing like the -cold. She wants her mind to be like that. Solid, contained, and blank -as a sheet of darkened ice. She will not permit herself to notice the -peculiar phosphorescent glitter of the sweet-gum leaves. Their movement -would excite her. Exciting too, the recession of the dull familiar -homes she knows so well. She doesnt know them at all. She closes her -eyes, and holds them tightly. Wont do. Her being aware that they are -closed recalls her purpose. She does not want to think of it. She opens -them. She turns now into the deserted business street. The corrugated -iron canopies and mule- and horse-gnawed hitching posts bring her a -strange composure. Ghosts of the commonplaces of her daily life take -stride with her and become her companions. And the echoes of her heels -upon the flagging are rhythmically monotonous and soothing. Crossing -the street at the corner of McGregor’s notion shop, she thinks that the -windows are a dull flame. Only a fancy. She walks faster. Then runs. A -turn into a side street brings her abruptly to Nat Bowle’s place. The -house is squat and dark. It is always dark. Barlo is within. Quietly -she opens the outside door and steps in. She passes through a small -room. Pauses before a flight of stairs down which people’s voices, -muffled, come. The air is heavy with fresh tobacco smoke. It makes her -sick. She wants to turn back. She goes up the steps. As if she were -mounting to some great height, her head spins. She is violently dizzy. -Blackness rushes to her eyes. And then she finds that she is in a large -room. Barlo is before her. - -“Well, I’m sholy damned—skuse me, but what, what brought you here, lil -milk-white gal?” - -“You.” Her voice sounds like a frightened child’s that calls homeward -from some point miles away. - -“Me?” - -“Yes, you Barlo.” - -“This aint th place fer y. This aint th place fer y.” - -“I know. I know. But I’ve come for you.” - -“For me for what?” - -She manages to look deep and straight into his eyes. He is slow at -understanding. Guffaws and giggles break out from all around the room. -A coarse woman’s voice remarks, “So thats how th dictie niggers does -it.” Laughs. “Mus give em credit fo their gall.” - -Esther doesnt hear. Barlo does. His faculties are jogged. She sees a -smile, ugly and repulsive to her, working upward through thick licker -fumes. Barlo seems hideous. The thought comes suddenly, that conception -with a drunken man must be a mighty sin. She draws away, frozen. Like -a somnambulist she wheels around and walks stiffly to the stairs. Down -them. Jeers and hoots pelter bluntly upon her back. She steps out. -There is no air, no street, and the town has completely disappeared. - - - - - CONVERSION - - - African Guardian of Souls, - Drunk with rum, - Feasting on a strange cassava, - Yielding to new words and a weak palabra - Of a white-faced sardonic god— - Grins, cries - Amen, - Shouts hosanna. - - - - - PORTRAIT IN GEORGIA - - - Hair—braided chestnut, coiled like a lyncher’s rope, - Eyes—fagots, - Lips—old scars, or the first red blisters, - Breath—the last sweet scent of cane, - And her slim body, white as the ash of black flesh after flame. - - - - - BLOOD-BURNING MOON - - - 1 - -Up from the skeleton stone walls, up from the rotting floor boards -and the solid hand-hewn beams of oak of the pre-war cotton factory, -dusk came. Up from the dusk the full moon came. Glowing like a fired -pine-knot, it illumined the great door and soft showered the Negro -shanties aligned along the single street of factory town. The full moon -in the great door was an omen. Negro women improvised songs against its -spell. - -Louisa sang as she came over the crest of the hill from the white -folks’ kitchen. Her skin was the color of oak leaves on young trees -in fall. Her breasts, firm and up-pointed like ripe acorns. And her -singing had the low murmur of winds in fig trees. Bob Stone, younger -son of the people she worked for, loved her. By the way the world -reckons things, he had won her. By measure of that warm glow which came -into her mind at thought of him, he had won her. Tom Burwell, whom the -whole town called Big Boy, also loved her. But working in the fields -all day, and far away from her, gave him no chance to show it. Though -often enough of evenings he had tried to. Somehow, he never got along. -Strong as he was with hands upon the ax or plow, he found it difficult -to hold her. Or so he thought. But the fact was that he held her to -factory town more firmly than he thought for. His black balanced, and -pulled against, the white of Stone, when she thought of them. And her -mind was vaguely upon them as she came over the crest of the hill, -coming from the white folks’ kitchen. As she sang softly at the evil -face of the full moon. - -A strange stir was in her. Indolently, she tried to fix upon Bob or -Tom as the cause of it. To meet Bob in the canebrake, as she was going -to do an hour or so later, was nothing new. And Tom’s proposal which -she felt on its way to her could be indefinitely put off. Separately, -there was no unusual significance to either one. But for some reason, -they jumbled when her eyes gazed vacantly at the rising moon. And from -the jumble came the stir that was strangely within her. Her lips -trembled. The slow rhythm of her song grew agitant and restless. Rusty -black and tan spotted hounds, lying in the dark corners of porches -or prowling around back yards, put their noses in the air and caught -its tremor. They began plaintively to yelp and howl. Chickens woke up -and cackled. Intermittently, all over the countryside dogs barked and -roosters crowed as if heralding a weird dawn or some ungodly awakening. -The women sang lustily. Their songs were cotton-wads to stop their -ears. Louisa came down into factory town and sank wearily upon the step -before her home. The moon was rising towards a thick cloud-bank which -soon would hide it. - - Red nigger moon. Sinner! - Blood-burning moon. Sinner! - Come out that fact’ry door. - - - 2 - -Up from the deep dusk of a cleared spot on the edge of the forest a -mellow glow arose and spread fan-wise into the low-hanging heavens. -And all around the air was heavy with the scent of boiling cane. A -large pile of cane-stalks lay like ribboned shadows upon the ground. A -mule, harnessed to a pole, trudged lazily round and round the pivot of -the grinder. Beneath a swaying oil lamp, a Negro alternately whipped -out at the mule, and fed cane-stalks to the grinder. A fat boy waddled -pails of fresh ground juice between the grinder and the boiling stove. -Steam came from the copper boiling pan. The scent of cane came from the -copper pan and drenched the forest and the hill that sloped to factory -town, beneath its fragrance. It drenched the men in circle seated -around the stove. Some of them chewed at the white pulp of stalks, but -there was no need for them to, if all they wanted was to taste the -cane. One tasted it in factory town. And from factory town one could -see the soft haze thrown by the glowing stove upon the low-hanging -heavens. - -Old David Georgia stirred the thickening syrup with a long ladle, and -ever so often drew it off. Old David Georgia tended his stove and told -tales about the white folks, about moonshining and cotton picking, -and about sweet nigger gals, to the men who sat there about his stove -to listen to him. Tom Burwell chewed cane-stalk and laughed with the -others till someone mentioned Louisa. Till some one said something -about Louisa and Bob Stone, about the silk stockings she must have -gotten from him. Blood ran up Tom’s neck hotter than the glow that -flooded from the stove. He sprang up. Glared at the men and said, -“She’s my gal.” Will Manning laughed. Tom strode over to him. Yanked -him up and knocked him to the ground. Several of Manning’s friends got -up to fight for him. Tom whipped out a long knife and would have cut -them to shreds if they hadnt ducked into the woods. Tom had had enough. -He nodded to Old David Georgia and swung down the path to factory town. -Just then, the dogs started barking and the roosters began to crow. -Tom felt funny. Away from the fight, away from the stove, chill got -to him. He shivered. He shuddered when he saw the full moon rising -towards the cloud-bank. He who didnt give a godam for the fears of -old women. He forced his mind to fasten on Louisa. Bob Stone. Better -not be. He turned into the street and saw Louisa sitting before her -home. He went towards her, ambling, touched the brim of a marvelously -shaped, spotted, felt hat, said he wanted to say something to her, and -then found that he didnt know what he had to say, or if he did, that he -couldnt say it. He shoved his big fists in his overalls, grinned, and -started to move off. - -“Youall want me, Tom?” - -“Thats what us wants, sho, Louisa.” - -“Well, here I am—” - -“An here I is, but that aint ahelpin none, all th same.” - -“You wanted to say something?..” - -“I did that, sho. But words is like th spots on dice: no matter how y -fumbles em, there’s times when they jes wont come. I dunno why. Seems -like th love I feels fo yo done stole m tongue. I got it now. Whee! -Louisa, honey, I oughtnt tell y, I feel I oughtnt cause yo is young -an goes t church an I has had other gals, but Louisa I sho do love -y. Lil gal, Ise watched y from them first days when youall sat right -here befo yo door befo th well an sang sometimes in a way that like t -broke m heart. Ise carried y with me into th fields, day after day, an -after that, an I sho can plow when yo is there, an I can pick cotton. -Yassur! Come near beatin Barlo yesterday. I sho did. Yassur! An next -year if ole Stone’ll trust me, I’ll have a farm. My own. My bales will -buy yo what y gets from white folks now. Silk stockings an purple -dresses—course I dont believe what some folks been whisperin as t how -y gets them things now. White folks always did do for niggers what they -likes. An they jes cant help alikin yo, Louisa. Bob Stone likes y. -Course he does. But not th way folks is awhisperin. Does he, hon?” - -“I dont know what you mean, Tom.” - -“Course y dont. Ise already cut two niggers. Had t hon, t tell em so. -Niggers always tryin t make somethin out a nothin. An then besides, -white folks aint up t them tricks so much nowadays. Godam better not -be. Leastawise not with yo. Cause I wouldnt stand f it. Nassur.” - -“What would you do, Tom?” - -“Cut him jes like I cut a nigger.” - -“No, Tom—” - -“I said I would an there aint no mo to it. But that aint th talk f now. -Sing, honey Louisa, an while I’m listenin t y I’ll be makin love.” - -Tom took her hand in his. Against the tough thickness of his own, hers -felt soft and small. His huge body slipped down to the step beside her. -The full moon sank upward into the deep purple of the cloud-bank. An -old woman brought a lighted lamp and hung it on the common well whose -bulky shadow squatted in the middle of the road, opposite Tom and -Louisa. The old woman lifted the well-lid, took hold the chain, and -began drawing up the heavy bucket. As she did so, she sang. Figures -shifted, restless-like, between lamp and window in the front rooms of -the shanties. Shadows of the figures fought each other on the gray dust -of the road. Figures raised the windows and joined the old woman in -song. Louisa and Tom, the whole street, singing: - - Red nigger moon. Sinner! - Blood-burning moon. Sinner! - Come out that fact’ry door. - - - 3 - -Bob Stone sauntered from his veranda out into the gloom of fir trees -and magnolias. The clear white of his skin paled, and the flush of his -cheeks turned purple. As if to balance this outer change, his mind -became consciously a white man’s. He passed the house with its huge -open hearth which, in the days of slavery, was the plantation cookery. -He saw Louisa bent over that hearth. He went in as a master should -and took her. Direct, honest, bold. None of this sneaking that he had -to go through now. The contrast was repulsive to him. His family had -lost ground. Hell no, his family still owned the niggers, practically. -Damned if they did, or he wouldnt have to duck around so. What would -they think if they knew? His mother? His sister? He shouldnt mention -them, shouldnt think of them in this connection. There in the dusk -he blushed at doing so. Fellows about town were all right, but how -about his friends up North? He could see them incredible, repulsed. -They didnt know. The thought first made him laugh. Then, with their -eyes still upon him, he began to feel embarrassed. He felt the need of -explaining things to them. Explain hell. They wouldnt understand, and -moreover, who ever heard of a Southerner getting on his knees to any -Yankee, or anyone. No sir. He was going to see Louisa to-night, and -love her. She was lovely—in her way. Nigger way. What way was that? -Damned if he knew. Must know. He’d known her long enough to know. Was -there something about niggers that you couldnt know? Listening to -them at church didnt tell you anything. Looking at them didnt tell -you anything. Talking to them didnt tell you anything—unless it was -gossip, unless they wanted to talk. Of course, about farming, and -licker, and craps—but those werent nigger. Nigger was something more. -How much more? Something to be afraid of, more? Hell no. Who ever heard -of being afraid of a nigger? Tom Burwell. Cartwell had told him that -Tom went with Louisa after she reached home. No sir. No nigger had ever -been with his girl. He’d like to see one try. Some position for him -to be in. Him, Bob Stone, of the old Stone family, in a scrap with a -nigger over a nigger girl. In the good old days... Ha! Those were the -days. His family had lost ground. Not so much, though. Enough for him -to have to cut through old Lemon’s canefield by way of the woods, that -he might meet her. She was worth it. Beautiful nigger gal. Why nigger? -Why not, just gal? No, it was because she was nigger that he went to -her. Sweet... The scent of boiling cane came to him. Then he saw the -rich glow of the stove. He heard the voices of the men circled around -it. He was about to skirt the clearing when he heard his own name -mentioned. He stopped. Quivering. Leaning against a tree, he listened. - -“Bad nigger. Yassur, he sho is one bad nigger when he gets started.” - -“Tom Burwell’s been on th gang three times fo cuttin men.” - -“What y think he’s agwine t do t Bob Stone?” - -“Dunno yet. He aint found out. When he does— Baby!” - -“Aint no tellin.” - -“Young Stone aint no quitter an I ken tell y that. Blood of th old uns -in his veins.” - -“Thats right. He’ll scrap, sho.” - -“Be gettin too hot f niggers round this away.” - -“Shut up, nigger. Y dont know what y talkin bout.” - -Bob Stone’s ears burned as though he had been holding them over the -stove. Sizzling heat welled up within him. His feet felt as if they -rested on red-hot coals. They stung him to quick movement. He circled -the fringe of the glowing. Not a twig cracked beneath his feet. He -reached the path that led to factory town. Plunged furiously down it. -Halfway along, a blindness within him veered him aside. He crashed into -the bordering canebrake. Cane leaves cut his face and lips. He tasted -blood. He threw himself down and dug his fingers in the ground. The -earth was cool. Cane-roots took the fever from his hands. After a long -while, or so it seemed to him, the thought came to him that it must -be time to see Louisa. He got to his feet and walked calmly to their -meeting place. No Louisa. Tom Burwell had her. Veins in his forehead -bulged and distended. Saliva moistened the dried blood on his lips. He -bit down on his lips. He tasted blood. Not his own blood; Tom Burwell’s -blood. Bob drove through the cane and out again upon the road. A hound -swung down the path before him towards factory town. Bob couldnt see -it. The dog loped aside to let him pass. Bob’s blind rushing made him -stumble over it. He fell with a thud that dazed him. The hound yelped. -Answering yelps came from all over the countryside. Chickens cackled. -Roosters crowed, heralding the bloodshot eyes of southern awakening. -Singers in the town were silenced. They shut their windows down. -Palpitant between the rooster crows, a chill hush settled upon the -huddled forms of Tom and Louisa. A figure rushed from the shadow and -stood before them. Tom popped to his feet. - -“Whats y want?” - -“I’m Bob Stone.” - -“Yassur—an I’m Tom Burwell. Whats y want?” - -Bob lunged at him. Tom side-stepped, caught him by the shoulder, and -flung him to the ground. Straddled him. - -“Let me up.” - -“Yassur—but watch yo doins, Bob Stone.” - -A few dark figures, drawn by the sound of scuffle stood about them. Bob -sprang to his feet. - -“Fight like a man, Tom Burwell, an I’ll lick y.” - -Again he lunged. Tom side-stepped and flung him to the ground. -Straddled him. - -“Get off me, you godam nigger you.” - -“Yo sho has started somethin now. Get up.” - -Tom yanked him up and began hammering at him. Each blow sounded as if -it smashed into a precious, irreplaceable soft something. Beneath them, -Bob staggered back. He reached in his pocket and whipped out a knife. - -“Thats my game, sho.” - -Blue flash, a steel blade slashed across Bob Stone’s throat. He had -a sweetish sick feeling. Blood began to flow. Then he felt a sharp -twitch of pain. He let his knife drop. He slapped one hand against his -neck. He pressed the other on top of his head as if to hold it down. -He groaned. He turned, and staggered towards the crest of the hill in -the direction of white town. Negroes who had seen the fight slunk into -their homes and blew the lamps out. Louisa, dazed, hysterical, refused -to go indoors. She slipped, crumbled, her body loosely propped against -the woodwork of the well. Tom Burwell leaned against it. He seemed -rooted there. - -Bob reached Broad Street. White men rushed up to him. He collapsed in -their arms. - -“Tom Burwell....” - -White men like ants upon a forage rushed about. Except for the taut hum -of their moving, all was silent. Shotguns, revolvers, rope, kerosene, -torches. Two high-powered cars with glaring search-lights. They came -together. The taut hum rose to a low roar. Then nothing could be heard -but the flop of their feet in the thick dust of the road. The moving -body of their silence preceded them over the crest of the hill into -factory town. It flattened the Negroes beneath it. It rolled to the -wall of the factory, where it stopped. Tom knew that they were coming. -He couldnt move. And then he saw the search-lights of the two cars -glaring down on him. A quick shock went through him. He stiffened. He -started to run. A yell went up from the mob. Tom wheeled about and -faced them. They poured down on him. They swarmed. A large man with -dead-white face and flabby cheeks came to him and almost jabbed a -gun-barrel through his guts. - -“Hands behind y, nigger.” - -Tom’s wrist were bound. The big man shoved him to the well. Burn him -over it, and when the woodwork caved in, his body would drop to the -bottom. Two deaths for a godam nigger. Louisa was driven back. The mob -pushed in. Its pressure, its momentum was too great. Drag him to the -factory. Wood and stakes already there. Tom moved in the direction -indicated. But they had to drag him. They reached the great door. Too -many to get in there. The mob divided and flowed around the walls to -either side. The big man shoved him through the door. The mob pressed -in from the sides. Taut humming. No words. A stake was sunk into the -ground. Rotting floor boards piled around it. Kerosene poured on the -rotting floor boards. Tom bound to the stake. His breast was bare. -Nails scratches let little lines of blood trickle down and mat into -the hair. His face, his eyes were set and stony. Except for irregular -breathing, one would have thought him already dead. Torches were flung -onto the pile. A great flare muffled in black smoke shot upward. The -mob yelled. The mob was silent. Now Tom could be seen within the -flames. Only his head, erect, lean, like a blackened stone. Stench -of burning flesh soaked the air. Tom’s eyes popped. His head settled -downward. The mob yelled. Its yell echoed against the skeleton stone -walls and sounded like a hundred yells. Like a hundred mobs yelling. -Its yell thudded against the thick front wall and fell back. Ghost of a -yell slipped through the flames and out the great door of the factory. -It fluttered like a dying thing down the single street of factory town. -Louisa, upon the step before her home, did not hear it, but her eyes -opened slowly. They saw the full moon glowing in the great door. The -full moon, an evil thing, an omen, soft showering the homes of folks -she knew. Where were they, these people? She’d sing, and perhaps they’d -come out and join her. Perhaps Tom Burwell would come. At any rate, the -full moon in the great door was an omen which she must sing to: - - Red nigger moon. Sinner! - Blood-burning moon. Sinner! - Come out that fact’ry door. - -[Illustration] - - - - - SEVENTH STREET - - Money burns the pocket, pocket hurts, - Bootleggers in silken shirts, - Ballooned, zooming Cadillacs, - Whizzing, whizzing down the street-car tracks. - - -Seventh Street is a bastard of Prohibition and the War. A crude-boned, -soft-skinned wedge of nigger life breathing its loafer air, jazz -songs and love, thrusting unconscious rhythms, black reddish blood -into the white and whitewashed wood of Washington. Stale soggy wood -of Washington. Wedges rust in soggy wood... Split it! In two! Again! -Shred it! .. the sun. Wedges are brilliant in the sun; ribbons of wet -wood dry and blow away. Black reddish blood. Pouring for crude-boned -soft-skinned life, who set you flowing? Blood suckers of the War would -spin in a frenzy of dizziness if they drank your blood. Prohibition -would put a stop to it. Who set you flowing? White and whitewash -disappear in blood. Who set you flowing? Flowing down the smooth -asphalt of Seventh Street, in shanties, brick office buildings, -theaters, drug stores, restaurants, and cabarets? Eddying on the -corners? Swirling like a blood-red smoke up where the buzzards fly in -heaven? God would not dare to suck black red blood. A Nigger God! He -would duck his head in shame and call for the Judgment Day. Who set you -flowing? - - Money burns the pocket, pocket hurts, - Bootleggers in silken shirts, - Ballooned, zooming Cadillacs, - Whizzing, whizzing down the street-car tracks. - - - - - RHOBERT - - -Rhobert wears a house, like a monstrous diver’s helmet, on his head. -His legs are banty-bowed and shaky because as a child he had rickets. -He is way down. Rods of the house like antennæ of a dead thing, -stuffed, prop up in the air. He is way down. He is sinking. His house -is a dead thing that weights him down. He is sinking as a diver would -sink in mud should the water be drawn off. Life is a murky, wiggling, -microscopic water that compresses him. Compresses his helmet and would -crush it the minute that he pulled his head out. He has to keep it in. -Life is water that is being drawn off. - - Brother, life is water that is being drawn off. - Brother, life is water that is being drawn off. - -The dead house is stuffed. The stuffing is alive. It is sinful to draw -one’s head out of live stuffing in a dead house. The propped-up antennæ -would cave in and the stuffing be strewn .. shredded life-pulp .. in -the water. It is sinful to have one’s own head crushed. Rhobert is an -upright man whose legs are banty-bowed and shaky because as a child -he had rickets. The earth is round. Heaven is a sphere that surrounds -it. Sink where you will. God is a Red Cross man with a dredge and a -respiration-pump who’s waiting for you at the opposite periphery. God -built the house. He blew His breath into its stuffing. It is good to -die obeying Him who can do these things. - -A futile something like the dead house wraps the live stuffing of the -question: how long before the water will be drawn off? Rhobert does not -care. Like most men who wear monstrous helmets, the pressure it exerts -is enough to convince him of its practical infinity. And he cares not -two straws as to whether or not he will ever see his wife and children -again. Many a time he’s seen them drown in his dreams and has kicked -about joyously in the mud for days after. One thing about him goes -straight to the heart. He has an Adam’s-apple which strains sometimes -as if he were painfully gulping great globules of air .. air floating -shredded life-pulp. It is a sad thing to see a banty-bowed, shaky, -ricket-legged man straining the raw insides of his throat against -smooth air. Holding furtive thoughts about the glory of pulp-heads -strewn in water.. He is way down. Down. Mud, coming to his banty -knees, almost hides them. Soon people will be looking at him and -calling him a strong man. No doubt he is for one who has had rickets. -Lets give it to him. Lets call him great when the water shall have been -all drawn off. Lets build a monument and set it in the ooze where he -goes down. A monument of hewn oak, carved in nigger-heads. Lets open -our throats, brother, and sing “Deep River” when he goes down. - - Brother, Rhobert is sinking. - Lets open our throats, brother, - Lets sing Deep River when he goes down. - - - - - AVEY - - -For a long while she was nothing more to me than one of those skirted -beings whom boys at a certain age disdain to play with. Just how I -came to love her, timidly, and with secret blushes, I do not know. -But that I did was brought home to me one night, the first night that -Ned wore his long pants. Us fellers were seated on the curb before an -apartment house where she had gone in. The young trees had not outgrown -their boxes then. V Street was lined with them. When our legs grew -cramped and stiff from the cold of the stone, we’d stand around a box -and whittle it. I like to think now that there was a hidden purpose in -the way we hacked them with our knives. I like to feel that something -deep in me responded to the trees, the young trees that whinnied like -colts impatient to be let free... On the particular night I have in -mind, we were waiting for the top-floor light to go out. We wanted to -see Avey leave the flat. This night she stayed longer than usual and -gave us a chance to complete the plans of how we were going to stone -and beat that feller on the top floor out of town. Ned especially had -it in for him. He was about to throw a brick up at the window when at -last the room went dark. Some minutes passed. Then Avey, as unconcerned -as if she had been paying an old-maid aunt a visit, came out. I don’t -remember what she had on, and all that sort of thing. But I do know -that I turned hot as bare pavements in the summertime at Ned’s boast: -“Hell, bet I could get her too if you little niggers weren’t always -spying and crabbing everything.” I didnt say a word to him. It wasnt -my way then. I just stood there like the others, and something like -a fuse burned up inside of me. She never noticed us, but swung along -lazy and easy as anything. We sauntered to the corner and watched her -till her door banged to. Ned repeated what he’d said. I didnt seem -to care. Sitting around old Mush-Head’s bread box, the discussion -began. “Hang if I can see how she gets away with it,” Doc started. -Ned knew, of course. There was nothing he didnt know when it came to -women. He dilated on the emotional needs of girls. Said they werent -much different from men in that respect. And concluded with the solemn -avowal: “It does em good.” None of us liked Ned much. We all talked -dirt; but it was the way he said it. And then too, a couple of the -fellers had sisters and had caught Ned playing with them. But there was -no disputing the superiority of his smutty wisdom. Bubs Sanborn, whose -mother was friendly with Avey’s, had overheard the old ladies talking. -“Avey’s mother’s ont her,” he said. We thought that only natural and -began to guess at what would happen. Some one said she’d marry that -feller on the top floor. Ned called that a lie because Avey was going -to marry nobody but him. We had our doubts about that, but we did agree -that she’d soon leave school and marry some one. The gang broke up, and -I went home, picturing myself as married. - - • • • • • - -Nothing I did seemed able to change Avey’s indifference to me. I played -basket-ball, and when I’d make a long clean shot she’d clap with the -others, louder than they, I thought. I’d meet her on the street, and -there’d be no difference in the way she said hello. She never took the -trouble to call me by my name. On the days for drill, I’d let my voice -down a tone and call for a complicated maneuver when I saw her coming. -She’d smile appreciation, but it was an impersonal smile, never for me. -It was on a summer excursion down to Riverview that she first seemed to -take me into account. The day had been spent riding merry-go-rounds, -scenic-railways, and shoot-the-chutes. We had been in swimming and we -had danced. I was a crack swimmer then. She didnt know how. I held her -up and showed her how to kick her legs and draw her arms. Of course -she didnt learn in one day, but she thanked me for bothering with her. -I was also somewhat of a dancer. And I had already noticed that love -can start on a dance floor. We danced. But though I held her tightly -in my arms, she was way away. That college feller who lived on the top -floor was somewhere making money for the next year. I imagined that -she was thinking, wishing for him. Ned was along. He treated her until -his money gave out. She went with another feller. Ned got sore. One -by one the boys’ money gave out. She left them. And they got sore. -Every one of them but me got sore. This is the reason, I guess, why I -had her to myself on the top deck of the _Jane Mosely_ that night as -we puffed up the Potomac, coming home. The moon was brilliant. The air -was sweet like clover. And every now and then, a salt tang, a stale -drift of sea-weed. It was not my mind’s fault if it went romancing. I -should have taken her in my arms the minute we were stowed in that old -lifeboat. I dallied, dreaming. She took me in hers. And I could feel by -the touch of it that it wasnt a man-to-woman love. It made me restless. -I felt chagrined. I didnt know what it was, but I did know that I -couldnt handle it. She ran her fingers through my hair and kissed -my forehead. I itched to break through her tenderness to passion. -I wanted her to take me in her arms as I knew she had that college -feller. I wanted her to love me passionately as she did him. I gave her -one burning kiss. Then she laid me in her lap as if I were a child. -Helpless. I got sore when she started to hum a lullaby. She wouldnt -let me go. I talked. I knew damned well that I could beat her at that. -Her eyes were soft and misty, the curves of her lips were wistful, and -her smile seemed indulgent of the irrelevance of my remarks. I gave up -at last and let her love me, silently, in her own way. The moon was -brilliant. The air was sweet like clover, and every now and then, a -salt tang, a stale drift of sea-weed.... - - • • • • • - -The next time I came close to her was the following summer at Harpers -Ferry. We were sitting on a flat projecting rock they give the name of -Lover’s Leap. Some one is supposed to have jumped off it. The river is -about six hundred feet beneath. A railroad track runs up the valley and -curves out of sight where part of the mountain rock had to be blasted -away to make room for it. The engines of this valley have a whistle, -the echoes of which sound like iterated gasps and sobs. I always think -of them as crude music from the soul of Avey. We sat there holding -hands. Our palms were soft and warm against each other. Our fingers -were not tight. She would not let them be. She would not let me twist -them. I wanted to talk. To explain what I meant to her. Avey was as -silent as those great trees whose tops we looked down upon. She has -always been like that. At least, to me. I had the notion that if I -really wanted to, I could do with her just what I pleased. Like one -can strip a tree. I did kiss her. I even let my hands cup her breasts. -When I was through, she’d seek my hand and hold it till my pulse cooled -down. Evening after evening we sat there. I tried to get her to talk -about that college feller. She never would. There was no set time to go -home. None of my family had come down. And as for hers, she didnt give -a hang about them. The general gossips could hardly say more than they -had. The boarding-house porch was always deserted when we returned. No -one saw us enter, so the time was set conveniently for scandal. This -worried me a little, for I thought it might keep Avey from getting an -appointment in the schools. She didnt care. She had finished normal -school. They could give her a job if they wanted to. As time went on, -her indifference to things began to pique me; I was ambitious. I left -the Ferry earlier than she did. I was going off to college. The more -I thought of it, the more I resented, yes, hell, thats what it was, -her downright laziness. Sloppy indolence. There was no excuse for a -healthy girl taking life so easy. Hell! she was no better than a cow. -I was certain that she was a cow when I felt an udder in a Wisconsin -stock-judging class. Among those energetic Swedes, or whatever they -are, I decided to forget her. For two years I thought I did. When I’d -come home for the summer she’d be away. And before she returned, I’d -be gone. We never wrote; she was too damned lazy for that. But what a -bluff I put up about forgetting her. The girls up that way, at least -the ones I knew, havent got the stuff: they dont know how to love. -Giving themselves completely was tame beside just the holding of Avey’s -hand. One day I received a note from her. The writing, I decided, was -slovenly. She wrote on a torn bit of note-book paper. The envelope had -a faint perfume that I remembered. A single line told me she had lost -her school and was going away. I comforted myself with the reflection -that shame held no pain for one so indolent as she. Nevertheless, I -left Wisconsin that year for good. Washington had seemingly forgotten -her. I hunted Ned. Between curses, I caught his opinion of her. She -was no better than a whore. I saw her mother on the street. The same -old pinch-beck, jerky-gaited creature that I’d always known. - - • • • • • - -Perhaps five years passed. The business of hunting a job or something -or other had bruised my vanity so that I could recognize it. I felt -old. Avey and my real relation to her, I thought I came to know. I -wanted to see her. I had been told that she was in New York. As I had -no money, I hiked and bummed my way there. I got work in a ship-yard -and walked the streets at night, hoping to meet her. Failing in this, -I saved enough to pay my fare back home. One evening in early June, -just at the time when dusk is most lovely on the eastern horizon, I saw -Avey, indolent as ever, leaning on the arm of a man, strolling under -the recently lit arc-lights of U Street. She had almost passed before -she recognized me. She showed no surprise. The puff over her eyes -had grown heavier. The eyes themselves were still sleepy-large, and -beautiful. I had almost concluded—indifferent. “You look older,” was -what she said. I wanted to convince her that I was, so I asked her to -walk with me. The man whom she was with, and whom she never took the -trouble to introduce, at a nod from her, hailed a taxi, and drove away. -That gave me a notion of what she had been used to. Her dress was of -some fine, costly stuff. I suggested the park, and then added that the -grass might stain her skirt. Let it get stained, she said, for where it -came from there are others. - - • • • • • - -I have a spot in Soldier’s Home to which I always go when I want the -simple beauty of another’s soul. Robins spring about the lawn all -day. They leave their footprints in the grass. I imagine that the -grass at night smells sweet and fresh because of them. The ground is -high. Washington lies below. Its light spreads like a blush against -the darkened sky. Against the soft dusk sky of Washington. And when -the wind is from the South, soil of my homeland falls like a fertile -shower upon the lean streets of the city. Upon my hill in Soldier’s -Home. I know the policeman who watches the place of nights. When I go -there alone, I talk to him. I tell him I come there to find the truth -that people bury in their hearts. I tell him that I do not come there -with a girl to do the thing he’s paid to watch out for. I look deep -in his eyes when I say these things, and he believes me. He comes -over to see who it is on the grass. I say hello to him. He greets me -in the same way and goes off searching for other black splotches upon -the lawn. Avey and I went there. A band in one of the buildings a fair -distance off was playing a march. I wished they would stop. Their -playing was like a tin spoon in one’s mouth. I wanted the Howard Glee -Club to sing “Deep River,” from the road. To sing “Deep River, Deep -River,” from the road... Other than the first comments, Avey had been -silent. I started to hum a folk-tune. She slipped her hand in mine. -Pillowed her head as best she could upon my arm. Kissed the hand that -she was holding and listened, or so I thought, to what I had to say. I -traced my development from the early days up to the present time, the -phase in which I could understand her. I described her own nature and -temperament. Told how they needed a larger life for their expression. -How incapable Washington was of understanding that need. How it -could not meet it. I pointed out that in lieu of proper channels, her -emotions had overflowed into paths that dissipated them. I talked, -beautifully I thought, about an art that would be born, an art that -would open the way for women the likes of her. I asked her to hope, and -build up an inner life against the coming of that day. I recited some -of my own things to her. I sang, with a strange quiver in my voice, -a promise-song. And then I began to wonder why her hand had not once -returned a single pressure. My old-time feeling about her laziness came -back. I spoke sharply. My policeman friend passed by. I said hello to -him. As he went away, I began to visualize certain possibilities. An -immediate and urgent passion swept over me. Then I looked at Avey. -Her heavy eyes were closed. Her breathing was as faint and regular as -a child’s in slumber. My passion died. I was afraid to move lest I -disturb her. Hours and hours, I guess it was, she lay there. My body -grew numb. I shivered. I coughed. I wanted to get up and whittle at -the boxes of young trees. I withdrew my hand. I raised her head to -waken her. She did not stir. I got up and walked around. I found my -policeman friend and talked to him. We both came up, and bent over her. -He said it would be all right for her to stay there just so long as she -got away before the workmen came at dawn. A blanket was borrowed from -a neighbor house. I sat beside her through the night. I saw the dawn -steal over Washington. The Capitol dome looked like a gray ghost ship -drifting in from sea. Avey’s face was pale, and her eyes were heavy. -She did not have the gray crimson-splashed beauty of the dawn. I hated -to wake her. Orphan-woman... - - - - - BEEHIVE - - - Within this black hive to-night - There swarm a million bees; - Bees passing in and out the moon, - Bees escaping out the moon, - Bees returning through the moon, - Silver bees intently buzzing, - Silver honey dripping from the swarm of bees - Earth is a waxen cell of the world comb, - And I, a drone, - Lying on my back, - Lipping honey, - Getting drunk with silver honey, - Wish that I might fly out past the moon - And curl forever in some far-off farmyard flower. - - - - - STORM ENDING - - - Thunder blossoms gorgeously above our heads, - Great, hollow, bell-like flowers, - Rumbling in the wind, - Stretching clappers to strike our ears .. - Full-lipped flowers - Bitten by the sun - Bleeding rain - Dripping rain like golden honey— - And the sweet earth flying from the thunder. - - - - - THEATER - - -Life of nigger alleys, of pool rooms and restaurants and near-beer -saloons soaks into the walls of Howard Theater and sets them throbbing -jazz songs. Black-skinned, they dance and shout above the tick and -trill of white-walled buildings. At night, they open doors to people -who come in to stamp their feet and shout. At night, road-shows volley -songs into the mass-heart of black people. Songs soak the walls and -seep out to the nigger life of alleys and near-beer saloons, of the -Poodle Dog and Black Bear cabarets. Afternoons, the house is dark, and -the walls are sleeping singers until rehearsal begins. Or until John -comes within them. Then they start throbbing to a subtle syncopation. -And the space-dark air grows softly luminous. - -John is the manager’s brother. He is seated at the center of the -theater, just before rehearsal. Light streaks down upon him from a -window high above. One half his face is orange in it. One half his -face is in shadow. The soft glow of the house rushes to, and compacts -about, the shaft of light. John’s mind coincides with the shaft of -light. Thoughts rush to, and compact about it. Life of the house and of -the slowly awakening stage swirls to the body of John, and thrills it. -John’s body is separate from the thoughts that pack his mind. - -Stage-lights, soft, as if they shine through clear pink fingers. -Beneath them, hid by the shadow of a set, Dorris. Other chorus girls -drift in. John feels them in the mass. And as if his own body were the -mass-heart of a black audience listening to them singing, he wants -to stamp his feet and shout. His mind, contained above desires of -his body, singles the girls out, and tries to trace origins and plot -destinies. - -A pianist slips into the pit and improvises jazz. The walls awake. Arms -of the girls, and their limbs, which .. jazz, jazz .. by lifting up -their tight street skirts they set free, jab the air and clog the floor -in rhythm to the music. (Lift your skirts, Baby, and talk t papa!) -Crude, individualized, and yet .. monotonous... - -John: Soon the director will herd you, my full-lipped, distant -beauties, and tame you, and blunt your sharp thrusts in loosely -suggestive movements, appropriate to Broadway. (O dance!) Soon the -audience will paint your dusk faces white, and call you beautiful. (O -dance!) Soon I... (O dance!) I’d like... - -Girls laugh and shout. Sing discordant snatches of other jazz songs. -Whirl with loose passion into the arms of passing show-men. - -John: Too thick. Too easy. Too monotonous. Her whom I’d love I’d leave -before she knew that I was with her. Her? Which? (O dance!) I’d like -to... - -Girls dance and sing. Men clap. The walls sing and press inward. They -press the men and girls, they press John towards a center of physical -ecstasy. Go to it, Baby! Fan yourself, and feed your papa! Put .. -nobody lied .. and take .. when they said I cried over you. No lie! -The glitter and color of stacked scenes, the gilt and brass and crimson -of the house, converge towards a center of physical ecstasy. John’s -feet and torso and his blood press in. He wills thought to rid his mind -of passion. - -“All right, girls. Alaska. Miss Reynolds, please.” - -The director wants to get the rehearsal through with. - -The girls line up. John sees the front row: dancing ponies. The rest -are in shadow. The leading lady fits loosely in the front. Lack-life, -monotonous. “One, two, three—” Music starts. The song is somewhere -where it will not strain the leading lady’s throat. The dance is -somewhere where it will not strain the girls. Above the staleness, -one dancer throws herself into it. Dorris. John sees her. Her -hair, crisp-curled, is bobbed. Bushy, black hair bobbing about her -lemon-colored face. Her lips are curiously full, and very red. Her -limbs in silk purple stockings are lovely. John feels them. Desires -her. Holds off. - -John: Stage-door johnny; chorus-girl. No, that would be all right. -Dictie, educated, stuck-up; show-girl. Yep. Her suspicion would be -stronger than her passion. It wouldnt work. Keep her loveliness. Let -her go. - -Dorris sees John and knows that he is looking at her. Her own glowing -is too rich a thing to let her feel the slimness of his diluted -passion. - -“Who’s that?” she asks her dancing partner. - -“Th manager’s brother. Dictie. Nothin doin, hon.” - -Dorris tosses her head and dances for him until she feels she has him. -Then, withdrawing disdainfully, she flirts with the director. - -Dorris: Nothin doin? How come? Aint I as good as him? Couldnt I have -got an education if I’d wanted one? Dont I know respectable folks, lots -of em, in Philadelphia and New York and Chicago? Aint I had men as good -as him? Better. Doctors an lawyers. Whats a manager’s brother, anyhow? - -Two steps back, and two steps front. - -“Say, Mame, where do you get that stuff?” - -“Whatshmean, Dorris?” - -“If you two girls cant listen to what I’m telling you, I know where I -can get some who can. Now listen.” - -Mame: Go to hell, you black bastard. - -Dorris: Whats eatin at him, anyway? - -“Now follow me in this, you girls. Its three counts to the right, -three counts to the left, and then you shimmy—” - -John: —and then you shimmy. I’ll bet she can. Some good cabaret, with -rooms upstairs. And what in hell do you think you’d get from it? Youre -going wrong. Here’s right: get her to herself—(Christ, but how she’d -bore you after the first five minutes)—not if you get her right she -wouldnt. Touch her, I mean. To herself—in some room perhaps. Some -cheap, dingy bedroom. Hell no. Cant be done. But the point is, brother -John, it can be done. Get her to herself somewhere, anywhere. Go down -in yourself—and she’d be calling you all sorts of asses while you were -in the process of going down. Hold em, bud. Cant be done. Let her go. -(Dance and I’ll love you!) And keep her loveliness. - -“All right now, Chicken Chaser. Dorris and girls. Where’s Dorris? I -told you to stay on the stage, didnt I? Well? Now thats enough. All -right. All right there, Professor? All right. One, two, three—” - -Dorris swings to the front. The line of girls, four deep, blurs within -the shadow of suspended scenes. Dorris wants to dance. The director -feels that and steps to one side. He smiles, and picks her for a -leading lady, one of these days. Odd ends of stage-men emerge from the -wings, and stare and clap. A crap game in the alley suddenly ends. -Black faces crowd the rear stage doors. The girls, catching joy from -Dorris, whip up within the footlights’ glow. They forget set steps; -they find their own. The director forgets to bawl them out. Dorris -dances. - -John: Her head bobs to Broadway. Dance from yourself. Dance! O just a -little more. - -Dorris’ eyes burn across the space of seats to him. - -Dorris: I bet he can love. Hell, he cant love. He’s too skinny. His -lips are too skinny. He wouldnt love me anyway, only for that. But I’d -get a pair of silk stockings out of it. Red silk. I got purple. Cut -it, kid. You cant win him to respect you that away. He wouldnt anyway. -Maybe he would. Maybe he’d love. I’ve heard em say that men who look -like him (what does he look like?) will marry if they love. O will you -love me? And give me kids, and a home, and everything? (I’d like to -make your nest, and honest, hon, I wouldnt run out on you.) You will if -I make you. Just watch me. - -Dorris dances. She forgets her tricks. She dances. - -Glorious songs are the muscles of her limbs. - -And her singing is of canebrake loves and mangrove feastings. - -The walls press in, singing. Flesh of a throbbing body, they press -close to John and Dorris. They close them in. John’s heart beats -tensely against her dancing body. Walls press his mind within his -heart. And then, the shaft of light goes out the window high above him. -John’s mind sweeps up to follow it. Mind pulls him upward into dream. -Dorris dances... -John dreams: - - Dorris is dressed in a loose black gown splashed with lemon - ribbons. Her feet taper long and slim from trim ankles. She - waits for him just inside the stage door. John, collar and tie - colorful and flaring, walks towards the stage door. There are - no trees in the alley. But his feet feel as though they step - on autumn leaves whose rustle has been pressed out of them by - the passing of a million satin slippers. The air is sweet with - roasting chestnuts, sweet with bonfires of old leaves. John’s - melancholy is a deep thing that seals all senses but his eyes, - and makes him whole. - - Dorris knows that he is coming. Just at the right moment she - steps from the door, as if there were no door. Her face is - tinted like the autumn alley. Of old flowers, or of a southern - canefield, her perfume. “Glorious Dorris.” So his eyes speak. - And their sadness is too deep for sweet untruth. She barely - touches his arm. They glide off with footfalls softened on the - leaves, the old leaves powdered by a million satin slippers. - - They are in a room. John knows nothing of it. Only, that the - flesh and blood of Dorris are its walls. Singing walls. Lights, - soft, as if they shine through clear pink fingers. Soft lights, - and warm. - - John reaches for a manuscript of his, and reads. Dorris, who - has no eyes, has eyes to understand him. He comes to a dancing - scene. The scene is Dorris. She dances. Dorris dances. Glorious - Dorris. Dorris whirls, whirls, dances... - - Dorris dances. - -The pianist crashes a bumper chord. The whole stage claps. Dorris, -flushed, looks quick at John. His whole face is in shadow. She seeks -for her dance in it. She finds it a dead thing in the shadow which is -his dream. She rushes from the stage. Falls down the steps into her -dressing-room. Pulls her hair. Her eyes, over a floor of tears, stare -at the whitewashed ceiling. (Smell of dry paste, and paint, and soiled -clothing.) Her pal comes in. Dorris flings herself into the old safe -arms, and cries bitterly. - -“I told you nothin doin,” is what Mame says to comfort her. - - - - - HER LIPS ARE COPPER WIRE - - - whisper of yellow globes - gleaming on lamp-posts that sway - like bootleg licker drinkers in the fog - - and let your breath be moist against me - like bright beads on yellow globes - - telephone the power-house - that the main wires are insulate - - (her words play softly up and down - dewy corridors of billboards) - - then with your tongue remove the tape - and press your lips to mine - till they are incandescent - - - - - CALLING JESUS - - -Her soul is like a little thrust-tailed dog that follows her, -whimpering. She is large enough, I know, to find a warm spot for it. -But each night when she comes home and closes the big outside storm -door, the little dog is left in the vestibule, filled with chills till -morning. Some one ... eoho Jesus ... soft as a cotton boll brushed -against the milk-pod cheek of Christ, will steal in and cover it that -it need not shiver, and carry it to her where she sleeps upon clean hay -cut in her dreams. - - • • • • • - -When you meet her in the daytime on the streets, the little dog keeps -coming. Nothing happens at first, and then, when she has forgotten -the streets and alleys, and the large house where she goes to bed of -nights, a soft thing like fur begins to rub your limbs, and you hear a -low, scared voice, lonely, calling, and you know that a cool something -nozzles moisture in your palms. Sensitive things like nostrils, quiver. -Her breath comes sweet as honeysuckle whose pistils bear the life of -coming song. And her eyes carry to where builders find no need for -vestibules, for swinging on iron hinges, storm doors. - - • • • • • - -Her soul is like a little thrust-tailed dog, that follows her, -whimpering. I’ve seen it tagging on behind her, up streets where -chestnut trees flowered, where dusty asphalt had been freshly sprinkled -with clean water. Up alleys where niggers sat on low door-steps before -tumbled shanties and sang and loved. At night, when she comes home, the -little dog is left in the vestibule, nosing the crack beneath the big -storm door, filled with chills till morning. Some one ... eoho Jesus -... soft as the bare feet of Christ moving across bales of southern -cotton, will steal in and cover it that it need not shiver, and carry -it to her where she sleeps: cradled in dream-fluted cane. - - - - - BOX SEAT - - 1 - - -Houses are shy girls whose eyes shine reticently upon the dusk body of -the street. Upon the gleaming limbs and asphalt torso of a dreaming -nigger. Shake your curled wool-blossoms, nigger. Open your liver lips -to the lean, white spring. Stir the root-life of a withered people. -Call them from their houses, and teach them to dream. - -Dark swaying forms of Negroes are street songs that woo virginal houses. - -Dan Moore walks southward on Thirteenth Street. The low limbs of -budding chestnut trees recede above his head. Chestnut buds and -blossoms are wool he walks upon. The eyes of houses faintly touch him -as he passes them. Soft girl-eyes, they set him singing. Girl-eyes -within him widen upward to promised faces. Floating away, they dally -wistfully over the dusk body of the street. Come on, Dan Moore, come -on. Dan sings. His voice is a little hoarse. It cracks. He strains to -produce tones in keeping with the houses’ loveliness. Cant be done. He -whistles. His notes are shrill. They hurt him. Negroes open gates, and -go indoors, perfectly. Dan thinks of the house he’s going to. Of the -girl. Lips, flesh-notes of a forgotten song, plead with him... - -Dan turns into a side-street, opens an iron gate, bangs it to. Mounts -the steps, and searches for the bell. Funny, he cant find it. He -fumbles around. The thought comes to him that some one passing by might -see him, and not understand. Might think that he is trying to sneak, to -break in. - -Dan: Break in. Get an ax and smash in. Smash in their faces. I’ll show -em. Break into an engine-house, steal a thousand horse-power fire -truck. Smash in with the truck. I’ll show em. Grab an ax and brain -em. Cut em up. Jack the Ripper. Baboon from the zoo. And then the -cops come. “No, I aint a baboon. I aint Jack the Ripper. I’m a poor -man out of work. Take your hands off me, you bull-necked bears. Look -into my eyes. I am Dan Moore. I was born in a canefield. The hands of -Jesus touched me. I am come to a sick world to heal it. Only the other -day, a dope fiend brushed against me— Dont laugh, you mighty, juicy, -meat-hook men. Give me your fingers and I will peel them as if they -were ripe bananas.” - -Some one might think he is trying to break in. He’d better knock. His -knuckles are raw bone against the thick glass door. He waits. No one -comes. Perhaps they havent heard him. He raps again. This time, harder. -He waits. No one comes. Some one is surely in. He fancies that he sees -their shadows on the glass. Shadows of gorillas. Perhaps they saw him -coming and dont want to let him in. He knocks. The tension of his arms -makes the glass rattle. Hurried steps come towards him. The door opens. - -“Please, you might break the glass—the bell—oh, Mr. Moore! I thought -it must be some stranger. How do you do? Come in, wont you? Muriel? -Yes. I’ll call her. Take your things off, wont you? And have a seat in -the parlor. Muriel will be right down. Muriel! Oh Muriel! Mr. Moore to -see you. She’ll be right down. You’ll pardon me, wont you? So glad to -see you.” - -Her eyes are weak. They are bluish and watery from reading newspapers. -The blue is steel. It gimlets Dan while her mouth flaps amiably to him. - -Dan: Nothing for you to see, old mussel-head. Dare I show you? If I -did, delirium would furnish you headlines for a month. Now look here. -Thats enough. Go long, woman. Say some nasty thing and I’ll kill you. -Huh. Better damned sight not. Ta-ta, Mrs. Pribby. - -Mrs. Pribby retreats to the rear of the house. She takes up a -newspaper. There is a sharp click as she fits into her chair and draws -it to the table. The click is metallic like the sound of a bolt being -shot into place. Dan’s eyes sting. Sinking into a soft couch, he closes -them. The house contracts about him. It is a sharp-edged, massed, -metallic house. Bolted. About Mrs. Pribby. Bolted to the endless rows -of metal houses. Mrs. Pribby’s house. The rows of houses belong to -other Mrs. Pribbys. No wonder he couldn’t sing to them. - -Dan: What’s Muriel doing here? God, what a place for her. Whats she -doing? Putting her stockings on? In the bathroom. Come out of there, -Dan Moore. People must have their privacy. Peeping-toms. I’ll never -peep. I’ll listen. I like to listen. - -Dan goes to the wall and places his ear against it. A passing street -car and something vibrant from the earth sends a rumble to him. That -rumble comes from the earth’s deep core. It is the mutter of powerful -underground races. Dan has a picture of all the people rushing to put -their ears against walls, to listen to it. The next world-savior is -coming up that way. Coming up. A continent sinks down. The new-world -Christ will need consummate skill to walk upon the waters where huge -bubbles burst... Thuds of Muriel coming down. Dan turns to the -piano and glances through a stack of jazz music sheets. “Ji-ji-bo, -JI-JI-BO!”.. - -“Hello, Dan, stranger, what brought you here?” - -Muriel comes in, shakes hands, and then clicks into a high-armed seat -under the orange glow of a floor-lamp. Her face is fleshy. It would -tend to coarseness but for the fresh fragrant something which is the -life of it. Her hair like an Indian’s. But more curly and bushed -and vagrant. Her nostrils flare. The flushed ginger of her cheeks is -touched orange by the shower of color from the lamp. - -“Well, you havent told me, you havent answered my question, stranger. -What brought you here?” - -Dan feels the pressure of the house, of the rear room, of the rows of -houses, shift to Muriel. He is light. He loves her. He is doubly heavy. - -“Dont know, Muriel—wanted to see you—wanted to talk to you—to see -you and tell you that I know what you’ve been through—what pain the -last few months must have been—” - -“Lets dont mention that.” - -“But why not, Muriel? I—” - -“Please.” - -“But Muriel, life is full of things like that. One grows strong and -beautiful in facing them. What else is life?” - -“I dont know, Dan. And I dont believe I care. Whats the use? Lets talk -about something else. I hear there’s a good show at the Lincoln this -week.” - -“Yes, so Harry was telling me. Going?” - -“To-night.” - -Dan starts to rise. - -“I didnt know. I dont want to keep you.” - -“Its all right. You dont have to go till Bernice comes. And she wont be -here till eight. I’m all dressed. I’ll let you know.” - -“Thanks.” - -Silence. The rustle of a newspaper being turned comes from the rear -room. - -Muriel: Shame about Dan. Something awfully good and fine about him. But -he don’t fit in. In where? Me? Dan, I could love you if I tried. I dont -have to try. I do. O Dan, dont you know I do? Timid lover, brave talker -that you are. Whats the good of all you know if you dont know that? I -wont let myself. I? Mrs. Pribby who reads newspapers all night wont. -What has she got to do with me? She is me, somehow. No she’s not. Yes -she is. She is the town, and the town wont let me love you, Dan. Dont -you know? You could make it let me if you would. Why wont you? Youre -selfish. I’m not strong enough to buck it. Youre too selfish to buck -it, for me. I wish you’d go. You irritate me. Dan, please go. - -“What are you doing now, Dan?” - -“Same old thing, Muriel. Nothing, as the world would have it. Living, -as I look at things. Living as much as I can without—” - -“But you cant live without money, Dan. Why dont you get a good job and -settle down?” - -Dan: Same old line. Shoot it at me, sister. Hell of a note, this loving -business. For ten minutes of it youve got to stand the torture of an -intolerable heaviness and a hundred platitudes. Well, damit, shoot on. - -“To what? my dear. Rustling newspapers?” - -“You mustnt say that, Dan. It isnt right. Mrs. Pribby has been awfully -good to me.” - -“Dare say she has. Whats that got to do with it?” - -“Oh, Dan, youre so unconsiderate and selfish. All you think of is -yourself.” - -“I think of you.” - -“Too much—I mean, you ought to work more and think less. Thats the -best way to get along.” - -“Mussel-heads get along, Muriel. There is more to you than that—” - -“Sometimes I think there is, Dan. But I dont know. I’ve tried. I’ve -tried to do something with myself. Something real and beautiful, I -mean. But whats the good of trying? I’ve tried to make people, every -one I come in contact with, happy—” - -Dan looks at her, directly. Her animalism, still unconquered by -zoo-restrictions and keeper-taboos, stirs him. Passion tilts upward, -bringing with it the elements of an old desire. Muriel’s lips become -the flesh-notes of a futile, plaintive longing. Dan’s impulse to direct -her is its fresh life. - -“Happy, Muriel? No, not happy. Your aim is wrong. There is no such -thing as happiness. Life bends joy and pain, beauty and ugliness, -in such a way that no one may isolate them. No one should want to. -Perfect joy, or perfect pain, with no contrasting element to define -them, would mean a monotony of consciousness, would mean death. Not -happy, Muriel. Say that you have tried to make them create. Say that -you have used your own capacity for life to cradle them. To start them -upward-flowing. Or if you cant say that you have, then say that you -will. My talking to you will make you aware of your power to do so. -Say that you will love, that you will give yourself in love—” - -“To you, Dan?” - -Dan’s consciousness crudely swerves into his passions. They flare up in -his eyes. They set up quivers in his abdomen. He is suddenly over-tense -and nervous. - -“Muriel—” - -The newspaper rustles in the rear room. - -“Muriel—” - -Dan rises. His arms stretch towards her. His fingers and his palms, -pink in the lamp-light, are glowing irons. Muriel’s chair is close and -stiff about her. The house, the rows of houses locked about her chair. -Dan’s fingers and arms are fire to melt and bars to wrench and force -and pry. Her arms hang loose. Her hands are hot and moist. Dan takes -them. He slips to his knees before her. - -“Dan, you mustnt.” - -“Muriel—” - -“Dan, really you mustnt. No, Dan. No.” - -“Oh, come, Muriel. Must I—” - -“Shhh. Dan, please get up. Please. Mrs. Pribby is right in the next -room. She’ll hear you. She may come in. Dont, Dan. She’ll see you—” - -“Well then, lets go out.” - -“I cant. Let go, Dan. Oh, wont you please let go.” - -Muriel tries to pull her hands away. Dan tightens his grip. He feels -the strength of his fingers. His muscles are tight and strong. He -stands up. Thrusts out his chest. Muriel shrinks from him. Dan becomes -aware of his crude absurdity. His lips curl. His passion chills. He has -an obstinate desire to possess her. - -“Muriel, I love you. I want you, whatever the world of Pribby says. -Damn your Pribby. Who is she to dictate my love? I’ve stood enough of -her. Enough of you. Come here.” - -Muriel’s mouth works in and out. Her eyes flash and waggle. She -wrenches her hands loose and forces them against his breast to keep -him off. Dan grabs her wrists. Wedges in between her arms. Her face is -close to him. It is hot and blue and moist. Ugly. - -“Come here now.” - -“Dont, Dan. Oh, dont. What are you killing?” - -“Whats weak in both of us and a whole litter of Pribbys. For once in -your life youre going to face whats real, by God—” - -A sharp rap on the newspaper in the rear room cuts between them. The -rap is like cool thick glass between them. Dan is hot on one side. -Muriel, hot on the other. They straighten. Gaze fearfully at one -another. Neither moves. A clock in the rear room, in the rear room, -the rear room, strikes eight. Eight slow, cool sounds. Bernice. Muriel -fastens on her image. She smooths her dress. She adjusts her skirt. -She becomes prim and cool. Rising, she skirts Dan as if to keep the -glass between them. Dan, gyrating nervously above the easy swing of his -limbs, follows her to the parlor door. Muriel retreats before him till -she reaches the landing of the steps that lead upstairs. She smiles -at him. Dan sees his face in the hall mirror. He runs his fingers -through his hair. Reaches for his hat and coat and puts them on. He -moves towards Muriel. Muriel steps backward up one step. Dan’s jaw -shoots out. Muriel jerks her arm in warning of Mrs. Pribby. She gasps -and turns and starts to run. Noise of a chair scraping as Mrs. Pribby -rises from it, ratchets down the hall. Dan stops. He makes a wry face, -wheels round, goes out, and slams the door. - - - 2 - -People come in slowly ... mutter, laughs, flutter, whishadwash, “I’ve -changed my work-clothes—” ... and fill vacant seats of Lincoln -Theater. Muriel, leading Bernice who is a cross between a washerwoman -and a blue-blood lady, a washer-blue, a washer-lady, wanders down the -right aisle to the lower front box. Muriel has on an orange dress. -Its color would clash with the crimson box-draperies, its color would -contradict the sweet rose smile her face is bathed in, should she take -her coat off. She’ll keep it on. Pale purple shadows rest on the planes -of her cheeks. Deep purple comes from her thick-shocked hair. Orange -of the dress goes well with these. Muriel presses her coat down from -around her shoulders. Teachers are not supposed to have bobbed hair. -She’ll keep her hat on. She takes the first chair, and indicates that -Bernice is to take the one directly behind her. Seated thus, her eyes -are level with, and near to, the face of an imaginary man upon the -stage. To speak to Berny she must turn. When she does, the audience is -square upon her. - -People come in slowly ... “—for my Sunday-go-to-meeting dress. O glory -God! O shout Amen!” ... and fill vacant seats of Lincoln Theater. Each -one is a bolt that shoots into a slot, and is locked there. Suppose -the Lord should ask, where was Moses when the light went out? Suppose -Gabriel should blow his trumpet! The seats are slots. The seats are -bolted houses. The mass grows denser. Its weight at first is impalpable -upon the box. Then Muriel begins to feel it. She props her arm against -the brass box-rail, to ward it off. Silly. These people are friends of -hers: a parent of a child she teaches, an old school friend. She smiles -at them. They return her courtesy, and she is free to chat with Berny. -Berny’s tongue, started, runs on, and on. O washer-blue! O washer-lady! - -Muriel: Never see Dan again. He makes me feel queer. Starts things he -doesnt finish. Upsets me. I am not upset. I am perfectly calm. I am -going to enjoy the show. Good show. I’ve had some show! This damn tame -thing. O Dan. Wont see Dan again. Not alone. Have Mrs. Pribby come in. -She _was_ in. Keep Dan out. If I love him, can I keep him out? Well -then, I dont love him. Now he’s out. Who is that coming in? Blind as a -bat. Ding-bat. Looks like Dan. He mustnt see me. Silly. He cant reach -me. He wont dare come in here. He’d put his head down like a goring -bull and charge me. He’d trample them. He’d gore. He’d rape! Berny! He -won’t dare come in here. - -“Berny, who was that who just came in? I havent my glasses.” - -“A friend of yours, a _good_ friend so I hear. Mr. Daniel Moore, Lord.” - -“Oh. He’s no friend of mine.” - -“No? I hear he is.” - -“Well, he isnt.” - -Dan is ushered down the aisle. He has to squeeze past the knees of -seated people to reach his own seat. He treads on a man’s corns. The -man grumbles, and shoves him off. He shrivels close beside a portly -Negress whose huge rolls of flesh meet about the bones of seat-arms. -A soil-soaked fragrance comes from her. Through the cement floor -her strong roots sink down. They spread under the asphalt streets. -Dreaming, the streets roll over on their bellies, and suck their glossy -health from them. Her strong roots sink down and spread under the river -and disappear in blood-lines that waver south. Her roots shoot down. -Dan’s hands follow them. Roots throb. Dan’s heart beats violently. He -places his palms upon the earth to cool them. Earth throbs. Dan’s heart -beats violently. He sees all the people in the house rush to the walls -to listen to the rumble. A new-world Christ is coming up. Dan comes up. -He is startled. The eyes of the woman dont belong to her. They look at -him unpleasantly. From either aisle, bolted masses press in. He doesnt -fit. The mass grows agitant. For an instant, Dan’s and Muriel’s eyes -meet. His weight there slides the weight on her. She braces an arm -against the brass rail, and turns her head away. - -Muriel: Damn fool; dear Dan, what did you want to follow me here for? -Oh cant you ever do anything right? Must you always pain me, and -make me hate you? I do hate you. I wish some one would come in with a -horse-whip and lash you out. I wish some one would drag you up a back -alley and brain you with the whip-butt. - -Muriel glances at her wrist-watch. - -“Quarter of nine. Berny, what time have you?” - -“Eight-forty. Time to begin. Oh, look Muriel, that woman with the -plume; doesnt she look good! They say she’s going with, oh, whats his -name. You know. Too much powder. I can see it from here. Here’s the -orchestra now. O fine! Jim Clem at the piano!” - -The men fill the pit. Instruments run the scale and tune. The saxophone -moans and throws a fit. Jim Clem, poised over the piano, is ready to -begin. His head nods forward. Opening crash. The house snaps dark. The -curtain recedes upward from the blush of the footlights. Jazz overture -is over. The first act is on. - -Dan: Old stuff. Muriel—bored. Must be. But she’ll smile and she’ll -clap. Do what youre bid, you she-slave. Look at her. Sweet, tame woman -in a brass box seat. Clap, smile, fawn, clap. Do what youre bid. Drag -me in with you. Dirty me. Prop me in your brass box seat. I’m there, am -I not? because of you. He-slave. Slave of a woman who is a slave. I’m a -damned sight worse than you are. I sing your praises, Beauty! I exalt -thee, O Muriel! A slave, thou art greater than all Freedom because I -love thee. - -Dan fidgets, and disturbs his neighbors. His neighbors glare at him. -He glares back without seeing them. The man whose corns have been trod -upon speaks to him. - -“Keep quiet, cant you, mister. Other people have paid their money -besides yourself to see the show.” - -The man’s face is a blur about two sullen liquid things that are his -eyes. The eyes dissolve in the surrounding vagueness. Dan suddenly -feels that the man is an enemy whom he has long been looking for. - -Dan bristles. Glares furiously at the man. - -“All right. All right then. Look at the show. I’m not stopping you.” - -“Shhh,” from some one in the rear. - -Dan turns around. - -“Its that man there who started everything. I didnt say a thing to him -until he tried to start something. What have I got to do with whether -he has paid his money or not? Thats the manager’s business. Do I look -like the manager?” - -“Shhhh. Youre right. Shhhh.” - -“Dont tell me to shhh. Tell him. That man there. He started everything. -If what he wanted was to start a fight, why didnt he say so?” - -The man leans forward. - -“Better be quiet, sonny. I aint said a thing about fight, yet.” - -“Its a good thing you havent.” - -“Shhhh.” - -Dan grips himself. Another act is on. Dwarfs, dressed like -prize-fighters, foreheads bulging like boxing gloves, are led upon -the stage. They are going to fight for the heavyweight championship. -Gruesome. Dan glances at Muriel. He imagines that she shudders. His -mind curves back into himself, and picks up tail-ends of experiences. -His eyes are open, mechanically. The dwarfs pound and bruise and bleed -each other, on his eyeballs. - -Dan: Ah, but she was some baby! And not vulgar either. Funny how some -women can do those things. Muriel dancing like that! Hell. She rolled -and wabbled. Her buttocks rocked. She pulled up her dress and showed -her pink drawers. Baby! And then she caught my eyes. Dont know what my -eyes had in them. Yes I do. God, dont I though! Sometimes I think, Dan -Moore, that your eyes could burn clean ... burn clean ... BURN CLEAN!.. - -The gong rings. The dwarfs set to. They spar grotesquely, playfully, -until one lands a stiff blow. This makes the other sore. He commences -slugging. A real scrap is on. Time! The dwarfs go to their corners -and are sponged and fanned off. Gloves bulge from their wrists. Their -wrists are necks for the tight-faced gloves. The fellow to the right -lets his eyes roam over the audience. He sights Muriel. He grins. - -Dan: Those silly women arguing feminism. Here’s what I should have said -to them. “It should be clear to you women, that the proposition must -be stated thus: - - Me, horizontally above her. - Action: perfect strokes downward oblique. - Hence, man dominates because of limitation. - Or, so it shall be until women learn their stuff. - -So framed, the proposition is a mental-filler, Dentist, I -want gold teeth. It should become cherished of the technical intellect. -I hereby offer it to posterity as one of the important machine-age -designs. P. S. It should be noted, that because it _is_ an achievement -of this age, its growth and hence its causes, up to the point of -maturity, antedate machinery. Ery...” - -The gong rings. No fooling this time. The dwarfs set to. They clinch. -The referee parts them. One swings a cruel upper-cut and knocks the -other down. A huge head hits the floor. Pop! The house roars. The -fighter, groggy, scrambles up. The referee whispers to the contenders -not to fight so hard. They ignore him. They charge. Their heads jab -like boxing-gloves. They kick and spit and bite. They pound each other -furiously. Muriel pounds. The house pounds. Cut lips. Bloody noses. -The referee asks for the gong. Time! The house roars. The dwarfs bow, -are made to bow. The house wants more. The dwarfs are led from the -stage. - -Dan: Strange I never really noticed him before. Been sitting there for -years. Born a slave. Slavery not so long ago. He’ll die in his chair. -Swing low, sweet chariot. Jesus will come and roll him down the river -Jordan. Oh, come along, Moses, you’ll get lost; stretch out your rod -and come across. LET MY PEOPLE GO! Old man. Knows everyone who passes -the corners. Saw the first horse-cars. The first Oldsmobile. And he was -born in slavery. I did see his eyes. Never miss eyes. But they were -bloodshot and watery. It hurt to look at them. It hurts to look in most -people’s eyes. He saw Grant and Lincoln. He saw Walt—old man, did you -see Walt Whitman? Did you see Walt Whitman! Strange force that drew me -to him. And I went up to see. The woman thought I saw crazy. I told -him to look into the heavens. He did, and smiled. I asked him if he -knew what that rumbling is that comes up from the ground. Christ, what -a stroke that was. And the jabbering idiots crowding around. And the -crossing-cop leaving his job to come over and wheel him away... - -The house applauds. The house wants more. The dwarfs are led back. But -no encore. Must give the house something. The attendant comes out and -announces that Mr. Barry, the champion, will sing one of his own songs, -“for your approval.” Mr. Barry grins at Muriel as he wabbles from the -wing. He holds a fresh white rose, and a small mirror. He wipes blood -from his nose. He signals Jim Clem. The orchestra starts. A sentimental -love song, Mr. Barry sings, first to one girl, and then another in the -audience. He holds the mirror in such a way that it flashes in the face -of each one he sings to. The light swings around. - -Dan: I am going to reach up and grab the girders of this building and -pull them down. The crash will be a signal. Hid by the smoke and dust -Dan Moore will arise. In his right hand will be a dynamo. In his left, -a god’s face that will flash white light from ebony. I’ll grab a girder -and swing it like a walking-stick. Lightning will flash. I’ll grab -its black knob and swing it like a crippled cane. Lightning... Some -one’s flashing ... some one’s flashing... Who in hell is flashing that -mirror? Take it off me, godam you. - -Dan’s eyes are half blinded. He moves his head. The light follows. -He hears the audience laugh. He hears the orchestra. A man with a -high-pitched, sentimental voice is singing. Dan sees the dwarf. Along -the mirror flash the song comes. Dan ducks his head. The audience -roars. The light swings around to Muriel. Dan looks. Muriel is too -close. Mr. Barry covers his mirror. He sings to her. She shrinks away. -Nausea. She clutches the brass box-rail. She moves to face away. -The audience is square upon her. Its eyes smile. Its hands itch to -clap. Muriel turns to the dwarf and forces a smile at him. With a -showy blare of orchestration, the song comes to its close. Mr. Barry -bows. He offers Muriel the rose, first having kissed it. Blood of his -battered lips is a vivid stain upon its petals. Mr. Barry offers Muriel -the rose. The house applauds. Muriel flinches back. The dwarf steps -forward, diffident; threatening. Hate pops from his eyes and crackles -like a brittle heat about the box. The thick hide of his face is drawn -in tortured wrinkles. Above his eyes, the bulging, tight-skinned brow. -Dan looks at it. It grows calm and massive. It grows profound. It is -a thing of wisdom and tenderness, of suffering and beauty. Dan looks -down. The eyes are calm and luminous. Words come from them... Arms -of the audience reach out, grab Muriel, and hold her there. Claps -are steel fingers that manacle her wrists and move them forward to -acceptance. Berny leans forward and whispers: - -“Its all right. Go on—take it.” - -Words form in the eyes of the dwarf: - - Do not shrink. Do not be afraid of me. - _Jesus_ - See how my eyes look at you. - _the Son of God_ - I too was made in His image. - _was once_— - I give you the rose. - -Muriel, tight in her revulsion, sees black, and daintily reaches for -the offering. As her hand touches it, Dan springs up in his seat and -shouts: - - “JESUS WAS ONCE A LEPER!” - -Dan steps down. - -He is as cool as a green stem that has just shed its flower. - -Rows of gaping faces strain towards him. They are distant, beneath him, -impalpable. Squeezing out, Dan again treads upon the corn-foot man. The -man shoves him. - -“Watch where youre going, mister. Crazy or no, you aint going to walk -over me. Watch where youre going there.” - -Dan turns, and serenely tweaks the fellow’s nose. The man jumps up. Dan -is jammed against a seat-back. A slight swift anger flicks him. His -fist hooks the other’s jaw. - -“Now you have started something. Aint no man living can hit me and get -away with it. Come on on the outside.” - -The house, tumultuously stirring, grabs its wraps and follows the men. - -The man leads Dan up a black alley. The alley-air is thick and moist -with smells of garbage and wet trash. In the morning, singing niggers -will drive by and ring their gongs... Heavy with the scent of rancid -flowers and with the scent of fight. The crowd, pressing forward, is a -hollow roar. Eyes of houses, soft girl-eyes, glow reticently upon the -hubbub and blink out. The man stops. Takes off his hat and coat. Dan, -having forgotten him, keeps going on. - - - - - PRAYER - - - My body is opaque to the soul. - Driven of the spirit, long have I sought to temper it unto the - spirit’s longing, - But my mind, too, is opaque to the soul. - A closed lid is my soul’s flesh-eye. - O Spirits of whom my soul is but a little finger, - Direct it to the lid of its flesh-eye. - I am weak with much giving. - I am weak with the desire to give more. - (How strong a thing is the little finger!) - So weak that I have confused the body with the soul, - And the body with its little finger. - (How frail is the little finger.) - My voice could not carry to you did you dwell in stars, - O Spirits of whom my soul is but a little finger.. - - - - - HARVEST SONG - - - I am a reaper whose muscles set at sundown. All my oats are - cradled. - But I am too chilled, and too fatigued to bind them. - And I hunger. - - I crack a grain between my teeth. I do not taste it. - I have been in the fields all day. My throat is dry. - I hunger. - - My eyes are caked with dust of oatfields at harvest-time. - I am a blind man who stares across the hills, seeking stack’d - fields of other harvesters. - - It would be good to see them .. crook’d, split, and iron-ring’d - handles of the scythes. It would be good to see them, - dust-caked and blind. I hunger. - - (Dusk is a strange fear’d sheath their blades are dull’d in.) - My throat is dry. And should I call, a cracked grain like the oats - ... eoho— - - I fear to call. What should they hear me, and offer me their - grain, oats, or wheat, or corn? I have been in the fields all - day. I fear I could not taste it. I fear knowledge of my - hunger. - - My ears are caked with dust of oatfields at harvest-time. - I am a deaf man who strains to hear the calls of other harvesters - whose throats are also dry. - - It would be good to hear their songs .. reapers of the - sweet-stalk’d cane, cutters of the corn .. even though their - throats cracked and the strangeness of their voices deafened - me. - - I hunger. My throat is dry. Now that the sun has set and I am - chilled, I fear to call. (Eoho, my brothers!) - - I am a reaper. (Eoho!) All my oats are cradled. But I am too - fatigued to bind them. And I hunger. I crack a grain. It has - no taste to it. My throat is dry... - - O my brothers, I beat my palms, still soft, against the stubble of - my harvesting. (You beat your soft palms, too.) My pain is - sweet. Sweeter than the oats or wheat or corn. It will not - bring me knowledge of my hunger. - - - - - BONA AND PAUL - - - 1 - -On the school gymnasium floor, young men and women are drilling. They -are going to be teachers, and go out into the world .. thud, thud .. -and give precision to the movements of sick people who all their lives -have been drilling. One man is out of step. In step. The teacher glares -at him. A girl in bloomers, seated on a mat in the corner because she -has told the director that she is sick, sees that the footfalls of the -men are rhythmical and syncopated. The dance of his blue-trousered -limbs thrills her. - -Bona: He is a candle that dances in a grove swung with pale balloons. - -Columns of the drillers thud towards her. He is in the front row. He is -in no row at all. Bona can look close at him. His red-brown face— - -Bona: He is a harvest moon. He is an autumn leaf. He is a nigger. Bona! -But dont all the dorm girls say so? And dont you, when you are sane, -say so? Thats why I love—Oh, nonsense. You have never loved a man who -didnt first love you. Besides— - -Columns thud away from her. Come to a halt in line formation. Rigid. -The period bell rings, and the teacher dismisses them. - -A group collects around Paul. They are choosing sides for basket-ball. -Girls against boys. Paul has his. He is limbering up beneath the -basket. Bona runs to the girl captain and asks to be chosen. The girls -fuss. The director comes to quiet them. He hears what Bona wants. - -“But, Miss Hale, you were excused—” - -“So I was, Mr. Boynton, but—” - -“—you can play basket-ball, but you are too sick to drill.” - -“If you wish to put it that way.” - -She swings away from him to the girl captain. - -“Helen, I want to play, and you must let me. This is the first time -I’ve asked and I dont see why—” - -“Thats just it, Bona. We have our team.” - -“Well, team or no team, I want to play and thats all there is to it.” - -She snatches the ball from Helen’s hands, and charges down the floor. - -Helen shrugs. One of the weaker girls says that she’ll drop out. Helen -accepts this. The team is formed. The whistle blows. The game starts. -Bona, in center, is jumping against Paul. He plays with her. Out-jumps -her, makes a quick pass, gets a quick return, and shoots a goal from -the middle of the floor. Bona burns crimson. She fights, and tries to -guard him. One of her team-mates advises her not to play so hard. Paul -shoots his second goal. - -Bona begins to feel a little dizzy and all in. She drives on. Almost -hugs Paul to guard him. Near the basket, he attempts to shoot, and Bona -lunges into his body and tries to beat his arms. His elbow, going up, -gives her a sharp crack on the jaw. She whirls. He catches her. Her -body stiffens. Then becomes strangely vibrant, and bursts to a swift -life within her anger. He is about to give way before her hatred when -a new passion flares at him and makes his stomach fall. Bona squeezes -him. He suddenly feels stifled, and wonders why in hell the ring of -silly gaping faces that’s caked about him doesnt make way and give -him air. He has a swift illusion that it is himself who has been -struck. He looks at Bona. Whir. Whir. They seem to be human distortions -spinning tensely in a fog. Spinning .. dizzy .. spinning... Bona -jerks herself free, flushes a startling crimson, breaks through the -bewildered teams, and rushes from the hall. - - - 2 - -Paul is in his room of two windows. - -Outside, the South-Side L track cuts them in two. - -Bona is one window. One window, Paul. - -Hurtling Loop-jammed L trains throw them in swift shadow. - -Paul goes to his. Gray slanting roofs of houses are tinted lavender -in the setting sun. Paul follows the sun, over the stock-yards where -a fresh stench is just arising, across wheat lands that are still -waving above their stubble, into the sun. Paul follows the sun to a -pine-matted hillock in Georgia. He sees the slanting roofs of gray -unpainted cabins tinted lavender. A Negress chants a lullaby beneath -the mate-eyes of a southern planter. Her breasts are ample for the -suckling of a song. She weans it, and sends it, curiously weaving, -among lush melodies of cane and corn. Paul follows the sun into himself -in Chicago. - -He is at Bona’s window. - -With his own glow he looks through a dark pane. - - • • • • • - -Paul’s room-mate comes in. - -“Say, Paul, I’ve got a date for you. Come on. Shake a leg, will you?” - -His blonde hair is combed slick. His vest is snug about him. - -He is like the electric light which he snaps on. - -“Whatdoysay, Paul? Get a wiggle on. Come on. We havent got much time by -the time we eat and dress and everything.” - -His bustling concentrates on the brushing of his hair. - -Art: What in hell’s getting into Paul of late, anyway? Christ, but he’s -getting moony. Its his blood. Dark blood: moony. Doesnt get anywhere -unless you boost it. You’ve got to keep it going— - -“Say, Paul!” - -—or it’ll go to sleep on you. Dark blood; nigger? Thats what those -jealous she-hens say. Not Bona though, or she .. from the South .. -wouldnt want me to fix a date for him and her. Hell of a thing, that -Paul’s dark: you’ve got to always be answering questions. - -“Say, Paul, for Christ’s sake leave that window, cant you?” - -“Whats it, Art?” - -“Hell, I’ve told you about fifty times. Got a date for you. Come on.” - -“With who?” - -Art: He didnt use to ask; now he does. Getting up in the air. Getting -funny. - -“Heres your hat. Want a smoke? Paul! Here. I’ve got a match. Now come -on and I’ll tell you all about it on the way to supper.” - -Paul: He’s going to Life this time. No doubt of that. Quit your -kidding. Some day, dear Art, I’m going to kick the living slats out of -you, and you wont know what I’ve done it for. And your slats will bring -forth Life .. beautiful woman... - -_Pure Food Restaurant._ - -“Bring me some soup with a lot of crackers, understand? And then a -roast-beef dinner. Same for you, eh, Paul? Now as I was saying, you’ve -got a swell chance with her. And she’s game. Best proof: she dont give -a damn what the dorm girls say about you and her in the gym, or about -the funny looks that Boynton gives her, or about what they say about, -well, hell, you know, Paul. And say, Paul, she’s a sweetheart. Tall, -not puffy and pretty, more serious and deep—the kind you like these -days. And they say she’s got a car. And say, she’s on fire. But you -know all about that. She got Helen to fix it up with me. The four of -us—remember the last party? Crimson Gardens! Boy!” - -Paul’s eyes take on a light that Art can settle in. - - - 3 - -Art has on his patent-leather pumps and fancy vest. A loose fall coat -is swung across his arm. His face has been massaged, and over a close -shave, powdered. It is a healthy pink the blue of evening tints a -purple pallor. Art is happy and confident in the good looks that his -mirror gave him. Bubbling over with a joy he must spend now if the -night is to contain it all. His bubbles, too, are curiously tinted -purple as Paul watches them. Paul, contrary to what he had thought he -would be like, is cool like the dusk, and like the dusk, detached. -His dark face is a floating shade in evening’s shadow. He sees Art, -curiously. Art is a purple fluid, carbon-charged, that effervesces -besides him. He loves Art. But is it not queer, this pale purple -facsimile of a red-blooded Norwegian friend of his? Perhaps for some -reason, white skins are not supposed to live at night. Surely, enough -nights would transform them fantastically, or kill them. And their red -passion? Night paled that too, and made it moony. Moony. Thats what Art -thought of him. Bona didnt, even in the daytime. Bona, would she be -pale? Impossible. Not that red glow. But the conviction did not set his -emotion flowing. - -“Come right in, wont you? The young ladies will be right down. Oh, Mr. -Carlstrom, do play something for us while you are waiting. We just -love to listen to your music. You play so well.” - -Houses, and dorm sitting-rooms are places where white faces seclude -themselves at night. There is a reason... - -Art sat on the piano and simply tore it down. Jazz. The picture of Our -Poets hung perilously. - -Paul: I’ve got to get the kid to play that stuff for me in the daytime. -Might be different. More himself. More nigger. Different? There is. -Curious, though. - -The girls come in. Art stops playing, and almost immediately takes up a -petty quarrel, where he had last left it, with Helen. - -Bona, black-hair curled staccato, sharply contrasting with Helen’s -puffy yellow, holds Paul’s hand. She squeezes it. Her own emotion -supplements the return pressure. And then, for no tangible reason, her -spirits drop. Without them, she is nervous, and slightly afraid. She -resents this. Paul’s eyes are critical. She resents Paul. She flares at -him. She flares to poise and security. - -“Shall we be on our way?” - -“Yes, Bona, certainly.” - - • • • • • - -The Boulevard is sleek in asphalt, and, with arc-lights and -limousines, aglow. Dry leaves scamper behind the whir of cars. The -scent of exploded gasoline that mingles with them is faintly sweet. -Mellow stone mansions over-shadow clapboard homes which now resemble -Negro shanties in some southern alley. Bona and Paul, and Art and -Helen, move along an island-like, far-stretching strip of leaf-soft -ground. Above them, worlds of shadow-planes and solids, silently -moving. As if on one of these, Paul looks down on Bona. No doubt of it: -her face is pale. She is talking. Her words have no feel to them. One -sees them. They are pink petals that fall upon velvet cloth. Bona is -soft, and pale, and beautiful. - -“Paul, tell me something about yourself—or would you rather wait?” - -“I’ll tell you anything you’d like to know.” - -“Not what I want to know, Paul; what you want to tell me.” - -“You have the beauty of a gem fathoms under sea.” - -“I feel that, but I dont want to be. I want to be near you. Perhaps I -will be if I tell you something. Paul, I love you.” - -The sea casts up its jewel into his hands, and burns them furiously. To -tuck her arm under his and hold her hand will ease the burn. - -“What can I say to you, brave dear woman—I cant talk love. Love is a -dry grain in my mouth unless it is wet with kisses.” - -“You would dare? right here on the Boulevard? before Arthur and Helen?” - -“Before myself? I dare.” - -“Here then.” - -Bona, in the slim shadow of a tree trunk, pulls Paul to her. Suddenly -she stiffens. Stops. - -“But you have not said you love me.” - -“I cant—yet—Bona.” - -“Ach, you never will. Youre cold. Cold.” - -Bona: Colored; cold. Wrong somewhere. - -She hurries and catches up with Art and Helen. - - - 4 - -Crimson Gardens. Hurrah! So one feels. People ... University of Chicago -students, members of the stock exchange, a large Negro in crimson -uniform who guards the door .. had watched them enter. Had leaned -towards each other over ash-smeared tablecloths and highballs and -whispered: What is he, a Spaniard, an Indian, an Italian, a Mexican, a -Hindu, or a Japanese? Art had at first fidgeted under their stares .. -what are _you_ looking at, you godam pack of owl-eyed hyenas? .. but -soon settled into his fuss with Helen, and forgot them. A strange thing -happened to Paul. Suddenly he knew that he was apart from the people -around him. Apart from the pain which they had unconsciously caused. -Suddenly he knew that people saw, not attractiveness in his dark skin, -but difference. Their stares, giving him to himself, filled something -long empty within him, and were like green blades sprouting in his -consciousness. There was fullness, and strength and peace about it all. -He saw himself, cloudy, but real. He saw the faces of the people at -the tables round him. White lights, or as now, the pink lights of the -Crimson Gardens gave a glow and immediacy to white faces. The pleasure -of it, equal to that of love or dream, of seeing this. Art and Bona and -Helen? He’d look. They were wonderfully flushed and beautiful. Not for -himself; because they were. Distantly. Who were they, anyway? God, if -he knew them. He’d come in with them. Of that he was sure. Come where? -Into life? Yes. No. Into the Crimson Gardens. A part of life. A carbon -bubble. Would it look purple if he went out into the night and looked -at it? His sudden starting to rise almost upset the table. - -“What in hell—pardon—whats the matter, Paul?” - -“I forgot my cigarettes—” - -“Youre smoking one.” - -“So I am. Pardon me.” - -The waiter straightens them out. Takes their order. - -Art: What in hell’s eating Paul? Moony aint the word for it. From bad -to worse. And those godam people staring so. Paul’s a queer fish. -Doesnt seem to mind... He’s my pal, let me tell you, you horn-rimmed -owl-eyed hyena at that table, and a lot better than you whoever you -are... Queer about him. I could stick up for him if he’d only come -out, one way or the other, and tell a feller. Besides, a room-mate has -a right to know. Thinks I wont understand. Said so. He’s got a swell -head when it comes to brains, all right. God, he’s a good straight -feller, though. Only, moony. Nut. Nuttish. Nuttery. Nutmeg... “What’d -you say, Helen?” - -“I was talking to Bona, thank you.” - -“Well, its nothing to get spiffy about.” - -“What? Oh, of course not. Please lets dont start some silly argument -all over again.” - -“Well.” - -“Well.” - -“Now thats enough. Say, waiter, whats the matter with our order? Make -it snappy, will you?” - -Crimson Gardens. Hurrah! So one feels. The drinks come. Four highballs. -Art passes cigarettes. A girl dressed like a bare-back rider in flaming -pink, makes her way through tables to the dance floor. All lights are -dimmed till they seem a lush afterglow of crimson. Spotlights the girl. -She sings. “Liza, Little Liza Jane.” - -Paul is rosy before his window. - -He moves, slightly, towards Bona. - -With his own glow, he seeks to penetrate a dark pane. - -Paul: From the South. What does that mean, precisely, except that -you’ll love or hate a nigger? Thats a lot. What does it mean except -that in Chicago you’ll have the courage to neither love or hate. A -priori. But it would seem that you have. Queer words, arent these, -for a man who wears blue pants on a gym floor in the daytime. Well, -never matter. You matter. I’d like to know you whom I look at. Know, -not love. Not that knowing is a greater pleasure; but that I have -just found the joy of it. You came just a month too late. Even this -afternoon I dreamed. To-night, along the Boulevard, you found me cold. -Paul Johnson, cold! Thats a good one, eh, Art, you fine old stupid -fellow, you! But I feel good! The color and the music and the song... -A Negress chants a lullaby beneath the mate-eyes of a southern planter. -O song!.. And those flushed faces. Eager brilliant eyes. Hard to -imagine them as unawakened. Your own. Oh, they’re awake all right. “And -you know it too, dont you Bona?” - -“What, Paul?” - -“The truth of what I was thinking.” - -“I’d like to know I know—something of you.” - -“You will—before the evening’s over. I promise it.” - -Crimson Gardens. Hurrah! So one feels. The bare-back rider balances -agilely on the applause which is the tail of her song. Orchestral -instruments warm up for jazz. The flute is a cat that ripples its fur -against the deep-purring saxophone. The drum throws sticks. The cat -jumps on the piano keyboard. Hi diddle, hi diddle, the cat and the -fiddle. Crimson Gardens .. hurrah! .. jumps over the moon. Crimson -Gardens! Helen .. O Eliza .. rabbit-eyes sparkling, plays up to, -and tries to placate what she considers to be Paul’s contempt. She -always does that .. Little Liza Jane... Once home, she burns with -the thought of what she’s done. She says all manner of snidy things -about him, and swears that she’ll never go out again when he is along. -She tries to get Art to break with him, saying, that if Paul, whom -the whole dormitory calls a nigger, is more to him than she is, well, -she’s through. She does not break with Art. She goes out as often as -she can with Art and Paul. She explains this to herself by a piece of -information which a friend of hers had given her: men like him (Paul) -can fascinate. One is not responsible for fascination. Not one girl had -really loved Paul; he fascinated them. Bona didnt; only thought she -did. Time would tell. And of course, _she_ didnt. Liza... She plays up -to, and tries to placate, Paul. - -“Paul is so deep these days, and I’m so glad he’s found some one to -interest him.” - -“I dont believe I do.” - -The thought escapes from Bona just a moment before her anger at having -said it. - -Bona: You little puffy cat, I do. I do! - -Dont I, Paul? her eyes ask. - -Her answer is a crash of jazz from the palm-hidden orchestra. Crimson -Gardens is a body whose blood flows to a clot upon the dance floor. Art -and Helen clot. Soon, Bona and Paul. Paul finds her a little stiff, and -his mind, wandering to Helen (silly little kid who wants every highball -spoon her hands touch, for a souvenir), supple, perfect little dancer, -wishes for the next dance when he and Art will exchange. - -Bona knows that she must win him to herself. - -“Since when have men like you grown cold?” - -“The first philosopher.” - -“I thought you were a poet—or a gym director.” - -“Hence, your failure to make love.” - -Bona’s eyes flare. Water. Grow red about the rims. She would like to -tear away from him and dash across the clotted floor. - -“What do you mean?” - -“Mental concepts rule you. If they were flush with mine—good. I dont -believe they are.” - -“How do you know, Mr. Philosopher?” - -“Mostly a priori.” - -“You talk well for a gym director.” - -“And you—” - -“I hate you. Ou!” - -She presses away. Paul, conscious of the convention in it, pulls her -to him. Her body close. Her head still strains away. He nearly crushes -her. She tries to pinch him. Then sees people staring, and lets her -arms fall. Their eyes meet. Both, contemptuous. The dance takes blood -from their minds and packs it, tingling, in the torsos of their swaying -bodies. Passionate blood leaps back into their eyes. They are a dizzy -blood clot on a gyrating floor. - -They know that the pink-faced people have no part in what they feel. -Their instinct leads them away from Art and Helen, and towards the -big uniformed black man who opens and closes the gilded exit door. -The cloak-room girl is tolerant of their impatience over such trivial -things as wraps. And slightly superior. As the black man swings the -door for them, his eyes are knowing. Too many couples have passed out, -flushed and fidgety, for him not to know. The chill air is a shock to -Paul. A strange thing happens. He sees the Gardens purple, as if he -were way off. And a spot is in the purple. The spot comes furiously -towards him. Face of the black man. It leers. It smiles sweetly like a -child’s. Paul leaves Bona and darts back so quickly that he doesnt give -the door-man a chance to open. He swings in. Stops. Before the huge -bulk of the Negro. - -“Youre wrong.” - -“Yassur.” - -“Brother, youre wrong.” - -“I came back to tell you, to shake your hand, and tell you that you are -wrong. That something beautiful is going to happen. That the -Gardens are purple like a bed of roses would be at dusk. That I -came into the Gardens, into life in the Gardens with one whom I did -not know. That I danced with her, and did not know her. That I felt -passion, contempt and passion for her whom I did not know. That I -thought of her. That my thoughts were matches thrown into a dark -window. And all the while the Gardens were purple like a bed of roses -would be at dusk. I came back to tell you, brother, that white faces -are petals of roses. That dark faces are petals of dusk. That I am -going out and gather petals. That I am going out and know her whom I -brought here with me to these Gardens which are purple like a bed of -roses would be at dusk.” - -Paul and the black man shook hands. - -When he reached the spot where they had been standing, Bona was gone. - -[Illustration] - - - to WALDO FRANK. - - - - - KABNIS - - - 1 - -Ralph Kabnis, propped in his bed, tries to read. To read himself to -sleep. An oil lamp on a chair near his elbow burns unsteadily. The -cabin room is spaced fantastically about it. Whitewashed hearth and -chimney, black with sooty saw-teeth. Ceiling, patterned by the fringed -globe of the lamp. The walls, unpainted, are seasoned a rosin yellow. -And cracks between the boards are black. These cracks are the lips the -night winds use for whispering. Night winds in Georgia are vagrant -poets, whispering. Kabnis, against his will, lets his book slip down, -and listens to them. The warm whiteness of his bed, the lamp-light, do -not protect him from the weird chill of their song: - - White-man’s land. - Niggers, sing. - Burn, bear black children - Till poor rivers bring - Rest, and sweet glory - In Camp Ground. - -Kabnis’ thin hair is streaked on the pillow. His hand strokes the slim -silk of his mustache. His thumb, pressed under his chin, seems to be -trying to give squareness and projection to it. Brown eyes stare from -a lemon face. Moisture gathers beneath his arm-pits. He slides down -beneath the cover, seeking release. - -Kabnis: Near me. Now. Whoever you are, my warm glowing sweetheart, -do not think that the face that rests beside you is the real Kabnis. -Ralph Kabnis is a dream. And dreams are faces with large eyes and weak -chins and broad brows that get smashed by the fists of square faces. -The body of the world is bull-necked. A dream is a soft face that fits -uncertainly upon it... God, if I could develop that in words. Give -what I know a bull-neck and a heaving body, all would go well with -me, wouldnt it, sweetheart? If I could feel that I came to the South -to face it. If I, the dream (not what is weak and afraid in me) could -become the face of the South. How my lips would sing for it, my songs -being the lips of its soul. Soul. Soul hell. There aint no such thing. -What in hell was that? - -A rat had run across the thin boards of the ceiling. Kabnis thrusts his -head out from the covers. Through the cracks, a powdery faded red dust -sprays down on him. Dust of slave-fields, dried, scattered... No use -to read. Christ, if he only could drink himself to sleep. Something -as sure as fate was going to happen. He couldnt stand this thing much -longer. A hen, perched on a shelf in the adjoining room begins to -tread. Her nails scrape the soft wood. Her feathers ruffle. - -“Get out of that, you egg-laying bitch.” - -Kabnis hurls a slipper against the wall. The hen flies from her perch -and cackles as if a skunk were after her. - -“Now cut out that racket or I’ll wring your neck for you.” - -Answering cackles arise in the chicken yard. - -“Why in Christ’s hell cant you leave me alone? Damn it, I wish your -cackle would choke you. Choke every mother’s son of them in this -God-forsaken hole. Go away. By God I’ll wring your neck for you if you -dont. Hell of a mess I’ve got in: even the poultry is hostile. Go way. -Go way. By God, I’ll...” - -Kabnis jumps from his bed. His eyes are wild. He makes for the door. -Bursts through it. The hen, driving blindly at the window-pane, -screams. Then flies and flops around trying to elude him. Kabnis -catches her. - -“Got you now, you she-bitch.” - -With his fingers about her neck, he thrusts open the outside door and -steps out into the serene loveliness of Georgian autumn moonlight. Some -distance off, down in the valley, a band of pine-smoke, silvered gauze, -drifts steadily. The half-moon is a white child that sleeps upon the -tree-tops of the forest. White winds croon its sleep-song: - - rock a-by baby.. - Black mother sways, holding a white child on her bosom. - when the bough bends.. - Her breath hums through pine-cones. - cradle will fall.. - Teat moon-children at your breasts, - down will come baby.. - Black mother. - -Kabnis whirls the chicken by its neck, and throws the head away. Picks -up the hopping body, warm, sticky, and hides it in a clump of bushes. -He wipes blood from his hands onto the coarse scant grass. - -Kabnis: Thats done. Old Chromo in the big house there will wonder whats -become of her pet hen. Well, it’ll teach her a lesson: not to make a -hen-coop of my quarters. Quarters. Hell of a fine quarters, I’ve got. -Five years ago; look at me now. Earth’s child. The earth my mother. God -is a profligate red-nosed man about town. Bastardy; me. A bastard son -has got a right to curse his maker. God... - -Kabnis is about to shake his fists heaven-ward. He looks up, and the -night’s beauty strikes him dumb. He falls to his knees. Sharp stones -cut through his thin pajamas. The shock sends a shiver over him. He -quivers. Tears mist his eyes. He writhes. - -“God Almighty, dear God, dear Jesus, do not torture me with beauty. -Take it away. Give me an ugly world. Ha, ugly. Stinking like unwashed -niggers. Dear Jesus, do not chain me to myself and set these hills -and valleys, heaving with folk-songs, so close to me that I cannot -reach them. There is a radiant beauty in the night that touches and -... tortures me. Ugh. Hell. Get up, you damn fool. Look around. Whats -beautiful there? Hog pens and chicken yards. Dirty red mud. Stinking -outhouse. Whats beauty anyway but ugliness if it hurts you? God, he -doesnt exist, but nevertheless He is ugly. Hence, what comes from -Him is ugly. Lynchers and business men, and that cockroach Hanby, -especially. How come that he gets to be principal of a school? Of the -school I’m driven to teach in? God’s handiwork, doubtless. God and -Hanby, they belong together. Two godam moral-spouters. Oh, no, I wont -let that emotion come up in me. Stay down. Stay down, I tell you. O -Jesus, Thou art beautiful... Come, Ralph, pull yourself together. -Curses and adoration dont come from what is sane. This loneliness, -dumbness, awful, intangible oppression is enough to drive a man insane. -Miles from nowhere. A speck on a Georgia hillside. Jesus, can you -imagine it—an atom of dust in agony on a hillside? Thats a spectacle -for you. Come, Ralph, old man, pull yourself together.” - -Kabnis has stiffened. He is conscious now of the night wind, and -of how it chills him. He rises. He totters as a man would who for -the first time uses artificial limbs. As a completely artificial man -would. The large frame house, squatting on brick pillars, where the -principal of the school, his wife, and the boarding girls sleep, seems -a curious shadow of his mind. He tries, but cannot convince himself -of its reality. His gaze drifts down into the vale, across the swamp, -up over the solid dusk bank of pines, and rests, bewildered-like, -on the court-house tower. It is dull silver in the moonlight. White -child that sleeps upon the top of pines. Kabnis’ mind clears. He sees -himself yanked beneath that tower. He sees white minds, with indolent -assumption, juggle justice and a nigger... Somewhere, far off in -the straight line of his sight, is Augusta. Christ, how cut off from -everything he is. And hours, hours north, why not say a lifetime -north? Washington sleeps. Its still, peaceful streets, how desirable -they are. Its people whom he had always halfway despised. New York? -Impossible. It was a fiction. He had dreamed it. An impotent nostalgia -grips him. It becomes intolerable. He forces himself to narrow to a cabin -silhouetted on a knoll about a mile away. Peace. Negroes within it are -content. They farm. They sing. They love. They sleep. Kabnis wonders if -perhaps they can feel him. If perhaps he gives them bad dreams. Things -are so immediate in Georgia. - -Thinking that now he can go to sleep, he re-enters his room. He builds -a fire in the open hearth. The room dances to the tongues of flames, -and sings to the crackling and spurting of the logs. Wind comes up -between the floor boards, through the black cracks of the walls. - -Kabnis: Cant sleep. Light a cigarette. If that old bastard comes over -here and smells smoke, I’m done for. Hell of a note, cant even smoke. -The stillness of it: where they burn and hang men, you cant smoke. Cant -take a swig of licker. What do they think this is, anyway, some sort -of temperance school? How did I ever land in such a hole? Ugh. One -might just as well be in his grave. Still as a grave. Jesus, how still -everything is. Does the world know how still it is? People make noise. -They are afraid of silence. Of what lives, and God, of what dies in -silence. There must be many dead things moving in silence. They come -here to touch me. I swear I feel their fingers... Come, Ralph, pull -yourself together. What in hell was that? Only the rustle of leaves, I -guess. You know, Ralph, old man, it wouldnt surprise me at all to see a -ghost. People dont think there are such things. They rationalize their -fear, and call their cowardice science. Fine bunch, they are. Damit, -that was a noise. And not the wind either. A chicken maybe. Hell, -chickens dont wander around this time of night. What in hell is it? - -A scraping sound, like a piece of wood dragging over the ground, is -coming near. - -“Ha, ha. The ghosts down this way havent got any chains to rattle, -so they drag trees along with them. Thats a good one. But no joke, -something is outside this house, as sure as hell. Whatever it is, it -can get a good look at me and I cant see it. Jesus Christ!” - -Kabnis pours water on the flames and blows his lamp out. He picks up a -poker and stealthily approaches the outside door. Swings it open, and -lurches into the night. A calf, carrying a yoke of wood, bolts away -from him and scampers down the road. - -“Well, I’m damned. This godam place is sure getting the best of me. -Come, Ralph, old man, pull yourself together. Nights cant last forever. -Thank God for that. Its Sunday already. First time in my life I’ve ever -wanted Sunday to come. Hell of a day. And down here there’s no such -thing as ducking church. Well, I’ll see Halsey and Layman, and get a -good square meal. Thats something. And Halsey’s a damn good feller. -Cant talk to him, though. Who in Christ’s world can I talk to? A hen. -God. Myself... I’m going bats, no doubt of that. Come now, Ralph, go -in and make yourself go to sleep. Come now .. in the door .. thats -right. Put the poker down. There. All right. Slip under the sheets. -Close your eyes. Think nothing .. a long time .. nothing, nothing. -Dont even think nothing. Blank. Not even blank. Count. No, mustnt count -Nothing .. blank .. nothing .. blank .. space without stars in it. -No, nothing .. nothing.. - -Kabnis sleeps. The winds, like soft-voiced vagrant poets sing: - - White-man’s land. - Niggers, sing. - Burn, bear black children - Till poor rivers bring - Rest, and sweet glory - In Camp Ground. - - - 2 - -The parlor of Fred Halsey’s home. There is a seediness about it. -It seems as though the fittings have given a frugal service to at -least seven generations of middle-class shop-owners. An open grate -burns cheerily in contrast to the gray cold changed autumn weather. -An old-fashioned mantelpiece supports a family clock (not running), -a figure or two in imitation bronze, and two small group pictures. -Directly above it, in a heavy oak frame, the portrait of a bearded -man. Black hair, thick and curly, intensifies the pallor of the high -forehead. The eyes are daring. The nose, sharp and regular. The poise -suggests a tendency to adventure checked by the necessities of absolute -command. The portrait is that of an English gentleman who has retained -much of his culture, in that money has enabled him to escape being -drawn through a land-grubbing pioneer life. His nature and features, -modified by marriage and circumstances, have been transmitted to his -great-grandson, Fred. To the left of this picture, spaced on the wall, -is a smaller portrait of the great-grandmother. That here there is -a Negro strain, no one would doubt. But it is difficult to say in -precisely what feature it lies. On close inspection, her mouth is seen -to be wistfully twisted. The expression of her face seems to shift -before one’s gaze—now ugly, repulsive; now sad, and somehow beautiful -in its pain. A tin wood-box rests on the floor below. To the right of -the great-grandfather’s portrait hangs a family group: the father, -mother, two brothers, and one sister of Fred. It includes himself -some thirty years ago when his face was an olive white, and his hair -luxuriant and dark and wavy. The father is a rich brown. The mother, -practically white. Of the children, the girl, quite young, is like -Fred; the two brothers, darker. The walls of the room are plastered -and painted green. An old upright piano is tucked into the corner near -the window. The window looks out on a forlorn, box-like, whitewashed -frame church. Negroes are gathering, on foot, driving questionable gray -and brown mules, and in an occasional Ford, for afternoon service. -Beyond, Georgia hills roll off into the distance, their dreary aspect -heightened by the gray spots of unpainted one- and two-room shanties. -Clumps of pine trees here and there are the dark points the whole -landscape is approaching. The church bell tolls. Above its squat tower, -a great spiral of buzzards reaches far into the heavens. An ironic -comment upon the path that leads into the Christian land... Three -rocking chairs are grouped around the grate. Sunday papers scattered on -the floor indicate a recent usage. Halsey, a well-built, stocky fellow, -hair cropped close, enters the room. His Sunday clothes smell of wood -and glue, for it is his habit to potter around his wagon-shop even -on the Lord’s day. He is followed by Professor Layman, tall, heavy, -loose-jointed Georgia Negro, by turns teacher and preacher, who has -traveled in almost every nook and corner of the state and hence knows -more than would be good for anyone other than a silent man. Kabnis, -trying to force through a gathering heaviness, trails in behind them. -They slip into chairs before the fire. - -Layman: Sholy fine, Mr. Halsey, sholy fine. This town’s right good at -feedin folks, better’n most towns in th state, even for preachers, but -I ken say this beats um all. Yassur. Now aint that right, Professor -Kabnis? - -Kabnis: Yes sir, this beats them all, all right—best I’ve had, and -thats a fact, though my comparison doesnt carry far, y’know. - -Layman: Hows that, Professor? - -Kabnis: Well, this is my first time out— - -Layman: For a fact. Aint seed you round so much. Whats th trouble? Dont -like our folks down this away? - -Halsey: Aint that, Layman. He aint like most northern niggers that way. -Aint a thing stuck up about him. He likes us, you an me, maybe all—its -that red mud over yonder—gets stuck in it an cant get out. (Laughs.) -An then he loves th fire so, warm as its been. Coldest Yankee I’ve ever -seen. But I’m goin t get him out now in a jiffy, eh, Kabnis? - -Kabnis: Sure, I should say so, sure. Dont think its because I dont -like folks down this way. Just the opposite, in fact. Theres more -hospitality and everything. Its diff—that is, theres lots of northern -exaggeration about the South. Its not half the terror they picture it. -Things are not half bad, as one could easily figure out for himself -without ever crossing the Mason and Dixie line: all these people -wouldnt stay down here, especially the rich, the ones that could easily -leave, if conditions were so mighty bad. And then too, sometime back, -my family were southerners y’know. From Georgia, in fact— - -Layman: Nothin t feel proud about, Professor. Neither your folks nor -mine. - -Halsey (in a mock religious tone): Amen t that, brother Layman. Amen -(turning to Kabnis, half playful, yet somehow dead in earnest). An Mr. -Kabnis, kindly remember youre in th land of cotton—hell of a land. -Th white folks get th boll; th niggers get th stalk. An dont you dare -touch th boll, or even look at it. They’ll swing y sho. (Laughs.) - -Kabnis: But they wouldnt touch a gentleman—fellows, men like us three -here— - -Layman: Nigger’s a nigger down this away, Professor. An only two -dividins: good an bad. An even they aint permanent categories. They -sometimes mixes um up when it comes t lynchin. I’ve seen um do it. - -Halsey: Dont let th fear int y, though, Kabnis. This county’s a good -un. Aint been a stringin up I can remember. (Laughs.) - -Layman: This is a good town an a good county. But theres some that -makes up fer it. - -Kabnis: Things are better now though since that stir about those -peonage cases, arent they? - -Layman: Ever hear tell of a single shot killin moren one rabbit, -Professor? - -Kabnis: No, of course not, that is, but then— - -Halsey: Now I know you werent born yesterday, sprung up so rapid like -you aint heard of th brick thrown in th hornets’ nest. (Laughs.) - -Kabnis: Hardly, hardly, I know— - -Halsey: Course y do. (To Layman) See, northern niggers aint as dumb as -they make out t be. - -Kabnis (overlooking the remark): Just stirs them up to sting. - -Halsey: T perfection. An put just like a professor should put it. - -Kabnis: Thats what actually did happen? - -Layman: Well, if it aint sos only because th stingers already movin jes -as fast as they ken go. An been goin ever since I ken remember, an then -some mo. Though I dont usually make mention of it. - -Halsey: Damn sight better not. Say, Layman, you come from where theyre -always swarmin, dont y? - -Layman: Yassur. I do that, sho. Dont want t mention it, but its a fact. -I’ve seed th time when there werent no use t even stretch out flat upon -th ground. Seen um shoot an cut a man t pieces who had died th night -befo. Yassur. An they didnt stop when they found out he was dead—jes -went on ahackin at him anyway. - -Kabnis: What did you do? What did you say to them, Professor? - -Layman: Thems th things you neither does a thing or talks about if y -want t stay around this away, Professor. - -Halsey: Listen t what he’s tellin y, Kabnis. May come in handy some day. - -Kabnis: Cant something be done? But of course not. This -preacher-ridden race. Pray and shout. Theyre in the preacher’s hands. -Thats what it is. And the preacher’s hands are in the white man’s -pockets. - -Halsey: Present company always excepted. - -Kabnis: The Professor knows I wasnt referring to him. - -Layman: Preacher’s a preacher anywheres you turn. No use exceptin. - -Kabnis: Well, of course, if you look at it that way. I didnt mean— But -cant something be done? - -Layman: Sho. Yassur. An done first rate an well. Jes like Sam Raymon -done it. - -Kabnis: Hows that? What did he do? - -Layman: Th white folks (reckon I oughtnt tell it) had jes knocked two -others like you kill a cow—brained um with an ax, when they caught Sam -Raymon by a stream. They was about t do fer him when he up an says, -“White folks, I gotter die, I knows that. But wont y let me die in my -own way?” Some was fer gettin after him, but th boss held um back an -says, “Jes so longs th nigger dies—” An Sam fell down ont his knees an -prayed, “O Lord, Ise comin to y,” an he up an jumps int th stream. - -Singing from the church becomes audible. Above it, rising and falling -in a plaintive moan, a woman’s voice swells to shouting. Kabnis hears -it. His face gives way to an expression of mingled fear, contempt, and -pity. Layman takes no notice of it. Halsey grins at Kabnis. He feels -like having a little sport with him. - -Halsey: Lets go t church, eh, Kabnis? - -Kabnis (seeking control): All right—no sir, not by a damn sight. Once -a days enough for me. Christ, but that stuff gets to me. Meaning no -reflection on you, Professor. - -Halsey: Course not. Say, Kabnis, noticed y this morning. What’d y get -up for an go out? - -Kabnis: Couldnt stand the shouting, and thats a fact. We dont have that -sort of thing up North. We do, but, that is, some one should see to it -that they are stopped or put out when they get so bad the preacher has -to stop his sermon for them. - -Halsey: Is that th way youall sit on sisters up North? - -Kabnis: In the church I used to go to no one ever shouted— - -Halsey: Lungs weak? - -Kabnis: Hardly, that is— - -Halsey: Yankees are right up t th minute in tellin folk how t turn a -trick. They always were good at talkin. - -Kabnis: Well, anyway, they should be stopped. - -Layman: Thats right. Thats true. An its th worst ones in th community -that comes int th church t shout. I’ve sort a made a study of it. You -take a man what drinks, th biggest licker-head around will come int th -church an yell th loudest. An th sister whats done wrong, an is always -doin wrong, will sit down in th Amen corner an swing her arms an shout -her head off. Seems as if they cant control themselves out in th world; -they cant control themselves in church. Now dont that sound logical, -Professor? - -Halsey: Reckon its as good as any. But I heard that queer cuss over -yonder—y know him, dont y, Kabnis? Well, y ought t. He had a run-in -with your boss th other day—same as you’ll have if you dont walk th -chalk-line. An th quicker th better. I hate that Hanby. Ornery bastard. -I’ll mash his mouth in one of these days. Well, as I was sayin, that -feller, Lewis’s name, I heard him sayin somethin about a stream whats -dammed has got t cut loose somewheres. An that sounds good. I know th -feelin myself. He strikes me as knowin a bucketful bout most things, -that feller does. Seems like he doesnt want t talk, an does, sometimes, -like Layman here. Damn queer feller, him. - -Layman: Cant make heads or tails of him, an I’ve seen lots o queer -possums in my day. Everybody’s wonderin about him. White folks too. -He’ll have t leave here soon, thats sho. Always askin questions. An I -aint seed his lips move once. Pokin round an notin somethin. Noted what -I said th other day, an that werent fer notin down. - -Kabnis: What was that? - -Layman: Oh, a lynchin that took place bout a year ago. Th worst I know -of round these parts. - -Halsey: Bill Burnam? - -Layman: Na. Mame Lamkins. - -Halsey grunts, but says nothing. - -The preacher’s voice rolls from the church in an insistent chanting -monotone. At regular intervals it rises to a crescendo note. The -sister begins to shout. Her voice, high-pitched and hysterical, is -almost perfectly attuned to the nervous key of Kabnis. Halsey notices -his distress, and is amused by it. Layman’s face is expressionless. -Kabnis wants to hear the story of Mame Lamkins. He does not want to -hear it. It can be no worse than the shouting. - -Kabnis (his chair rocking faster): What about Mame Lamkins? - -Halsey: Tell him, Layman. - -The preacher momentarily stops. The choir, together with the entire -congregation, sings an old spiritual. The music seems to quiet the -shouter. Her heavy breathing has the sound of evening winds that blow -through pinecones. Layman’s voice is uniformly low and soothing. A -canebrake, murmuring the tale to its neighbor-road would be more -passionate. - -Layman: White folks know that niggers talk, an they dont mind jes so -long as nothing comes of it, so here goes. She was in th family-way, -Mame Lamkins was. They killed her in th street, an some white man seein -th risin in her stomach as she lay there soppy in her blood like any -cow, took an ripped her belly open, an th kid fell out. It was living; -but a nigger baby aint supposed t live. So he jabbed his knife in it an -stuck it t a tree. An then they all went away. - -Kabnis: Christ no! What had she done? - -Layman: Tried t hide her husband when they was after him. - -A shriek pierces the room. The bronze pieces on the mantel hum. The -sister cries frantically: “Jesus, Jesus, I’ve found Jesus. O Lord, -glory t God, one mo sinner is acomin home.” At the height of this, a -stone, wrapped round with paper, crashes through the window. Kabnis -springs to his feet, terror-stricken. Layman is worried. Halsey picks -up the stone. Takes off the wrapper, smooths it out, and reads: “You -northern nigger, its time fer y t leave. Git along now.” Kabnis knows -that the command is meant for him. Fear squeezes him. Caves him in. As -a violent external pressure would. Fear flows inside him. It fills him -up. He bloats. He saves himself from bursting by dashing wildly from -the room. Halsey and Layman stare stupidly at each other. The stone, -the crumpled paper are things, huge things that weight them. Their -thoughts are vaguely concerned with the texture of the stone, with the -color of the paper. Then they remember the words, and begin to shift -them about in sentences. Layman even construes them grammatically. -Suddenly the sense of them comes back to Halsey. He grips Layman by the -arm and they both follow after Kabnis. - -A false dusk has come early. The countryside is ashen, chill. Cabins -and roads and canebrakes whisper. The church choir, dipping into a long -silence, sings: - - My Lord, what a mourning, - My Lord, what a mourning, - My Lord, what a mourning, - When the stars begin to fall. - -Softly luminous over the hills and valleys, the faint spray of a -scattered star... - - - 3 - -A splotchy figure drives forward along the cane- and corn-stalk -hemmed-in road. A scarecrow replica of Kabnis, awkwardly animate. -Fantastically plastered with red Georgia mud. It skirts the big house -whose windows shine like mellow lanterns in the dusk. Its shoulder jogs -against a sweet-gum tree. The figure caroms off against the cabin door, -and lunges in. It slams the door as if to prevent some one entering -after it. - -“God Almighty, theyre here. After me. On me. All along the road I saw -their eyes flaring from the cane. Hounds. Shouts. What in God’s name -did I run here for? A mud-hole trap. I stumbled on a rope. O God, a -rope. Their clammy hands were like the love of death playing up and -down my spine. Trying to trip my legs. To trip my spine. Up and down my -spine. My spine... My legs... Why in hell didn’t they catch me?” - -Kabnis wheels around, half defiant, half numbed with a more immediate -fear. - -“Wanted to trap me here. Get out o there. I see you.” - -He grabs a broom from beside the chimney and violently pokes it under -the bed. The broom strikes a tin wash-tub. The noise bewilders. He -recovers. - -“Not there. In the closet.” - -He throws the broom aside and grips the poker. Starts towards the -closet door, towards somewhere in the perfect blackness behind the -chimney. - -“I’ll brain you.” - -He stops short. The barks of hounds, evidently in pursuit, reach him. A -voice, liquid in distance, yells, “Hi! Hi!” - -“O God, theyre after me. Holy Father, Mother of Christ—hell, this aint -no time for prayer—” - -Voices, just outside the door: - -“Reckon he’s here.” - -“Dont see no light though.” - -The door is flung open. - -Kabnis: Get back or I’ll kill you. - -He braces himself, brandishing the poker. - -Halsey (coming in): Aint as bad as all that. Put that thing down. - -Layman: Its only us, Professor. Nobody else after y. - -Kabnis: Halsey. Layman. Close that door. Dont light that light. For -godsake get away from there. - -Halsey: Nobody’s after y, Kabnis, I’m tellin y. Put that thing down an -get yourself together. - -Kabnis: I tell you they are. I saw them. I heard the hounds. - -Halsey: These aint th days of hounds an Uncle Tom’s Cabin, feller. -White folks aint in fer all them theatrics these days. Theys more -direct than that. If what they wanted was t get y, theyd have just -marched right in an took y where y sat. Somebodys down by th branch -chasin rabbits an atreein possums. - -A shot is heard. - -Halsey: Got him, I reckon. Saw Tom goin out with his gun. Tom’s pretty -lucky most times. - -He goes to the bureau and lights the lamp. The circular fringe is -patterned on the ceiling. The moving shadows of the men are huge -against the bare wall boards. Halsey walks up to Kabnis, takes the -poker from his grip, and without more ado pushes him into a chair -before the dark hearth. - -Halsey: Youre a mess. Here, Layman. Get some trash an start a fire. - -Layman fumbles around, finds some newspapers and old bags, puts them -in the hearth, arranges the wood, and kindles the fire. Halsey sets a -black iron kettle where it soon will be boiling. Then takes from his -hip-pocket a bottle of corn licker which he passes to Kabnis. - -Halsey: Here. This’ll straighten y out a bit. - -Kabnis nervously draws the cork and gulps the licker down. - -Kabnis: Ha. Good stuff. Thanks. Thank y, Halsey. - -Halsey: Good stuff! Youre damn right. Hanby there dont think so. Wonder -he doesnt come over t find out whos burnin his oil. Miserly bastard, -him. Th boys what made this stuff—are y listenin t me, Kabnis? th boys -what made this stuff have got th art down like I heard you say youd -like t be with words. Eh? Have some, Layman? - -Layman: Dont think I care for none, thank y jes th same, Mr. Halsey. - -Halsey: Care hell. Course y care. Everybody cares around these parts. -Preachers an school teachers an everybody. Here. Here, take it. Dont -try that line on me. - -Layman limbers up a little, but he cannot quite forget that he is on -school ground. - -Layman: Thats right. Thats true, sho. Shinin is th only business what -pays in these hard times. - -He takes a nip, and passes the bottle to Kabnis. Kabnis is in the -middle of a long swig when a rap sounds on the door. He almost -spills the bottle, but manages to pass it to Halsey just as the door -swings open and Hanby enters. He is a well-dressed, smooth, rich, -black-skinned Negro who thinks there is no one quite so suave and -polished as himself. To members of his own race, he affects the manners -of a wealthy white planter. Or, when he is up North, he lets it be -known that his ideas are those of the best New England tradition. To -white men he bows, without ever completely humbling himself. Tradesmen -in the town tolerate him because he spends his money with them. He -delivers his words with a full consciousness of his moral superiority. - -Hanby: Hum. Erer, Professor Kabnis, to come straight to the point: the -progress of the Negro race is jeopardized whenever the personal habits -and examples set by its guides and mentors fall below the acknowledged -and hard-won standard of its average member. This institution, of which -I am the humble president, was founded, and has been maintained at a -cost of great labor and untold sacrifice. Its purpose is to teach our -youth to live better, cleaner, more noble lives. To prove to the world -that the Negro race can be just like any other race. It hopes to attain -this aim partly by the salutary examples set by its instructors. I -cannot hinder the progress of a race simply to indulge a single member. -I have thought the matter out beforehand, I can assure you. Therefore, -if I find your resignation on my desk by to-morrow morning, Mr. Kabnis, -I shall not feel obliged to call in the sheriff. Otherwise...” - -Kabnis: A fellow can take a drink in his own room if he wants to, in -the privacy of his own room. - -Hanby: His room, but not the institution’s room, Mr. Kabnis. - -Kabnis: This is my room while I’m in it. - -Hanby: Mr. Clayborn (the sheriff) can inform you as to that. - -Kabnis: Oh, well, what do I care—glad to get out of this mud-hole. - -Hanby: I should think so from your looks. - -Kabnis: You neednt get sarcastic about it. - -Hanby: No, that is true. And I neednt wait for your resignation either, -Mr. Kabnis. - -Kabnis: Oh, you’ll get that all right. Dont worry. - -Hanby: And I should like to have the room thoroughly aired and cleaned -and ready for your successor by to-morrow noon, Professor. - -Kabnis (trying to rise): You can have your godam room right away. I -dont want it. - -Hanby: But I wont have your cursing. - -Halsey pushes Kabnis back into his chair. - -Halsey: Sit down, Kabnis, till I wash y. - -Hanby (to Halsey): I would rather not have drinking men on the -premises, Mr. Halsey. You will oblige me— - -Halsey: I’ll oblige you by stayin right on this spot, this spot, get -me? till I get damned ready t leave. - -He approaches Hanby. Hanby retreats, but manages to hold his dignity. - -Halsey: Let me get you told right now, Mr. Samuel Hanby. Now listen t -me. I aint no slick an span slave youve hired, an dont y think it for -a minute. Youve bullied enough about this town. An besides, wheres -that bill youve been owin me? Listen t me. If I dont get it paid in by -tmorrer noon, Mr. Hanby (he mockingly assumes Hanby’s tone and manner), -I shall feel obliged t call th sheriff. An that sheriff’ll be myself -who’ll catch y in th road an pull y out your buggy an rightly attend t -y. You heard me. Now leave him alone. I’m takin him home with me. I got -it fixed. Before you came in. He’s goin t work with me. Shapin shafts -and buildin wagons’ll make a man of him what nobody, y get me? what -nobody can take advantage of. Thats all... - -Halsey burrs off into vague and incoherent comment. - -Pause. Disagreeable. - -Layman’s eyes are glazed on the spurting fire. - -Kabnis wants to rise and put both Halsey and Hanby in their places. -He vaguely knows that he must do this, else the power of direction -will completely slip from him to those outside. The conviction is just -strong enough to torture him. To bring a feverish, quick-passing flare -into his eyes. To mutter words soggy in hot saliva. To jerk his arms -upward in futile protest. Halsey, noticing his gestures, thinks it is -water that he desires. He brings a glass to him. Kabnis slings it to -the floor. Heat of the conviction dies. His arms crumple. His upper -lip, his mustache, quiver. Rap! rap, on the door. The sounds slap -Kabnis. They bring a hectic color to his cheeks. Like huge cold finger -tips they touch his skin and goose-flesh it. Hanby strikes a commanding -pose. He moves toward Layman. Layman’s face is innocently immobile. - -Halsey: Whos there? - -Voice: Lewis. - -Halsey: Come in, Lewis. Come on in. - -Lewis enters. He is the queer fellow who has been referred to. A tall -wiry copper-colored man, thirty perhaps. His mouth and eyes suggest -purpose guided by an adequate intelligence. He is what a stronger -Kabnis might have been, and in an odd faint way resembles him. As he -steps towards the others, he seems to be issuing sharply from a vivid -dream. Lewis shakes hands with Halsey. Nods perfunctorily to Hanby, who -has stiffened to meet him. Smiles rapidly at Layman, and settles with -real interest on Kabnis. - -Lewis: Kabnis passed me on the road. Had a piece of business of my own, -and couldnt get here any sooner. Thought I might be able to help in -some way or other. - -Halsey: A good baths bout all he needs now. An somethin t put his mind -t rest. - -Lewis: I think I can give him that. That note was meant for me. Some -Negroes have grown uncomfortable at my being here— - -Kabnis: You mean, Mr. Lewis, some colored folks threw it? Christ -Amighty! - -Halsey: Thats what he means. An just as I told y. White folks more -direct than that. - -Kabnis: What are they after you for? - -Lewis: Its a long story, Kabnis. Too long for now. And it might involve -present company. (He laughs pleasantly and gestures vaguely in the -direction of Hanby.) Tell you about it later on perhaps. - -Kabnis: Youre not going? - -Lewis: Not till my month’s up. - -Halsey: Hows that? - -Lewis: I’m on a sort of contract with myself. (Is about to leave.) -Well, glad its nothing serious— - -Halsey: Come round t th shop sometime why dont y, Lewis? I’ve asked y -enough. I’d like t have a talk with y. I aint as dumb as I look. Kabnis -an me’ll be in most any time. Not much work these days. Wish t hell -there was. This burg gets to me when there aint. (In answer to Lewis’ -question.) He’s goin t work with me. Ya. Night air this side th branch -aint good fer him. (Looks at Hanby. Laughs.) - -Lewis: I see... - -His eyes turn to Kabnis. In the instant of their shifting, a vision of -the life they are to meet. Kabnis, a promise of a soil-soaked beauty; -uprooted, thinning out. Suspended a few feet above the soil whose -touch would resurrect him. Arm’s length removed from him whose will -to help... There is a swift intuitive interchange of consciousness. -Kabnis has a sudden need to rush into the arms of this man. His eyes -call, “Brother.” And then a savage, cynical twist-about within him -mocks his impulse and strengthens him to repulse Lewis. His lips curl -cruelly. His eyes laugh. They are glittering needles, stitching. With a -throbbing ache they draw Lewis to. Lewis brusquely wheels on Hanby. - -Lewis: I’d like to see you, sir, a moment, if you dont mind. - -Hanby’s tight collar and vest effectively preserve him. - -Hanby: Yes, erer, Mr. Lewis. Right away. - -Lewis: See you later, Halsey. - -Halsey: So long—thanks—sho hope so, Lewis. - -As he opens the door and Hanby passes out, a woman, miles down the -valley, begins to sing. Her song is a spark that travels swiftly to the -near-by cabins. Like purple tallow flames, songs jet up. They spread -a ruddy haze over the heavens. The haze swings low. Now the whole -countryside is a soft chorus. Lord. O Lord... Lewis closes the door -behind him. A flame jets out... - -The kettle is boiling. Halsey notices it. He pulls the wash-tub from -beneath the bed. He arranges for the bath before the fire. - -Halsey: Told y them theatrics didnt fit a white man. Th niggers, just -like I told y. An after him. Aint surprisin though. He aint bowed t -none of them. Nassur. T nairy a one of them nairy an inch nairy a time. -An only mixed when he was good an ready— - -Kabnis: That song, Halsey, do you hear it? - -Halsey: Thats a man. Hear me, Kabnis? A man— - -Kabnis: Jesus, do you hear it. - -Halsey: Hear it? Hear what? Course I hear it. Listen t what I’m tellin -y. A man, get me? They’ll get him yet if he dont watch out. - -Kabnis is jolted into his fear. - -Kabnis: Get him? What do you mean? How? Not lynch him? - -Halsey: Na. Take a shotgun an shoot his eyes clear out. Well, anyway, it -wasnt fer you, just like I told y. You’ll stay over at th house an work -with me, eh, boy? Good t get away from his nobs, eh? Damn big stiff -though, him. An youre not th first an I can tell y. (Laughs.) - -He bustles and fusses about Kabnis as if he were a child. Kabnis -submits, wearily. He has no will to resist him. - -Layman (his voice is like a deep hollow echo): Thats right. Thats true, -sho. Everybody’s been expectin that th bust up was comin. Surprised um -all y held on as long as y did. Teachin in th South aint th thing fer -y. Nassur. You ought t be way back up North where sometimes I wish I -was. But I’ve hung on down this away so long— - -Halsey: An there’ll never be no leavin time fer y. - - - 4 - -A month has passed. - -Halsey’s workshop. It is an old building just off the main street -of Sempter. The walls to within a few feet of the ground are of an -age-worn cement mixture. On the outside they are considerably crumbled -and peppered with what looks like musket-shot. Inside, the plaster has -fallen away in great chunks, leaving the laths, grayed and cobwebbed, -exposed. A sort of loft above the shop proper serves as a break-water -for the rain and sunshine which otherwise would have free entry to the -main floor. The shop is filled with old wheels and parts of wheels, -broken shafts, and wooden litter. A double door, midway the street -wall. To the left of this, a work-bench that holds a vise and a variety -of wood-work tools. A window with as many panes broken as whole, throws -light on the bench. Opposite, in the rear wall, a second window looks -out upon the back yard. In the left wall, a rickety smoke-blackened -chimney, and hearth with fire blazing. Smooth-worn chairs grouped about -the hearth suggest the village meeting-place. Several large wooden -blocks, chipped and cut and sawed on their upper surfaces are in the -middle of the floor. They are the supports used in almost any sort of -wagon-work. Their idleness means that Halsey has no worth-while job on -foot. To the right of the central door is a junk heap, and directly -behind this, stairs that lead down into the cellar. The cellar is known -as “The Hole.” Besides being the home of a very old man, it is used by -Halsey on those occasions when he spices up the life of the small town. - -Halsey, wonderfully himself in his work overalls, stands in the doorway -and gazes up the street, expectantly. Then his eyes grow listless. He -slouches against the smooth-rubbed frame. He lights a cigarette. Shifts -his position. Braces an arm against the door. Kabnis passes the window -and stoops to get in under Halsey’s arm. He is awkward and ludicrous, -like a schoolboy in his big brother’s new overalls. He skirts the large -blocks on the floor, and drops into a chair before the fire. Halsey -saunters towards him. - -Kabnis: Time f lunch. - -Halsey: Ya. - -He stands by the hearth, rocking backward and forward. He stretches his -hands out to the fire. He washes them in the warm glow of the flames. -They never get cold, but he warms them. - -Kabnis: Saw Lewis up th street. Said he’d be down. - -Halsey’s eyes brighten. He looks at Kabnis. Turns away. Says nothing. -Kabnis fidgets. Twists his thin blue cloth-covered limbs. Pulls closer -to the fire till the heat stings his shins. Pushes back. Pokes the -burned logs. Puts on several fresh ones. Fidgets. The town bell -strikes twelve. - -Kabnis: Fix it up f tnight? - -Halsey: Leave it t me. - -Kabnis: Get Lewis in? - -Halsey: Tryin t. - -The air is heavy with the smell of pine and resin. Green logs spurt -and sizzle. Sap trickles from an old pine-knot into the flames. Layman -enters. He carries a lunch-pail. Kabnis, for the moment, thinks that he -is a day laborer. - -Layman: Evenin, gen’lemun. - -Both: Whats say, Layman. - -Layman squares a chair to the fire and droops into it. Several town -fellows, silent unfathomable men for the most part, saunter in. -Overalls. Thick tan shoes. Felt hats marvelously shaped and twisted. -One asks Halsey for a cigarette. He gets it. The blacksmith, a -tremendous black man, comes in from the forge. Not even a nod from -him. He picks up an axle and goes out. Lewis enters. The town men look -curiously at him. Suspicion and an open liking contest for possession -of their faces. They are uncomfortable. One by one they drift into the -street. - -Layman: Heard y was leavin, Mr. Lewis. - -Kabnis: Months up, eh? Hell of a month I’ve got. - -Halsey: Sorry y goin, Lewis. Just getting acquainted like. - -Lewis: Sorry myself, Halsey, in a way— - -Layman: Gettin t like our town, Mr. Lewis? - -Lewis: I’m afraid its on a different basis, Professor. - -Halsey: An I’ve yet t hear about that basis. Been waitin long enough, -God knows. Seems t me like youd take pity a feller if nothin more. - -Kabnis: Somethin that old black cockroach over yonder doesnt like, -whatever it is. - -Layman: Thats right. Thats right, sho. - -Halsey: A feller dropped in here tother day an said he knew what you -was about. Said you had queer opinions. Well, I could have told him -you was a queer one, myself. But not th way he was driftin. Didnt mean -anything by it, but just let drop he thought you was a little wrong up -here—crazy, y’know. (Laughs.) - -Kabnis: Y mean old Blodson? Hell, he’s bats himself. - -Lewis: I remember him. We had a talk. But what he found queer, I think, -was not my opinions, but my lack of them. In half an hour he had -settled everything: boll weevils, God, the World War. Weevils and wars -are the pests that God sends against the sinful. People are too weak to -correct themselves: the Redeemer is coming back. Get ready, ye sinners, -for the advent of Our Lord. Interesting, eh, Kabnis? but not exactly -what we want. - -Halsey: Y could have come t me. I’ve sho been after y enough. Most -every time I’ve seen y. - -Kabnis (sarcastically): Hows it y never came t us professors? - -Lewis: I did—to one. - -Kabnis: Y mean t say y got somethin from that -celluloid-collar-eraser-cleaned old codger over in th mud hole? - -Halsey: Rough on th old boy, aint he? (Laughs.) - -Lewis: Something, yes. Layman here could have given me quite a deal, -but the incentive to his keeping quiet is so much greater than anything -I could have offered him to open up, that I crossed him off my mind. -And you— - -Kabnis: What about me? - -Halsey: Tell him, Lewis, for godsake tell him. I’ve told him. But its -somethin else he wants so bad I’ve heard him downstairs mumblin with th -old man. - -Lewis: The old man? - -Kabnis: What about me? Come on now, you know so much. - -Halsey: Tell him, Lewis. Tell it t him. - -Lewis: Life has already told him more than he is capable of knowing. It -has given him in excess of what he can receive. I have been offered. -Stuff in his stomach curdled, and he vomited me. - -Kabnis’ face twitches. His body writhes. - -Kabnis: You know a lot, you do. How about Halsey? - -Lewis: Yes... Halsey? Fits here. Belongs here. An artist in your way, -arent you, Halsey? - -Halsey: Reckon I am, Lewis. Give me th work and fair pay an I aint -askin nothin better. Went over-seas an saw France; an I come back. Been -up North; an I come back. Went t school; but there aint no books whats -got th feel t them of them there tools. Nassur. An I’m atellin y. - -A shriveled, bony white man passes the window and enters the shop. He -carries a broken hatchet-handle and the severed head. He speaks with a -flat, drawn voice to Halsey, who comes forward to meet him. - -Mr. Ramsay: Can y fix this fer me, Halsey? - -Halsey (looking it over): Reckon so, Mr. Ramsay. Here, Kabnis. A little -practice fer y. - -Halsey directs Kabnis, showing him how to place the handle in the vise, -and cut it down. The knife hangs. Kabnis thinks that it must be dull. -He jerks it hard. The tool goes deep and shaves too much off. Mr. -Ramsay smiles brokenly at him. - -Mr. Ramsay (to Halsey): Still breakin in the new hand, eh, Halsey? -Seems like a likely enough faller once he gets th hang of it. - -He gives a tight laugh at his own good humor. Kabnis burns red. The -back of his neck stings him beneath his collar. He feels stifled. -Through Ramsay, the whole white South weighs down upon him. The -pressure is terrific. He sweats under the arms. Chill beads run down -his body. His brows concentrate upon the handle as though his own life -was staked upon the perfect shaving of it. He begins to out and out -botch the job. Halsey smiles. - -Halsey: He’ll make a good un some of these days, Mr. Ramsay. - -Mr. Ramsay: Y ought t know. Yer daddy was a good un before y. Runs in -th family, seems like t me. - -Halsey: Thats right, Mr. Ramsay. - -Kabnis is hopeless. Halsey takes the handle from him. With a few deft -strokes he shaves it. Fits it. Gives it to Ramsay. - -Mr. Ramsay: How much on this? - -Halsey: No charge, Mr. Ramsay. - -Mr. Ramsay (going out): All right, Halsey. Come down an take it out in -trade. Shoe-strings or something. - -Halsey: Yassur, Mr. Ramsay. - -Halsey rejoins Lewis and Layman. Kabnis, hangdog-fashion, follows him. - -Halsey: They like y if y work fer them. - -Layman: Thats right, Mr. Halsey. Thats right, sho. - -The group is about to resume its talk when Hanby enters. He is all -energy, bustle, and business. He goes direct to Kabnis. - -Hanby: An axle is out in the buggy which I would like to have shaped -into a crow-bar. You will see that it is fixed for me. - -Without waiting for an answer, and knowing that Kabnis will follow, he -passes out. Kabnis, scowling, silent, trudges after him. - -Hanby (from the outside): Have that ready for me by three o’clock, -young man. I shall call for it. - -Kabnis (under his breath as he comes in): Th hell you say, you old -black swamp-gut. - -He slings the axle on the floor. - -Halsey: Wheeee! - -Layman, lunch finished long ago, rises, heavily. He shakes hands with -Lewis. - -Layman: Might not see y again befo y leave, Mr. Lewis. I enjoys t hear -y talk. Y might have been a preacher. Maybe a bishop some day. Sho do -hope t see y back this away again sometime, Mr. Lewis. - -Lewis: Thanks, Professor. Hope I’ll see you. - -Layman waves a long arm loosely to the others, and leaves. Kabnis goes -to the door. His eyes, sullen, gaze up the street. - -Kabnis: Carrie K.’s comin with th lunch. Bout time. - -She passes the window. Her red girl’s-cap, catching the sun, flashes -vividly. With a stiff, awkward little movement she crosses the -door-sill and gives Kabnis one of the two baskets which she is -carrying. There is a slight stoop to her shoulders. The curves of her -body blend with this to a soft rounded charm. Her gestures are stiffly -variant. Black bangs curl over the forehead of her oval-olive face. -Her expression is dazed, but on provocation it can melt into a wistful -smile. Adolescent. She is easily the sister of Fred Halsey. - -Carrie K.: Mother says excuse her, brother Fred an Ralph, fer bein late. - -Kabnis: Everythings all right an O.K., Carrie Kate. O.K. an all right. - -The two men settle on their lunch. Carrie, with hardly a glance in the -direction of the hearth, as is her habit, is about to take the second -basket down to the old man, when Lewis rises. In doing so he draws -her unwitting attention. Their meeting is a swift sun-burst. Lewis -impulsively moves towards her. His mind flashes images of her life -in the southern town. He sees the nascent woman, her flesh already -stiffening to cartilage, drying to bone. Her spirit-bloom, even now -touched sullen, bitter. Her rich beauty fading... He wants to— He -stretches forth his hands to hers. He takes them. They feel like warm -cheeks against his palms. The sun-burst from her eyes floods up and -haloes him. Christ-eyes, his eyes look to her. Fearlessly she loves -into them. And then something happens. Her face blanches. Awkwardly -she draws away. The sin-bogies of respectable southern colored folks -clamor at her: “Look out! Be a _good_ girl. A _good_ girl. Look out!” -She gropes for her basket that has fallen to the floor. Finds it, and -marches with a rigid gravity to her task of feeding the old man. Like -the glowing white ash of burned paper, Lewis’ eyelids, wavering, settle -down. He stirs in the direction of the rear window. From the back yard, -mules tethered to odd trees and posts blink dumbly at him. They too -seem burdened with an impotent pain. Kabnis and Halsey are still busy -with their lunch. They havent noticed him. After a while he turns to -them. - -Lewis: Your sister, Halsey, whats to become of her? What are you going -to do for her? - -Halsey: Who? What? What am I goin t do?.. - -Lewis: What I mean is, what does she do down there? - -Halsey: Oh. Feeds th old man. Had lunch, Lewis? - -Lewis: Thanks, yes. You have never felt her, have you, Halsey? Well, -no, I guess not. I dont suppose you can. Nor can she... Old man? -Halsey, some one lives down there? I’ve never heard of him. Tell me— - -Kabnis takes time from his meal to answer with some emphasis: - -Kabnis: Theres lots of things you aint heard of. - -Lewis: Dare say. I’d like to see him. - -Kabnis: You’ll get all th chance you want tnight. - -Halsey: Fixin a little somethin up fer tnight, Lewis. Th three of us an -some girls. Come round bout ten-thirty. - -Lewis: Glad to. But what under the sun does he do down there? - -Halsey: Ask Kabnis. He blows off t him every chance he gets. - -Kabnis gives a grunting laugh. His mouth twists. Carrie returns from -the cellar. Avoiding Lewis, she speaks to her brother. - -Carrie K.: Brother Fred, father hasnt eaten now goin on th second week, -but mumbles an talks funny, or tries t talk when I put his hands ont -th food. He frightens me, an I dunno what t do. An oh, I came near -fergettin, brother, but Mr. Marmon—he was eatin lunch when I saw -him—told me t tell y that th lumber wagon busted down an he wanted y t -fix it fer him. Said he reckoned he could get it t y after he ate. - -Halsey chucks a half-eaten sandwich in the fire. Gets up. Arranges his -blocks. Goes to the door and looks anxiously up the street. The wind -whirls a small spiral in the gray dust road. - -Halsey: Why didnt y tell me sooner, little sister? - -Carrie K.: I fergot t, an just remembered it now, brother. - -Her soft rolled words are fresh pain to Lewis. He wants to take her -North with him. What for? He wonders what Kabnis could do for her. What -she could do for him. Mother him. Carrie gathers the lunch things, -silently, and in her pinched manner, curtsies, and departs. Kabnis -lights his after-lunch cigarette. Lewis, who has sensed a change, -becomes aware that he is not included in it. He starts to ask again -about the old man. Decides not to. Rises to go. - -Lewis: Think I’ll run along, Halsey. - -Halsey: Sure. Glad t see y any time. - -Kabnis: Dont forget tnight. - -Lewis: Dont worry. I wont. So long. - -Kabnis: So long. We’ll be expectin y. - -Lewis passes Halsey at the door. Halsey’s cheeks form a vacant smile. -His eyes are wide awake, watching for the wagon to turn from Broad -Street into his road. - -Halsey: So long. - -His words reach Lewis halfway to the corner. - - - 5 - -Night, soft belly of a pregnant Negress, throbs evenly against the -torso of the South. Night throbs a womb-song to the South. Cane- and -cotton-fields, pine forests, cypress swamps, sawmills, and factories -are fecund at her touch. Night’s womb-song sets them singing. Night -winds are the breathing of the unborn child whose calm throbbing in the -belly of a Negress sets them somnolently singing. Hear their song. - - White-man’s land. - Niggers, sing. - Burn, bear black children - Till poor rivers bring - Rest, and sweet glory - In Camp Ground. - -Sempter’s streets are vacant and still. White paint on the wealthier -houses has the chill blue glitter of distant stars. Negro cabins -are a purple blur. Broad Street is deserted. Winds stir beneath the -corrugated iron canopies and dangle odd bits of rope tied to horse- -and mule-gnawed hitching-posts. One store window has a light in it. -Chesterfield cigarette and Chero-Cola cardboard advertisements are -stacked in it. From a side door two men come out. Pause, for a last -word and then say good night. Soon they melt in shadows thicker than -they. Way off down the street four figures sway beneath iron awnings -which form a sort of corridor that imperfectly echoes and jumbles what -they say. A fifth form joins them. They turn into the road that leads -to Halsey’s workshop. The old building is phosphorescent above deep -shade. The figures pass through the double door. Night winds whisper in -the eaves. Sing weirdly in the ceiling cracks. Stir curls of shavings -on the floor. Halsey lights a candle. A good-sized lumber wagon, wheels -off, rests upon the blocks. Kabnis makes a face at it. An unearthly -hush is upon the place. No one seems to want to talk. To move, lest the -scraping of their feet.. - -Halsey: Come on down this way, folks. - -He leads the way. Stella follows. And close after her, Cora, Lewis, and -Kabnis. They descend into the Hole. It seems huge, limitless in the -candle light. The walls are of stone, wonderfully fitted. They have no -openings save a small iron-barred window toward the top of each. They -are dry and warm. The ground slopes away to the rear of the building -and thus leaves the south wall exposed to the sun. The blacksmith’s -shop is plumb against the right wall. The floor is clay. Shavings have -at odd times been matted into it. In the right-hand corner, under the -stairs, two good-sized pine mattresses, resting on cardboard, are on -either side of a wooden table. On this are several half-burned candles -and an oil lamp. Behind the table, an irregular piece of mirror hangs -on the wall. A loose something that looks to be a gaudy ball costume -dangles from a near-by hook. To the front, a second table holds a lamp -and several whiskey glasses. Six rickety chairs are near this table. -Two old wagon wheels rest on the floor. To the left, sitting in a -high-backed chair which stands upon a low platform, the old man. He -is like a bust in black walnut. Gray-bearded. Gray-haired. Prophetic. -Immobile. Lewis’ eyes are sunk in him. The others, unconcerned, are -about to pass on to the front table when Lewis grips Halsey and so -turns him that the candle flame shines obliquely on the old man’s -features. - -Lewis: And he rules over— - -Kabnis: Th smoke an fire of th forge. - -Lewis: Black Vulcan? I wouldnt say so. That forehead. Great woolly -beard. Those eyes. A mute John the Baptist of a new religion—or a -tongue-tied shadow of an old. - -Kabnis: His tongue is tied all right, an I can vouch f that. - -Lewis: Has he never talked to you? - -Halsey: Kabnis wont give him a chance. - -He laughs. The girls laugh. Kabnis winces. - -Lewis: What do you call him? - -Halsey: Father. - -Lewis: Good. Father what? - -Kabnis: Father of hell. - -Halsey: Father’s th only name we have fer him. Come on. Lets sit down -an get t th pleasure of the evenin. - -Lewis: Father John it is from now on... - -Slave boy whom some Christian mistress taught to read the Bible. Black -man who saw Jesus in the ricefields, and began preaching to his people. -Moses- and Christ-words used for songs. Dead blind father of a muted -folk who feel their way upward to a life that crushes or absorbs them. -(Speak, Father!) Suppose your eyes could see, old man. (The years hold -hands. O Sing!) Suppose your lips... - -Halsey, does he never talk? - -Halsey: Na. But sometimes. Only seldom. Mumbles. Sis says he talks— - -Kabnis: I’ve heard him talk. - -Halsey: First I’ve ever heard of it. You dont give him a chance. Sis -says she’s made out several words, mostly one—an like as not cause it -was “sin.” - -Kabnis: All those old fogies stutter about sin. - -Cora laughs in a loose sort of way. She is a tall, thin, mulatto woman. -Her eyes are deep-set behind a pointed nose. Her hair is coarse and -bushy. Seeing that Stella also is restless, she takes her arm and the -two women move towards the table. They slip into chairs. Halsey follows -and lights the lamp. He lays out a pack of cards. Stella sorts them as -if telling fortunes. She is a beautifully proportioned, large-eyed, -brown-skin girl. Except for the twisted line of her mouth when she -smiles or laughs, there is about her no suggestion of the life she’s -been through. Kabnis, with great mock-solemnity, goes to the corner, -takes down the robe, and dons it. He is a curious spectacle, acting a -part, yet very real. He joins the others at the table. They are used -to him. Lewis is surprised. He laughs. Kabnis shrinks and then glares -at him with a furtive hatred. Halsey, bringing out a bottle of corn -licker, pours drinks. - -Halsey: Come on, Lewis. Come on, you fellers. Heres lookin at y. - -Then, as if suddenly recalling something, he jerks away from the table -and starts towards the steps. - -Kabnis: Where y goin, Halsey? - -Halsey: Where? Where y think? That oak beam in th wagon— - -Kabnis: Come ere. Come ere. Sit down. What in hell’s wrong with you -fellers? You with your wagon. Lewis with his Father John. This aint -th time fer foolin with wagons. Daytime’s bad enough f that. Ere, sit -down. Ere, Lewis, you too sit down. Have a drink. Thats right. Drink -corn licker, love th girls, an listen t th old man mumblin sin. - -There seems to be no good-time spirit to the party. Something in the -air is too tense and deep for that. Lewis, seated now so that his eyes -rest upon the old man, merges with his source and lets the pain and -beauty of the South meet him there. White faces, pain-pollen, settle -downward through a cane-sweet mist and touch the ovaries of yellow -flowers. Cotton-bolls bloom, droop. Black roots twist in a parched -red soil beneath a blazing sky. Magnolias, fragrant, a trifle futile, -lovely, far off... His eyelids close. A force begins to heave and -rise... Stella is serious, reminiscent. - -Stella: Usall is brought up t hate sin worse than death— - -Kabnis: An then before you have y eyes half open, youre made t love it -if y want t live. - -Stella: Us never— - -Kabnis: Oh, I know your story: that old prim bastard over yonder, an -then old Calvert’s office— - -Stella: It wasnt them— - -Kabnis: I know. They put y out of church, an then I guess th preacher -came around an asked f some. But thats your body. Now me— - -Halsey (passing him the bottle): All right, kid, we believe y. Here, -take another. Wheres Clover, Stel? - -Stella: You know how Jim is when he’s just out th swamp. Done up in -shine an wouldnt let her come. Said he’d bust her head open if she went -out. - -Kabnis: Dont see why he doesnt stay over with Laura, where he belongs. - -Stella: Ask him, an I reckon he’ll tell y. More than you want. - -Halsey: Th nigger hates th sight of a black woman worse than death. -Sorry t mix y up this way, Lewis. But y see how tis. - -Lewis’ skin is tight and glowing over the fine bones of his face. His -lips tremble. His nostrils quiver. The others notice this and smile -knowingly at each other. Drinks and smokes are passed around. They pay -no neverminds to him. A real party is being worked up. Then Lewis opens -his eyes and looks at them. Their smiles disperse in hot-cold tremors. -Kabnis chokes his laugh. It sputters, gurgles. His eyes flicker and -turn away. He tries to pass the thing off by taking a long drink which -he makes considerable fuss over. He is drawn back to Lewis. Seeing -Lewis’ gaze still upon him, he scowls. - -Kabnis: Whatsha lookin at me for? Y want t know who I am? Well, I’m -Ralph Kabnis—lot of good its goin t do y. Well? Whatsha keep lookin -for? I’m Ralph Kabnis. Aint that enough f y? Want th whole family -history? Its none of your godam business, anyway. Keep off me. Do y -hear? Keep off me. Look at Cora. Aint she pretty enough t look at? Look -at Halsey, or Stella. Clover ought t be here an you could look at her. -An love her. Thats what you need. I know— - -Lewis: Ralph Kabnis gets satisfied that way? - -Kabnis: Satisfied? Say, quit your kiddin. Here, look at that old man -there. See him? He’s satisfied. Do I look like him? When I’m dead I -dont expect t be satisfied. Is that enough f y, with your godam nosin, -or do you want more? Well, y wont get it, understand? - -Lewis: The old man as symbol, flesh, and spirit of the past, what do -think he would say if he could see you? You look at him, Kabnis. - -Kabnis: Just like any done-up preacher is what he looks t me. Jam some -false teeth in his mouth and crank him, an youd have God Almighty spit -in torrents all around th floor. Oh, hell, an he reminds me of that -black cockroach over yonder. An besides, he aint my past. My ancestors -were Southern blue-bloods— - -Lewis: And black. - -Kabnis: Aint much difference between blue an black. - -Lewis: Enough to draw a denial from you. Cant hold them, can you? -Master; slave. Soil; and the overarching heavens. Dusk; dawn. They -fight and bastardize you. The sun tint of your cheeks, flame of -the great season’s multi-colored leaves, tarnished, burned. Split, -shredded: easily burned. No use... - -His gaze shifts to Stella. Stella’s face draws back, her breasts come -towards him. - -Stella: I aint got nothin f y, mister. Taint no use t look at me. - -Halsey: Youre a queer feller, Lewis, I swear y are. Told y so, didnt I, -girls? Just take him easy though, an he’ll be ridin just th same as any -Georgia mule, eh, Lewis? (Laughs.) - -Stella: I’m goin t tell y somethin, mister. It aint t you, t th Mister -Lewis what noses about. Its t somethin different, I dunno what. That -old man there—maybe its him—is like m father used t look. He used t -sing. An when he could sing no mo, they’d allus come f him an carry -him t church an there he’d sit, befo th pulpit, aswayin an aleadin -every song. A white man took m mother an it broke th old man’s heart. -He died; an then I didnt care what become of me, an I dont now. I dont -care now. Dont get it in y head I’m some sentimental Susie askin for yo -sop. Nassur. But theres somethin t yo th others aint got. Boars an kids -an fools—thats all I’ve known. Boars when their fever’s up. When their -fever’s up they come t me. Halsey asks me over when he’s off th job. -Kabnis—it ud be a sin t play with him. He takes it out in talk. - -Halsey knows that he has trifled with her. At odd things he has been -inwardly penitent before her tasking him. But now he wants to hurt her. -He turns to Lewis. - -Halsey: Lewis, I got a little licker in me, an thats true. True’s what -I said. True. But th stuff just seems t wake me up an make my mind a -man of me. Listen. You know a lot, queer as hell as y are, an I want -t ask y some questions. Theyre too high fer them, Stella an Cora an -Kabnis, so we’ll just excuse em. A chat between ourselves. (Turns to -the others.) Youall cant listen in on this. Twont interest y. So just -leave th table t this gen’lemun an myself. Go long now. - -Kabnis gets up, pompous in his robe, grotesquely so, and makes as if to -go through a grand march with Stella. She shoves him off, roughly, and -in a mood swings her body to the steps. Kabnis grabs Cora and parades -around, passing the old man, to whom he bows in mock-curtsy. He sweeps -by the table, snatches the licker bottle, and then he and Cora sprawl -on the mattresses. She meets his weak approaches after the manner she -thinks Stella would use. - -Halsey contemptuously watches them until he is sure that they are -settled. - -Halsey: This aint th sort o thing f me, Lewis, when I got work -upstairs. Nassur. You an me has got things t do. Wastin time on -common low-down women—say, Lewis, look at her now—Stella—aint she -a picture? Common wench—na she aint, Lewis. You know she aint. I’m -only tryin t fool y. I used t love that girl. Yassur. An sometimes -when th moon is thick an I hear dogs up th valley barkin an some old -woman fetches out her song, an th winds seem like th Lord made them -fer t fetch an carry th smell o pine an cane, an there aint no big -job on foot, I sometimes get t thinkin that I still do. But I want t -talk t y, Lewis, queer as y are. Y know, Lewis, I went t school once. -Ya. In Augusta. But it wasnt a regular school. Na. It was a pussy -Sunday-school masqueradin under a regular name. Some goody-goody -teachers from th North had come down t teach th niggers. If you was -nearly white, they liked y. If you was black, they didnt. But it wasnt -that—I was all right, y see. I couldnt stand em messin an pawin over m -business like I was a child. So I cussed em out an left. Kabnis there -ought t have cussed out th old duck over yonder an left. He’d a been a -better man tday. But as I was sayin, I couldnt stand their ways. So I -left an came here an worked with my father. An been here ever since. -He died. I set in f myself. An its always been; give me a good job an -sure pay an I aint far from being satisfied, so far as satisfaction -goes. Prejudice is everywheres about this country. An a nigger aint -in much standin anywheres. But when it comes t pottin round an doin -nothing, with nothin bigger’n an ax-handle t hold a feller down, like -it was a while back befo I got this job—that beam ought t be—but -tmorrow mornin early’s time enough f that. As I was sayin, I gets t -thinkin. Play dumb naturally t white folks. I gets t thinkin. I used -to subscribe t th _Literary Digest_ an that helped along a bit. But -there werent nothing I could sink m teeth int. Theres lots I want t ask -y, Lewis. Been askin y t come around. Couldnt get y. Cant get in much -tnight. (He glances at the others. His mind fastens on Kabnis.) Say, -tell me this, whats on your mind t say on that feller there? Kabnis’ -name. One queer bird ought t know another, seems like t me. - -Licker has released conflicts in Kabnis and set them flowing. He pricks -his ears, intuitively feels that the talk is about him, leaves Cora, -and approaches the table. His eyes are watery, heavy with passion. He -stoops. He is a ridiculous pathetic figure in his showy robe. - -Kabnis: Talkin bout me. I know. I’m th topic of conversation everywhere -theres talk about this town. Girls an fellers. White folks as well. An -if its me youre talkin bout, guess I got a right t listen in. Whats -sayin? Whats sayin bout his royal guts, the Duke? Whats sayin, eh? - -Halsey (to Lewis): We’ll take it up another time. - -Kabnis: No nother time bout it. Now. I’m here now an talkin’s just -begun. I was born an bred in a family of orators, thats what I was. - -Halsey: Preachers. - -Kabnis: Na. Preachers hell. I didnt say wind-busters. Y misapprehended -me. Y understand what that means, dont y? All right then, y -misapprehended me. I didnt say preachers. I said orators. O R A T O R S. -Born one an I’ll die one. You understand me, Lewis. (He turns to -Halsey and begins shaking his finger in his face.) An as f you, youre -all right f choppin things from blocks of wood. I was good at that th -day I ducked th cradle. An since then, I’ve been shapin words after a -design that branded here. Know whats here? M soul. Ever heard o that? -Th hell y have. Been shapin words t fit m soul. Never told y that -before, did I? Thought I couldnt talk. I’ll tell y. I’ve been shapin -words; ah, but sometimes theyre beautiful an golden an have a taste -that makes them fine t roll over with y tongue. Your tongue aint fit f -nothin but t roll an lick hog-meat. - -Stella and Cora come up to the table. - -Halsey: Give him a shove there, will y, Stel? - -Stella jams Kabnis in a chair. Kabnis springs up. - -Kabnis: Cant keep a good man down. Those words I was tellin y about, -they wont fit int th mold thats branded on m soul. Rhyme, y see? Poet, -too. Bad rhyme. Bad poet. Somethin else youve learned tnight. Lewis -dont know it all, an I’m atellin y. Ugh. Th form thats burned int my -soul is some twisted awful thing that crept in from a dream, a godam -nightmare, an wont stay still unless I feed it. An it lives on words. -Not beautiful words. God Almighty no. Misshapen, split-gut, tortured, -twisted words. Layman was feedin it back there that day you thought I -ran out fearin things. White folks feed it cause their looks are words. -Niggers, black niggers feed it cause theyre evil an their looks are -words. Yallar niggers feed it. This whole damn bloated purple country -feeds it cause its goin down t hell in a holy avalanche of words. I -want t feed th soul—I know what that is; th preachers dont—but I’ve -got t feed it. I wish t God some lynchin white man ud stick his knife -through it an pin it to a tree. An pin it to a tree. You hear me? Thats -a wish f y, you little snot-nosed pups who’ve been makin fun of me, an -fakin that I’m weak. Me, Ralph Kabnis weak. Ha. - -Halsey: Thats right, old man. There, there. Here, so much exertion -merits a fittin reward. Help him t be seated, Cora. - -Halsey gives him a swig of shine. Cora glides up, seats him, and then -plumps herself down on his lap, squeezing his head into her breasts. -Kabnis mutters. Tries to break loose. Curses. Cora almost stifles -him. He goes limp and gives up. Cora toys with him. Ruffles his hair. -Braids it. Parts it in the middle. Stella smiles contemptuously. And -then a sudden anger sweeps her. She would like to lash Cora from the -place. She’d like to take Kabnis to some distant pine grove and nurse -and mother him. Her eyes flash. A quick tensioning throws her breasts -and neck into a poised strain. She starts towards them. Halsey grabs -her arm and pulls her to him. She struggles. Halsey pins her arms and -kisses her. She settles, spurting like a pine-knot afire. - -Lewis finds himself completely cut out. The glowing within him -subsides. It is followed by a dead chill. Kabnis, Carrie, Stella, -Halsey, Cora, the old man, the cellar, and the work-shop, the southern -town descend upon him. Their pain is too intense. He cannot stand it. -He bolts from the table. Leaps up the stairs. Plunges through the -work-shop and out into the night. - - - 6 - -The cellar swims in a pale phosphorescence. The table, the chairs, -the figure of the old man are amœba-like shadows which move about and -float in it. In the corner under the steps, close to the floor, a -solid blackness. A sound comes from it. A forcible yawn. Part of the -blackness detaches itself so that it may be seen against the grayness -of the wall. It moves forward and then seems to be clothing itself in -odd dangling bits of shadow. The voice of Halsey, vibrant and deepened, -calls. - -Halsey: Kabnis. Cora. Stella. - -He gets no response. He wants to get them up, to get on the job. He is -intolerant of their sleepiness. - -Halsey: Kabnis! Stella! Cora! - -Gutturals, jerky and impeded, tell that he is shaking them. - -Halsey: Come now, up with you. - -Kabnis (sleepily and still more or less intoxicated): Whats th big -idea? What in hell— - -Halsey: Work. But never you mind about that. Up with you. - -Cora: Oooooo! Look here, mister, I aint used t bein thrown int th -street befo day. - -Stella: Any bunk whats worked is worth in wages moren this. But come -on. Taint no use t arger. - -Kabnis: I’ll arger. Its preposterous— - -The girls interrupt him with none too pleasant laughs. - -Kabnis: Thats what I said. Know what it means, dont y? All right, then. -I said its preposterous t root an artist out o bed at this ungodly -hour, when there aint no use t it. You can start your damned old work. -Nobody’s stoppin y. But what we got t get up for? Fraid somebody’ll -see th girls leavin? Some sport, you are. I hand it t y. - -Halsey: Up you get, all th same. - -Kabnis: Oh, th hell you say. - -Halsey: Well, son, seeing that I’m th kind-hearted father, I’ll give y -chance t open your eyes. But up y get when I come down. - -He mounts the steps to the work-shop and starts a fire in the hearth. -In the yard he finds some chunks of coal which he brings in and throws -on the fire. He puts a kettle on to boil. The wagon draws him. He lifts -an oak-beam, fingers it, and becomes abstracted. Then comes to himself -and places the beam upon the work-bench. He looks over some newly -cut wooden spokes. He goes to the fire and pokes it. The coals are -red-hot. With a pair of long prongs he picks them up and places them -in a thick iron bucket. This he carries downstairs. Outside, darkness -has given way to the impalpable grayness of dawn. This early morning -light, seeping through the four barred cellar windows, is the color of -the stony walls. It seems to be an emanation from them. Halsey’s coals -throw out a rich warm glow. He sets them on the floor, a safe distance -from the beds. - -Halsey: No foolin now. Come. Up with you. - -Other than a soft rustling, there is no sound as the girls slip into -their clothes. Kabnis still lies in bed. - -Stella (to Halsey): Reckon y could spare us a light? - -Halsey strikes a match, lights a cigarette, and then bends over and -touches flame to the two candles on the table between the beds. Kabnis -asks for a cigarette. Halsey hands him his and takes a fresh one for -himself. The girls, before the mirror, are doing up their hair. It is -bushy hair that has gone through some straightening process. Character, -however, has not all been ironed out. As they kneel there, heavy-eyed -and dusky, and throwing grotesque moving shadows on the wall, they are -two princesses in Africa going through the early-morning ablutions of -their pagan prayers. Finished, they come forward to stretch their hands -and warm them over the glowing coals. Red dusk of a Georgia sunset, -their heavy, coal-lit faces... Kabnis suddenly recalls something. - -Kabnis: Th old man talked last night. - -Stella: An so did you. - -Halsey: In your dreams. - -Kabnis: I tell y, he did. I know what I’m talkin about. I’ll tell y -what he said. Wait now, lemme see. - -Halsey: Look out, brother, th old man’ll be getting int you by way o -dreams. Come, Stel, ready? Cora? Coffee an eggs f both of you. - -Halsey goes upstairs. - -Stella: Gettin generous, aint he? - -She blows the candles out. Says nothing to Kabnis. Then she and Cora -follow after Halsey. Kabnis, left to himself, tries to rise. He has -slept in his robe. His robe trips him. Finally, he manages to stand -up. He starts across the floor. Half-way to the old man, he falls and -lies quite still. Perhaps an hour passes. Light of a new sun is about -to filter through the windows. Kabnis slowly rises to support upon his -elbows. He looks hard, and internally gathers himself together. The -side face of Father John is in the direct line of his eyes. He scowls -at him. No one is around. Words gush from Kabnis. - -Kabnis: You sit there like a black hound spiked to an ivory pedestal. -An all night long I heard you murmurin that devilish word. They thought -I didnt hear y, but I did. Mumblin, feedin that ornery thing thats -livin on my insides. Father John. Father of Satan, more likely. What -does it mean t you? Youre dead already. Death. What does it mean t you? -To you who died way back there in th ’sixties. What are y throwin it -in my throat for? Whats it goin t get y? A good smashin in th mouth, -thats what. My fist’ll sink int y black mush face clear t y guts—if y -got any. Dont believe y have. Never seen signs of none. Death. Death. -Sin an Death. All night long y mumbled death. (He forgets the old man -as his mind begins to play with the word and its associations.) Death -... these clammy floors ... just like th place they used t stow away th -worn-out, no-count niggers in th days of slavery ... that was long ago; -not so long ago ... no windows (he rises higher on his elbows to verify -this assertion. He looks around, and, seeing no one but the old man, -calls.) Halsey! Halsey! Gone an left me. Just like a nigger. I thought -he was a nigger all th time. Now I know it. Ditch y when it comes right -down t it. Damn him anyway. Godam him. (He looks and re-sees the old -man.) Eh, you? T hell with you too. What do I care whether you can see -or hear? You know what hell is cause youve been there. Its a feelin an -its ragin in my soul in a way that’ll pop out of me an run you through, -an scorch y, an burn an rip your soul. Your soul. Ha. Nigger soul. A -gin soul that gets drunk on a preacher’s words. An screams. An shouts. -God Almighty, how I hate that shoutin. Where’s th beauty in that? Gives -a buzzard a windpipe an I’ll bet a dollar t a dime th buzzard ud beat -y to it. Aint surprisin th white folks hate y so. When you had eyes, -did you ever see th beauty of th world? Tell me that. Th hell y did. -Now dont tell me. I know y didnt. You couldnt have. Oh, I’m drunk an -just as good as dead, but no eyes that have seen beauty ever lose their -sight. You aint got no sight. If you had, drunk as I am, I hope Christ -will kill me if I couldnt see it. Your eyes are dull and watery, like -fish eyes. Fish eyes are dead eyes. Youre an old man, a dead fish man, -an black at that. Theyve put y here t die, damn fool y are not t know -it. Do y know how many feet youre under ground? I’ll tell y. Twenty. -An do y think you’ll ever see th light of day again, even if you wasnt -blind? Do y think youre out of slavery? Huh? Youre where they used t -throw th worked-out, no-count slaves. On a damp clammy floor of a dark -scum-hole. An they called that an infirmary. Th sons-a... Why I can -already see you toppled off that stool an stretched out on th floor -beside me—not beside me, damn you, by yourself, with th flies buzzin -an lickin God knows what they’d find on a dirty, black, foul-breathed -mouth like yours... - -Some one is coming down the stairs. Carrie, bringing food for the old -man. She is lovely in her fresh energy of the morning, in the calm -untested confidence and nascent maternity which rise from the purpose -of her present mission. She walks to within a few paces of Kabnis. - -Carrie K.: Brother says come up now, brother Ralph. - -Kabnis: Brother doesnt know what he’s talkin bout. - -Carrie K.: Yes he does, Ralph. He needs you on th wagon. - -Kabnis: He wants me on th wagon, eh? Does he think some wooden thing -can lift me up? Ask him that. - -Carrie K.: He told me t help y. - -Kabnis: An how would you help me, child, dear sweet little sister? - -She moves forward as if to aid him. - -Carrie K.: I’m not a child, as I’ve more than once told you, brother -Ralph, an as I’ll show you now. - -Kabnis: Wait, Carrie. No, thats right. Youre not a child. But twont do -t lift me bodily. You dont understand. But its th soul of me that needs -th risin. - -Carrie K: Youre a bad brother an just wont listen t me when I’m tellin -y t go t church. - -Kabnis doesnt hear her. He breaks down and talks to himself. - -Kabnis: Great God Almighty, a soul like mine cant pin itself onto a -wagon wheel an satisfy itself in spinnin round. Iron prongs an hickory -sticks, an God knows what all ... all right for Halsey ... use him. Me? -I get my life down in this scum-hole. Th old man an me— - -Carrie K.: Has he been talkin? - -Kabnis: Huh? Who? Him? No. Dont need to. I talk. An when I really talk, -it pays th best of them t listen. Th old man is a good listener. He’s -deaf; but he’s a good listener. An I can talk t him. Tell him anything. - -Carrie K.: He’s deaf an blind, but I reckon he hears, an sees too, from -th things I’ve heard. - -Kabnis: No. Cant. Cant I tell you. How’s he do it? - -Carrie K.: Dunno, except I’ve heard that th souls of old folks have a -way of seein things. - -Kabnis: An I’ve heard them call that superstition. - -The old man begins to shake his head slowly. Carrie and Kabnis watch -him, anxiously. He mumbles. With a grave motion his head nods up and -down. And then, on one of the down-swings— - -Father John (remarkably clear and with great conviction): Sin. - -He repeats this word several times, always the downward nodding. -Surprised, indignant, Kabnis forgets that Carrie is with him. - -Kabnis: Sin! Shut up. What do you know about sin, you old black -bastard. Shut up, an stop that swayin an noddin your head. - -Father John: Sin. - -Kabnis tries to get up. - -Kabnis: Didnt I tell y t shut up? - -Carrie steps forward to help him. Kabnis is violently shocked at her -touch. He springs back. - -Kabnis: Carrie! What .. how .. Baby, you shouldnt be down here. Ralph -says things. Doesnt mean to. But Carrie, he doesnt know what he’s -talkin about. Couldnt know. It was only a preacher’s sin they knew in -those old days, an that wasnt sin at all. Mind me, th only sin is whats -done against th soul. Th whole world is a conspiracy t sin, especially -in America, an against me. I’m th victim of their sin. I’m what sin -is. Does he look like me? Have you ever heard him say th things youve -heard me say? He couldnt if he had th Holy Ghost t help him. Dont look -shocked, little sweetheart, you hurt me. - -Father John: Sin. - -Kabnis: Aw, shut up, old man. - -Carrie K.: Leave him be. He wants t say somethin. (She turns to the old -man.) What is it, Father? - -Kabnis: Whatsha talkin t that old deaf man for? Come away from him. - -Carrie K.: What is it, Father? - -The old man’s lips begin to work. Words are formed incoherently. -Finally, he manages to articulate— - -Father John: Th sin whats fixed... (Hesitates.) - -Carrie K. (restraining a comment from Kabnis): Go on, Father. - -Father John: ... upon th white folks— - -Kabnis: Suppose youre talkin about that bastard race thats roamin round -th country. It looks like sin, if thats what y mean. Give us somethin -new an up t date. - -Father John:—f tellin Jesus—lies. O th sin th white folks ’mitted -when they made th Bible lie. - -Boom. Boom. BOOM! Thuds on the floor above. The old man sinks back into -his stony silence. Carrie is wet-eyed. Kabnis, contemptuous. - -Kabnis: So thats your sin. All these years t tell us that th white -folks made th Bible lie. Well, I’ll be damned. Lewis ought t have been -here. You old black fakir— - -Carrie K.: Brother Ralph, is that your best Amen? - -She turns him to her and takes his hot cheeks in her firm cool hands. -Her palms draw the fever out. With its passing, Kabnis crumples. He -sinks to his knees before her, ashamed, exhausted. His eyes squeeze -tight. Carrie presses his face tenderly against her. The suffocation of -her fresh starched dress feels good to him. Carrie is about to lift her -hands in prayer, when Halsey, at the head of the stairs, calls down. - -Halsey: Well, well. Whats up? Aint you ever comin? Come on. Whats up -down there? Take you all mornin t sleep off a pint? Youre weakenin, -man, youre weakenin. Th axle an th beam’s all ready waitin f y. Come on. - -Kabnis rises and is going doggedly towards the steps. Carrie notices -his robe. She catches up to him, points to it, and helps him take it -off. He hangs it, with an exaggerated ceremony, on its nail in the -corner. He looks down on the tousled beds. His lips curl bitterly. -Turning, he stumbles over the bucket of dead coals. He savagely jerks -it from the floor. And then, seeing Carrie’s eyes upon him, he swings -the pail carelessly and with eyes downcast and swollen, trudges -upstairs to the work-shop. Carrie’s gaze follows him till he is gone. -Then she goes to the old man and slips to her knees before him. Her -lips murmur, “Jesus, come.” - -Light streaks through the iron-barred cellar window. Within its soft -circle, the figures of Carrie and Father John. - -Outside, the sun arises from its cradle in the tree-tops of the -forest. Shadows of pines are dreams the sun shakes from its eyes. The -sun arises. Gold-glowing child, it steps into the sky and sends a -birth-song slanting down gray dust streets and sleepy windows of the -southern town. - - - THE END - - - - -Transcriber’s Notes: - - Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). - - Blank pages have been removed. - - Redundant title page removed. - - Silently corrected a few typographical errors. - - Otherwise spelling and hyphenation left unchanged. - - Ellipses period counts left unchanged. - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CANE *** - -***** This file should be named 60093-0.txt or 60093-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - https://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/0/9/60093/ - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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