BENEATHA:　(Her　face　in　her　hands.　She　is　still　fighting　the　urge　to　go　back　to　bed)　Really—would　you　suggest　dawn?　Wheres　the　paper?

WALTER:　(Pushing　the　paper　across　the　table　to　her　as　he　studies　her　almost　clinically,　as　though　he　has　never　seen　her　before)　You　a　horriblelooking　chick　at　this　hour.

BENEATHA:　(Drily)　Good　morning,　everybody.

WALTER:　(Senselessly)　How　is　school　coming?

BENEATHA:　(In　the　same　spirit)　Lovely.　Lovely.　And　you　know,　biology　is　the　greatest.　(Looking　up　at　him)　I　dissected　something　that　looked　just　like　you　yesterday.

WALTER:　I　just　wondered　if　youve　made　up　your　mind　and　everything.

BENEATHA:　(Gaining　in　sharpness　and　impatience)　And　what　did　I　answer　yesterday　morning—and　the　day　before　that?

RUTH:　(From　the　ironing　board,　like　someone　disinterested　and　old)　Dont　be　so　nasty,　Bennie.

BENEATHA:　(Still　to　her　brother)　And　the　day　before　that　and　the　day　before　that!

WALTER:　(Defensively)　Im　interested　in　you.　Something　wrong　with　that?　Aint　many　girls　who　decide—

WALTER:　and　BENEATHA　(In　unison)—“to　be　a　doctor.”　(Silence)

WALTER:　Have　we　figured　out　yet　just　exactly　how　much　medical　school　is　going　to　cost?

RUTH:　Walter　Lee,　why　dont　you　leave　that　girl　alone　and　get　out　of　here　to　work?

BENEATHA:　(Exits　to　the　bathroom　and　bangs　on　the　door)　Come　on　out　of　there,　please!　(She　comes　back　into　the　room)

WALTER:　(Looking　at　his　sister　intently)　You　know　the　check　is　coming　tomorrow.

BENEATHA:　(Turning　on　him　with　a　sharpness　all　her　own)　That　money　belongs　to　Mama,　Walter,　and　its　for　her　to　decide　how　she　wants　to　use　it.　I　dont　care　if　she　wants　to　buy　a　house　or　a　rocket　ship　or　just　nail　it　up　somewhere　and　look　at　it.　Its　hers.　Not　ours—hers.

WALTER:　(Bitterly)　Now　aint　that　fine!　You　just　got　your　mothers　interest　at　heart,　aint　you,　girl?　You　such　a　nice　girl—but　if　Mama　got　that　money　she　can　always　take　a　few　thousand　and　help　you　through　school　too—cant　she?

BENEATHA:　I　have　never　asked　anyone　around　here　to　do　anything　for　me!

WALTER:　No!　And　the　line　between　asking　and　just　accepting　when　the　time　comes　is　big　and　wide—aint　it!

BENEATHA:　(With　fury)　What　do　you　want　from　me,　Brother—that　I　quit　school　or　just　drop　dead,　which!

WALTER:　I　dont　want　nothing　but　for　you　to　stop　acting　holy　round　here.　Me　and　Ruth　done　made　some　sacrifices　for　you—why　cant　you　do　something　for　the　family?

RUTH:　Walter,　dont　be　dragging　me　in　it.

WALTER:　You　are　in　it—Dont　you　get　up　and　go　work　in　somebodys　kitchen　for　the　last　three　years　to　help　put　clothes　on　her　back?

RUTH:　Oh,　Walter—thats　not　fair...

WALTER:　It　aint　that　nobody　expects　you　to　get　on　your　knees　and　say　thank　you,　Brother;　thank　you,　Ruth;　thank　you,　Mama—and　thank　you,　Travis,　for　wearing　the　same　pair　of　shoes　for　two　semesters—

BENEATHA:　(Dropping　to　her　knees)　Well—I　do—all　right?—thank　everybody!　And　forgive　me　for　ever　wanting　to　be　anything　at　all!　(Pursuing　him　on　her　knees　across　the　floor)　FORGIVE　ME,　FORGIVE　ME,　FORGIVE　ME!

RUTH:　Please　stop　it!　Your　mamall　hear　you.

WALTER:　Who　the　hell　told　you　you　had　to　be　a　doctor?　If　you　so　crazy　bout　messing　round　with　sick　people—then　go　be　a　nurse　like　other　women—or　just　get　married　and　be　quiet...

BENEATHA:　Well—you　finally　got　it　said...It　took　you　three　years　but　you　finally　got　it　said.　Walter,　give　up;　leave　me　alone—its　Mamas　money.

WALTER:　He　was　my　father,　too!

BENEATHA:　So　what?　He　was　mine,　too—and　Travis　grandfather—but　the　insurance　money　belongs　to　Mama.　Picking　on　me　is　not　going　to　make　her　give　it　to　you　to　invest　in　any　liquor　stores—(Underbreath,　dropping　into　a　chair)—and　I　for　one　say,　God　bless　Mama　for　that!

WALTER:　(To　RUTH)　See—did　you　hear?　Did　you　hear!

RUTH:　Honey,　please　go　to　work.

WALTER:　Nobody　in　this　house　is　ever　going　to　understand　me.

BENEATHA:　Because　youre　a　nut.

WALTER:　Whos　a　nut?

BENEATHA:　You—you　are　a　nut.　Thee　is　mad,　boy.

WALTER:　(Looking　at　his　wife　and　his　sister　from　the　door,　very　sadly)　The　worlds　most　backward　race　of　people,　and　thats　a　fact.

BENEATHA:　(Turning　slowly　in　her　chair)　And　then　there　are　all　those　prophets　who　would　lead　us　out　of　the　wilderness—(WALTER　slams　out　of　the　house)—into　the　swamps!

RUTH:　Bennie,　why　you　always　gotta　be　pickin　on　your　brother?　Cant　you　be　a　little　sweeter　sometimes?　(Door　opens,　WALTER　walks　in.　He　fumbles　with　his　cap,　starts　to　speak,　clears　throat,　looks　everywhere　but　at　RUTH.　Finally:)

WALTER:　(To　RUTH)I　need　some　money　for　carfare.

RUTH:　(Looks　at　him,　then　warms;　teasing,　but　tenderly)　Fifty　cents?　(She　goes　to　her　bag　and　gets　money)　Here—take　a　taxi!　(WALTER　exits,　MAMA　enters.　She　is　a　woman　in　her　early　sixties,　fullbodied　and　strong.　She　is　one　of　those　women　of　a　certain　grace　and　beauty　who　wear　it　so　unobtrusively　that　it　takes　a　while　to　notice.　Her　darkbrown　face　is　surrounded　by　the　total　whiteness　of　her　hair,　and,　being　a　woman　who　has　adjusted　to　many　things　in　life　and　overcome　many　more,　her　face　is　full　of　strength.　She　has,　we　can　see,　wit　and　faith　of　a　kind　that　keep　her　eyes　lit　and　full　of　interest　and　expectancy.　She　is,　in　a　word,　a　beautiful　woman.　Her　bearing　is　perhaps　most　like　the　noble　bearing　of　the　women　of　the　Hereros　of　Southwest　Africa—rather　as　if　she　imagines　that　as　she　walks　she　still　bears　a　basket　or　a　vessel　upon　her　head.　Her　speech,　on　the　other　hand,　is　as　careless　as　her　carriage　is　precise—she　is　inclined　to　slur　everything—but　her　voice　is　perhaps　not　so　much　quiet　as　simply　soft)

MAMA:　Who　that　round　here　slamming　doors　at　this　hour?　(She　crosses　through　the　room,　goes　to　the　window,　opens　it,　and　brings　in　a　feeble　little　plant　growing　doggedly　in　a　small　pot　on　the　windowsill.　She　feels　the　dirt　and　puts　it　back　out)

RUTH:　That　was　Walter　Lee.　He　and　Bennie　was　at　it　again.

MAMA:　My　children　and　they　tempers.　Lord,　if　this　little　old　plant　dont　get　more　sun　than　its　been　getting　it　aint　never　going　to　see　spring　again.　(She　turns　from　the　window)　Whats　the　matter　with　you　this　morning,　Ruth?　You　looks　right　peaked.　You　aiming　to　iron　all　them　things?　Leave　some　for　me.　Ill　get　to　em　this　afternoon.　Bennie　honey,　its　too　drafty　for　you　to　be　sittinground　half　dressed.　Wheres　your　robe?

BENEATHA:　In　the　cleaners.

MAMA:　Well,　go　get　mine　and　put　it　on.

BENEATHA:　Im　not　cold,　Mama,　honest.

MAMA:　I　know—but　you　so　thin...

BENEATHA:　(Irritably)　Mama,　Im　not　cold.

MAMA:　(Seeing　the　makedown　bed　as　TRAVIS　has　left　it)　Lord　have　mercy,　look　at　that　poor　bed.　Bless　his　heart—he　tries,　dont　he?　(She　moves　to　the　bed　TRAVIS　has　sloppily　made　up)

RUTH:　No—he　dont　half　try　at　all　cause　he　knows　you　going　to　come　along　behind　him　and　fix　everything.　Thats　just　how　come　he　dont　know　how　to　do　nothing　right　now—you　done　spoiled　that　boy　so.

MAMA:　(Folding　bedding)　Well—hes　a　little　boy.　Aint　supposed　to　know　bout　housekeeping.　My　baby,　thats　what　he　is.　What　you　fix　for　his　breakfast　this　morning?

RUTH:　(Angrily)　I　feed　my　son,　Lena!

MAMA:　I　aint　meddling—(Underbreath;　busybodyish)　I　just　noticed　all　last　week　he　had　cold　cereal,　and　when　it　starts　getting　this　chilly　in　the　fall　a　child　ought　to　have　some　hot　grits　or　something　when　he　goes　out　in　the　cold—

RUTH:　(Furious)　I　gave　him　hot　oats—is　that　all　right!

MAMA:　I　aint　meddling.　(Pause)　Put　a　lot　of　nice　butter　on　it?　(RUTH　shoots　her　an　angry　look　and　does　not　reply)　He　likes　lots　of　butter.

RUTH:　(Exasperated)　Lena—

MAMA:　(To　BENEATHA.　MAMA　is　inclined　to　wander　conversationally　sometimes)　What　was　you　and　your　brother　fussing　bout　this　morning?

BENEATHA:　Its　not　important,　Mama.　(She　gets　up　and　goes　to　look　out　at　the　bathroom,　which　is　apparently　free,　and　she　picks　up　her　towels　and　rushes　out)

MAMA:　What　was　they　fighting　about?

RUTH:　Now　you　know　as　well　as　I　do.

MAMA:　(Shaking　her　head)　Brother　still　worrying　hisself　sick　about　that　money?

RUTH:　You　know　he　is.

MAMA:　You　had　breakfast?

RUTH:　Some　coffee.

MAMA:　Girl,　you　better　start　eating　and　looking　after　yourself　better.　You　almost　thin　as　Travis.

RUTH:　Lena—

MAMA:　Unhunh

RUTH:　What　are　you　going　to　do　with　it?

MAMA:　Now　dont　you　start,　child.　Its　too　early　in　the　morning　to　be　talking　about　money.　It　aint　Christian.

RUTH:　Its　just　that　he　got　his　heart　set　on　that　store—

MAMA:　You　mean　that　liquor　store　that　Willy　Harris　want　him　to　invest　in?

RUTH:　Yes—

MAMA:　We　aint　no　business　people,　Ruth.　We　just　plain　working　folks.

RUTH:　Aint　nobody　business　people　till　they　go　into　business.　Walter　Lee　say　colored　people　aint　never　going　to　start　getting　ahead　till　they　start　gambling　on　some　different　kinds　of　things　in　the　world—investments　and　things.

MAMA:　What　done　got　into　you,　girl?　Walter　Lee　done　finally　sold　you　on　investing.

RUTH:　No.　Mama,　something　is　happening　between　Walter　and　me.　I　dont　know　what　it　is—but　he　needs　something—something　I　cant　give　him　anymore.　He　needs　this　chance,　Lena.

MAMA:　(Frowning　deeply)　But　liquor,　honey—

RUTH:　Well—like　Walter　say—I　spec　people　going　to　always　be　drinking　themselves　some　liquor.

MAMA:　Well—whether　they　drinks　it　or　not　aint　none　of　my　business.　But　whether　I　go　into　business　selling　it　to　em　is,　and　I　dont　want　that　on　my　ledger　this　late　in　life.　(Stopping　suddenly　and　studying　her　daughterinlaw)　Ruth　Younger,　whats　the　matter　with　you　today?　You　look　like　you　could　fall　over　right　there.

RUTH:　Im　tired.

MAMA:　Then　you　better　stay　home　from　work　today.

RUTH:　I　cant　stay　home.　Shed　be　calling　up　the　agency　and　screaming　at　them,　“My　girl　didnt　come　in　today—send　me　somebody!　My　girl　didnt　come　in!”　Oh,　she　just　have　a　fit...

MAMA:　Well,　let　her　have　it.　Ill　just　call　her　up　and　say　you　got　the　flu—

RUTH:　(Laughing)　Why　the　flu?

MAMA:　Cause　it　sounds　respectable　to　em.　Something　white　people　get,　too.　They　know　bout　the　flu.　Otherwise　they　think　you　been　cut　up　or　something　when　you　tell　em　you　sick.

RUTH:　I　got　to　go　in.　We　need　the　money.

MAMA:　Somebody　would　of　thought　my　children　done　all　but　starved　to　death　the　way　they　talk　about　money　here　late.　Child,　we　got　a　great　big　old　check　coming　tomorrow.

RUTH:　(Sincerely,　but　also　selfrighteously)　Now　thats　your　money.　It　aint　got　nothing　to　do　with　me.　We　all　feel　like　that—Walter　and　Bennie　and　me—even　Travis.

MAMA:　(Thoughtfully,　and　suddenly　very　far　away)　Ten　thousand　dollars—

RUTH:　Sure　is　wonderful.

MAMA:　Ten　thousand　dollars.

RUTH:　You　know　what　you　should　do,　Miss　Lena?　You　should　take　yourself　a　trip　somewhere.　To　Europe　or　South　America　or　someplace—

MAMA:　(Throwing　up　her　hands　at　the　thought)　Oh,　child!

RUTH:　Im　serious.　Just　pack　up　and　leave!　Go　on　away　and　enjoy　yourself　some.　Forget　about　the　family　and　have　yourself　a　ball　for　once　in　your　life—

MAMA:　(Drily)　You　sound　like　Im　just　about　ready　to　die.　Whod　go　with　me?　What　I　look　like　wandering　round　Europe　by　myself?

RUTH:　Shoot—these　here　rich　white　women　do　it　all　the　time.　They　dont　think　nothing　of　packing　up　they　suitcases　and　piling　on　one　of　them　big　steamships　and—swoosh!—they　gone,　child.

MAMA:　Something　always　told　me　I　wasnt　no　rich　white　woman.

RUTH:　Well—what　are　you　going　to　do　with　it　then?

MAMA:　I　aint　rightly　decided.　(Thinking.　She　speaks　now　with　emphasis)　Some　of　it　got　to　be　put　away　for　Beneatha　and　her　schoolin—and　aint　nothing　going　to　touch　that　part　of　it.　Nothing.　(She　waits　several　seconds,　trying　to　make　up　her　mind　about　something,　and　looks　at　RUTH　a　little　tentatively　before　going　on)　Been　thinking　that　we　maybe　could　meet　the　notes　on　a　little　old　twostory　somewhere,　with　a　yard　where　Travis　could　play　in　the　summertime,　if　we　use　part　of　the　insurance　for　a　down　payment　and　everybody　kind　of　pitch　in.　I　could　maybe　take　on　a　little　day　work　again,　few　days　a　week—

RUTH:　(Studying　her　motherinlaw　furtively　and　concentrating　on　her　ironing,　anxious　to　encourage　without　seeming　to)　Well,　Lord　knows,　weve　put　enough　rent　into　this　here　rat　trap　to　pay　for　four　houses　by　now...

MAMA:　(Looking　up　at　the　words　“rat　trap”　and　then　looking　around　and　leaning　back　and　sighing—in　a　suddenly　reflective　mood—)　“Rat　trap”—yes,　thats　all　it　is.　(Smiling)　I　remember　just　as　well　the　day　me　and　Big　Walter　moved　in　here.　Hadnt　been　married　but　two　weeks　and　wasnt　planning　on　living　here　no　more　than　a　year.　(She　shakes　her　head　at　the　dissolved　dream)　We　was　going　to　set　away,　little　by　little,　dont　you　know,　and　buy　a　little　place　out　in　Morgan　Park.　We　had　even　picked　out　the　house.　(Chuckling　a　little)　Looks　right　dumpy　today.　But　Lord,　child,　you　should　know　all　the　dreams　I　had　bout　buying　that　house　and　fixing　it　up　and　making　me　a　little　garden　in　the　back—(She　waits　and　stops　smiling)　And　didnt　none　of　it　happen.　(Dropping　her　hands　in　a　futile　gesture)

RUTH:　(Keeps　her　head　down,　ironing)　Yes,　life　can　be　a　barrel　of　disappointments,　sometimes.

MAMA:　Honey,　Big　Walter　would　come　in　here　some　nights　back　then　and　slump　down　on　that　couch　there　and　just　look　at　the　rug,　and　look　at　me　and　look　at　the　rug　and　then　back　at　me—and　Id　know　he　was　down　then...really　down.　(After　a　second　very　long　and　thoughtful　pause;　she　is　seeing　back　to　times　that　only　she　can　see)　And　then,　Lord,　when　I　lost　that　baby—little　Claude—I　almost　thought　I　was　going　to　lose　Big　Walter　too.　Oh,　that　man　grieved　hisself!　He　was　one　man　to　love　his　children.

RUTH:　Aint　nothin　can　tear　at　you　like　losin　your　baby.

MAMA:　I　guess　thats　how　come　that　man　finally　worked　hisself　to　death　like　he　done.　Like　he　was　fighting　his　own　war　with　this　here　world　that　took　his　baby　from　him.

RUTH:　He　sure　was　a　fine　man,　all　right.　I　always　liked　Mr.　Younger.

MAMA:　Crazy　bout　his　children!　God　knows　there　was　plenty　wrong　with　Walter　Younger—hardheaded,　mean,　kind　of　wild　with　women—plenty　wrong　with　him.　But　he　sure　loved　his　children.　Always　wanted　them　to　have　something—be　something.　Thats　where　Brother　gets　all　these　notions,　I　reckon.　Big　Walter　used　to　say,　hed　get　right　wet　in　the　eyes　sometimes,　lean　his　head　back　with　the　water　standing　in　his　eyes　and　say,　“Seem　like　God　didnt　see　fit　to　give　the　black　man　nothing　but　dreams—but　He　did　give　us　children　to　make　them　dreams　seem　worth　while.”　(She　smiles)　He　could　talk　like　that,　dont　you　know.

RUTH:　Yes,　he　sure　could.　He　was　a　good　man,　Mr.　Younger.

MAMA:　Yes,　a　fine　man—just　couldnt　all.　(BENEATHA　comes　in,　brushing　her　hair　and　looking　up　to　the　ceiling,　where　the　sound　of　a　vacuum　cleaner　has　started　up)

BENEATHA:　What　could　be　so　dirty　on　that　womans　rugs　that　she　has　to　vacuum　them　every　single　day?

RUTH:　I　wish　certain　young　women　round　here　who　I　could　name　would　take　inspiration　about　certain　rugs　in　a　certain　apartment　I　could　also　mention.

BENEATHA:　(Shrugging)　How　much　cleaning　can　a　house　need,　for　Christs　sakes.

MAMA:　(Not　liking　the　Lords　name　used　thus)　Bennie!

RUTH:　Just　listen　to　her—just　listen!

BENEATHA:　Oh,　God!

MAMA:　If　you　use　the　Lords　name　just　one　more　time—

BENEATHA:　(A　bit　of　a　whine)　Oh,　Mama—

RUTH:　Fresh—just　fresh　as　salt,　this　girl!

BENEATHA:　(Drily)　Well—if　the　salt　never　catch　up　with　his　dreams,　thats　loses　its　savor—

MAMA:　Now　that　will　do.　I　just　aint　going　to　have　you　round　here　reciting　the　scriptures　in　vain—you　hear　me?

BENEATHA:　How　did　I　manage　to　get　on　everybodys　wrong　side　by　just　walking　into　a　room?

RUTH:　If　you　werent　so　fresh—

BENEATHA:　Ruth,　Im　twenty　years　old.

MAMA:　What　time　you　be　home　from　school　today?

BENEATHA:　Kind　of　late.　(With　enthusiasm)　Madeline　is　going　to　start　my　guitar　lessons　today.　(MAMA　and　RUTH　look　up　with　the　same　expression)

MAMA:　Your　what　kind　of　lessons?

BENEATHA:　Guitar.

RUTH:　Oh,　Father!

MAMA:　How　come　you　done　taken　it　in　your　mind　to　learn　to　play　the　guitar?

BENEATHA:　I　just　want　to,　thats　all.

MAMA:　(Smiling)　Lord,　child,　dont　you　know　what　to　do　with　yourself?　How　long　it　going　to　be　before　you　get　tired　of　this　now—like　you　got　tired　of　that　little　playacting　group　you　joined　last　year?　(Looking　at　RUTH)　And　what　was　it　the　year　before　that?

RUTH:　The　horsebackriding　club　for　which　she　bought　that　fiftyfivedollar　riding　habit　thats　been　hanging　in　the　closet　ever　since!

MAMA:　(To　BENEATHA)　Why　you　got　to　flit　so　from　one　thing　to　another,　baby?

BENEATHA:　(Sharply)　I　just　want　to　learn　to　play　the　guitar.　Is　there　anything　wrong　with　that?

MAMA:　Aint　nobody　trying　to　stop　you.　I　just　wonders　sometimes　why　you　has　to　flit　so　from　one　thing　to　another　all　the　time.　You　aint　never　done　nothing　with　all　that　camera　equipment　you　brought　home—

BENEATHA:　I　dont　flit!　I—I　experiment　with　different　forms　of　expression—

RUTH:　Like　riding　a　horse?

BENEATHA:　—People　have　to　express　themselves　one　way　or　another.

MAMA:　What　is　it　you　want　to　express?

BENEATHA:　(Angrily)　Me!　(MAMA　and　RUTH　look　at　each　other　and　burst　into　raucous　laughter)　Dont　worry—I　dont　expect　you　to　understand.

MAMA:　(To　change　the　subject)　Who　you　going　out　with　tomorrow　night?

BENEATHA:　(With　displeasure)　George　Murchison　again.

MAMA:　(Pleased)　Oh—you　getting　a　little　sweet　on　him?

RUTH:　You　ask　me,　this　child　aint　sweet　on　nobody　but　herself—(Underbreath)　Express　herself!

(They　laugh)

BENEATHA:　Oh—I　like　George　all　right,　Mama.　I　mean　I　like　him　enough　to　go　out　with　him　and　stuff,　but—

RUTH:　(For　devilment)　What　does　and　stuff　mean?

BENEATHA:　Mind　your　own　business.

MAMA:　Stop　picking　at　her　now,　Ruth.　(She　chuckles—then　a　suspicious　sudden　look　at　her　daughter　as　she　turns　in　her　chair　for　emphasis)　What　DOES　it　mean?

BENEATHA:　(Wearily)　Oh,　I　just　mean　I　couldnt　ever　really　be　serious　about　George.　Hes—hes　so　shallow.

RUTH:　Shallow—what　do　you　mean　hes　shallow?　Hes　rich!

MAMA:　Hush,　Ruth.

BENEATHA:　I　know　hes　rich.　He　knows　hes　rich,　too.

RUTH:　Weil—what　other　qualities　a　man　got　to　have　to　satisfy　you,　little　girl?

BENEATHA:　You　wouldnt　even　begin　to　understand.　Anybody　who　married　Walter　could　not　possibly　understand.

MAMA:　(Outraged)　What　kind　of　way　is　that　to　talk　about　your　brother?

BENEATHA:　Brother　is　a　flip—lets　face　it.

MAMA:　(To　RUTH,　helplessly)　Whats　a　flip?

RUTH:　(Glad　to　add　kindling)　Shes　saying　hes　crazy.

BENEATHA:　Not　crazy.　Brother　isnt　really　crazy　yet—he—hes　an　elaborate　neurotic.

MAMA:　Hush　your　mouth!

BENEATHA:　As　for　George.　Well.　George　looks　good—hes　got　a　beautiful　car　and　he　takes　me　to　nice　places　and,　as　my　sisterinlaw　says,　he　is　probably　the　richest　boy　I　will　ever　get　to　know　and　I　even　like　him　sometimes—but　if　the　Youngers　are　sitting　around　waiting　to　see　if　their　little　Bennie　is　going　to　tie　up　the　family　with　the　Murchisons,　they　are　wasting　their　time.

RUTH:　You　mean　you　wouldnt　marry　George　Murchison　if　he　asked　you　someday?　That　pretty,　rich　thing?　Honey,　I　knew　you　was　odd—

BENEATHA:　No　I　would　not　marry　him　if　all　I　felt　for　him　was　what　I　feel　now.　Besides,　Georges　family　wouldnt　really　like　it.

MAMA:　Why　not?

BENEATHA:　Oh,　Mama—The　Murchisons　are　honesttoGodrealfoerich　colored　people,　and　the　only　people　in　the　world　who　are　more　snobbish　than　rich　white　people　are　rich　colored　people.　I　thought　everybody　knew　that.　Ive　met　Mrs.　Murchison.　Shes　a　scene!

MAMA:　You　must　not　dislike　people　cause　they　well　off,　honey.

BENEATHA:　Why　not?　It　makes　just　as　much　sense　as　disliking　people　cause　they　are　poor,　and　lots　of　people　do　that.

RUTH:　(A　wisdomoftheages　manner.　To　MAMA)　Well,　shell　get　over　some　of　this—

BENEATHA:　Get　over　it?　What　are　you　talking　about,　Ruth?　Listen,　Im　going　to　be　a　doctor.　Im　not　worried　about　who　Im　going　to　marry　yet—if　I　ever　get　married.

MAMA　and　RUTH:　If!

MAMA:　Now,　Bennie—

BENEATHA:　Oh,　I　probably　will...but　first　Im　going　to　be　a　doctor,　and　George,　for　one,　still　thinks　thats　pretty　funny.　I　couldnt　be　bothered　with　that.　I　am　going　to　be　a　doctor　and　everybody　around　here　better　understand　that!

MAMA:　(Kindly)　Course　you　going　to　be　a　doctor,　honey,　God　willing.

BENEATHA:　(Drily)　God　hasnt　got　a　thing　to　do　with　it.

MAMA:　Beneatha—that　just　wasnt　necessary.

BENEATHA:　Well—neither　is　God.　I　get　sick　of　hearing　about　God.

MAMA:　Beneatha!

BENEATHA:　I　mean　it!　Im　just　tired　of　hearing　about　God　all　the　time.　What　has　He　got　to　do　with　anything?　Does　he　pay　tuition?

MAMA:　You　bout　to　get　your　fresh　little　jaw　slapped!

RUTH:　Thats　just　what　she　needs,　all　right!

BENEATHA:　Why?　Why　cant　I　say　what　I　want　to　around　here,　like　everybody　else?

MAMA:　It　dont　sound　nice　for　a　young　girl　to　say　things　like　that—you　wasnt　brought　up　that　way.　Me　and　your　father　went　to　trouble　to　get　you　and　Brother　to　church　every　Sunday.

BENEATHA:　Mama,　you　dont　understand.　Its　all　a　matter　of　ideas,　and　God　is　just　one　idea　I　dont　accept.　Its　not　important.　I　am　not　going　out　and　be　immoral　or　commit　crimes　because　I　dont　believe　in　God.　I　dont　even　think　about　it.　Its　just　that　I　get　tired　of　Him　getting　credit　for　all　the　things　the　human　race　achieves　through　its　own　stubborn　effort.　There　simply　is　no　blasted　God—there　is　only　man　and　it　is　he　who　makes　miracles!　(MAMA　absorbs　this　speech,　studies　her　daughter　and　rises　slowly　and　crosses　to　BENEATHA　and　slaps　her　powerfully　across　the　face.　After,　there　is　only　silence　and　the　daughter　drops　her　eyes　from　her　mothers　face,　and　MAMA　is　very　tall　before　her)

MAMA:　Now—you　say　after　me,　in　my　mothers　house　there　is　still　God.　(There　is　a　long　pause　and　BENEATHA　stares　at　the　floor　wordlessly.　MAMA　repeats　the　phrase　with　precision　and　cool　emotion)　In　my　mothers　house　there　is　still　God.

BENEATHA:　In　my　mothers　house　there　is　still　God.　(A　long　pause)

MAMA:　(Walking　away　from　BENEATHA,　too　disturbed　for　triumphant　posture.　Stopping　and　turning　back　to　her　daughter)　There　are　some　ideas　we　aint　going　to　have　in　this　house.　Not　long　as　I　am　at　the　head　of　this　family.

BENEATHA:　Yes,　maam.　(MAMA　walks　out　of　the　room)

RUTH:　(Almost　gently,　with　profound　understanding)　You　think　you　a　woman,　Bennie—but　you　still　a　little　girl.　What　you　did　was　childish—so　you　got　treated　like　a　child.

BENEATHA:　I　see.　(Quietly)　I　also　see　that　everybody　thinks　its　all　right　for　Mama　to　be　a　tyrant.　But　all　the　tyranny　in　the　world　will　never　put　a　God　in　the　heavens!　(She　picks　up　her　books　and　goes　out.　Pause)

RUTH:　(Goes　to　MAMAs　door)　She　said　she　was　sorry.

MAMA:　(Coming　out,　going　to　her　plant)　They　frightens　me,　Ruth.　My　children.

RUTH:　You　got　good　children,　Lena.　They　just　a　little　off　sometimes—but　theyre　good.

MAMA:　No—theres　something　come　down　between　me　and　them　that　dont　let　us　understand　each　other　and　I　dont　know　what　it　is.　One　done　almost　lost　his　mind　thinking　bout　money　all　the　time　and　the　other　done　commence　to　talk　about　things　I　cant　seem　to　understand　in　no　form　or　fashion.　What　is　it　thats　changing,　Ruth.

RUTH:　(Soothingly,　older　than　her　years)　Now...you　taking　it　all　too　seriously.　You　just　got　strongwilled　children　and　it　takes　a　strong　woman　like　you　to　keep　em　in　hand.

MAMA:　(Looking　at　her　plant　and　sprinkling　a　little　water　on　it)　They　spirited　all　right,　my　children.　Got　to　admit　they　got　spirit—Bennie　and　Walter.　Like　this　little　old　plant　that　aint　never　had　enough　sunshine　or　nothing—and　look　at　it...(She　has　her　back　to　RUTH,　who　has　had　to　stop　ironing　and　lean　against　something　and　put　the　back　of　her　hand　to　her　forehead)

RUTH:　(Trying　to　keep　MAMA　from　noticing)　You...sure...loves　that　little　old　thing,　dont　you?...

MAMA:　Well,　I　always　wanted　me　a　garden　like　I　used　to　see　sometimes　at　the　back　of　the　houses　down　home.　This　plant　is　close　as　I　ever　got　to　having　one.　(She　looks　out　of　the　window　as　she　replaces　the　plant)　Lord,　aint　nothing　as　dreary　as　the　view　from　this　window　on　a　dreary　day,　is　there?　Why　aint　you　singing　this　morning,　Ruth?　Sing　that　“No　Ways　Tired.”　That　song　always　lifts　me　up　so—(She　turns　at　last　to　see　that　RUTH　has　slipped　quietly　to　the　floor,　in　a　state　of　semiconsciousness)　Ruth!　Ruth　honey—whats　the　matter　with　you...Ruth!

Curtain

Questions　for　discussion

1.　Whats　the　big　conflict　in　the　play?

2.　Walter　Younger　wants　to　be　a　responsible　man　and　creates　a　better　future　for　his　family,　and　why　is　his　dream　deferred?

3.　Are　there　any　racial　or　gender　discriminations　represented　in　Act　I?

2.　Dutchman

作家简介

当代著名非裔美国诗人阿米利·巴拉卡（Amiri　Baraka)（1934—2014）出生于纽瓦克黑人中产阶级家庭，先后在拉特格斯大学与霍华德大学就读，1954年获得英语学士学位，毕业后曾在美国空军服役，曾因向共产主义刊物投稿诗作被开除军籍。他非常多产，除了诗歌创作之外，还发表了许多论文、短篇小说、音乐批评等，是与杜波伊斯、赖特、鲍德温等齐名的20世纪美国重要作家与文化批评家。

巴拉卡早年住在纽约著名的格林威治村，是当时垮掉派艺术家中最具才华的黑人，他与白人犹太女性海蒂结婚，有两个孩子。1960年，他受邀访问古巴后，文艺思想与创作理念出现戏剧性的变化，他不再相信欧裔美国社会与文化，出版《布鲁斯人民：白人美国的黑人音乐》（1963），创作了《奴隶》（1964）和《洗手间》（1964）等戏剧作品，但是真正奠定他剧作家地位，为他赢得广泛赞誉的是他1963年在外百老汇上演的《荷兰人》。剧中黑人男性柯雷与白人女子卢拉之间的关系，隐喻了当时美国社会与文化环境中白人对黑人的毁灭性伤害。著名非裔美国文学批评家特纳（Darwin　T.　Turner）认为，这两位人物之间的关系表明，美国黑人如果在智识方面对白人形成威胁，就可能遭受柯雷这样的灭顶之灾；此剧同时也表明，如果美国黑人不直面白人的压迫，那么他的梦想、追求只会破灭。

在美国民权运动如火如荼的20世纪60年代，特别是马尔科姆·艾克斯被暗杀之后，巴拉卡更加强调非裔美国文艺服务于黑人民族的功能，甚至不无极端地把文艺的宣传功能提升到极致，创作出类似于“我们的诗歌应该能够杀戮//能够暗杀//诗歌能够射杀//诗歌是投枪”这样的诗句。1968年，他与志同道合者尼尔共同编辑了富有典型时代特征的美国黑人革命文学选集《黑人的怒火》。

离开纽约回到新泽西后，巴拉卡创立民族主义的泛非组织“非洲人民议会”，建立“精神之家”，加入“美国黑人政治学会”等机构，其剧作《警察》、《要么武装自己要么伤害自己》直面美国警察在城市黑人社区的残暴行径。为了表明自己的种族与文化立场，他与白人妻子海蒂离婚，与非裔美国女性塞维尔·罗宾逊结婚，把自己的名字由原来的琼斯改为巴拉卡（Imamu　Amiri　Baraka），全身心地投入到黑人解放与黑人民族主义的斗争中去。1968—1975年间，巴拉卡成为当时最具影响的年轻激进分子。

后来因为对黑人穆斯林及黑人民族主义意识形态感到失望，巴拉卡转而拥抱马克思列宁主义，他对美国种族问题的思考更加成熟，艺术创作方面也更为沉稳，获得了多种荣誉，如古根海姆奖、福克纳笔会奖、洛克菲勒戏剧奖、休斯奖等，并成为新泽西州的桂冠诗人。巴拉卡的文艺创作与批评极好地反映了20世纪60年代和70年代黑人民权运动及黑人权力运动时期非裔美国文学中的激进与偏颇，值得我们认真反思与分析。

作品简介与赏析

1964年，《荷兰人》在外百老汇上演，1967年被拍成电影，成为巴拉卡最受人关注的剧作，曾经获得奥比奖。有趣的是，本剧的背景设在纽约地铁上，舞台上重点呈现的是黑人男性柯雷与白人女性卢拉，并没有出现什么“荷兰人”。有论者指出，本剧的标题让人想起《飞翔的荷兰人》中受到诅咒、重复自己旅程的幽灵船，巴拉卡仿佛以之暗示，非裔美国人，就像这艘传说中的船，不仅在重复非洲黑人穿越大西洋中间航道的生死经历，而且在重现美国黑人生活在奴隶制中的悲惨命运，因此极具象征意义。本剧中黑人男主人公柯雷遭遇白人女性卢拉诱惑，在地铁车厢被卢拉刺杀身亡，预示着后续登台的黑人可能会遭遇同样的诱惑与死亡命运，反映了黑人男性青年的悲惨宿命。

以黑人男性柯雷与白人女性卢拉为呈现对象的《荷兰人》不仅再现了类型化的黑人男女，也通过对发生在美国南方特定历史时期、针对黑人男性的私刑出现在北方城市纽约地铁上的情景再现。使观众清楚地看到具有“自由主义”打扮，吃着苹果的卢拉如何被柯雷“原始”的男性魅力打动，主动与其调情，却在临近演出结束时，轻巧地把一柄小刀插进柯雷的心脏，若无其事地等待下一个牺牲品的全过程。

巴拉卡通过此剧表明，在60年代民权运动如火如荼的美国，黑人在继续寻找自己文化身份的过程中，更加清醒地认识到白人“自由主义”文化的“欺骗性”，那些貌似“左翼”，有时“甜言蜜语”的白人可能掩盖了自己种族主义者的真面目，他们虽然在言辞上同情黑人族群遭受的不公正待遇，但是几乎始终保有居高临下的主宰身份，不仅威胁着黑人的安全，而且腐蚀着黑人的心灵及其族群的文化。

令人欣慰的是，黑人男主人公柯雷虽然像许多悲剧英雄一样，难以摆脱死亡的命运，但是在生命的最后瞬间，他意识到自己必须主宰自己的命运，不能受白人文化的摆布，必须跳出美国历史的束缚，才能摆脱奴役，获得自由。巴拉卡的《荷兰人》极好地再现了美国转型时期——由20世纪50年代的融合主义转向60年代的分离主义——的历史画卷。

Characters

Clay,　twentyyearold　Negro

Lula,　thirtyyearold　white　woman

Riders　of　coach,　white　and　black

Young　negro

Conductor

In　the　flying　underbelly　of　the　city.　Steaming　hot,　and　summer　on　top,　outside.　Underground.　The　subway　heaped　in　modern　myth.

Opening　scene　is　a　man　sitting　in　a　subway　seat,　holding　a　magazine　but　looking　vacantly　just　above　its　wilting　pages.　Occasionally　he　looks　blankly　toward　the　window　on　his　right.　Dim　lights　and　darkness　whistling　by　against　the　glass.　(Or　paste　the　lights,　as　admitted　props,　right　on　the　subway　windows.　Have　them　move,　even　dim　and　flicker.　But　give　the　sense　of　speed.　Also　stations,　whether　the　train　is　stopped　or　the　glitter　and　activity　of　these　stations　merely　flashes　by　the　windows.)

The　man　is　sitting　alone.　That　is,　only　his　seat　is　visible,　though　the　rest　of　the　car　is　outfitted　as　a　complete　subway　car.　But　only　his　seat　is　shown.　There　might　be,　for　a　time,　as　the　play　begins,　a　loud　scream　of　the　actual　train.　And　it　can　recur　throughout　the　play,　or　continue　on　a　lower　key　once　the　dialogue　starts.

The　train　slows　after　a　time,　pulling　to　a　brief　stop　at　one　of　the　stations.　The　man　looks　idly　up,　until　he　sees　a　womans　face　staring　at　him　through　the　window;　when　it　realizes　that　the　man　has　noticed　the　face,　it　begins　very　premeditatedly　to　smile.　The　man　smiles　too,　for　a　moment,　without　a　trace　of　selfconsciousness.　Almost　an　instinctive　though　undesirable　response.　Then　a　kind　of　awkwardness　or　embarrassment　sets　in,　and　the　man　makes　to　look　away,　is　further　embarrassed,　so　he　brings　back　his　eyes　to　where　the　face　was,　but　by　now　the　train　is　moving　again,　and　the　face　would　seem　to　be　left　behind　by　the　way　the　man　turns　his　head　to　look　back　through　the　other　windows　at　the　slowly　fading　platform.　He　smiles　then;　more　comfortably　confident,　hoping　perhaps　that　his　memory　of　this　brief　encounter　will　be　pleasant.　And　then　he　is　idle　again.

Scene　1

Train　roars.　Lights　flash　outside　the　windows.

Lula　enters　from　the　rear　of　the　car　in　bright,　skimpy　summer　clothes　and　sandals.　She　carries　a　net　bag　full　of　paper　books,　fruit,　and　other　anonymous　articles.　She　is　wearing　sunglasses,　which　she　pushes　up　on　her　forehead　from　time　to　time.　Lula　is　a　tall,　slender,　beautiful　woman　with　long　red　hair　hanging　straight　down　her　back,　wearing　only　loud　lipstick　in　somebodys　good　taste.　She　is　eating　an　apple,　very　daintily.　Coming　down　the　car　toward　Clay.　She　stops　beside　Clays　seat　and　hangs　languidly　from　the　strap,　still　managing　to　eat　the　apple.　It　is　apparent　that　she　is　going　to　sit　in　the　seat　next　to　Clay,　and　that　she　is　only　waiting　for　him　to　notice　her　before　she　sits.

Clay　sits　as　before,　looking　just　beyond　his　magazine,　now　and　again　pulling　the　magazine　slowly　back　and　forth　in　front　of　his　face　in　a　hopeless　effort　to　fan　himself.　Then　he　sees　the　woman　hanging　there　beside　him　and　he　looks　up　into　her　face,　smiling　quizzically.

Lula:　Hello.

Clay:　Uh,　hire　you?

Lula:　Im　going　to　sit　down....O.　K.?

Clay:　Sure.

Lula:　[Swings　down　onto　the　seat,　pushing　her　legs　straight　out　as　if　she　is　very　weary]　Oooof!　Too　much　weight.

Clay:　Ha,　doesnt　look　like　much　to　me.　[Leaning　back　against　the　window,　a　little　surprised　and　maybe　stiff]

Lula:　Its　so　anyway.　[And　she　moves　her　toes　in　the　sandals,　then　pulls　her　right　leg　up　on　the　left　knee,　better　to　inspect　the　bottoms　of　the　sandals　and　the　back　of　her　heel.　She　appears　for　a　second　not　to　notice　that　Clay　is　sitting　next　to　her　or　that　she　has　spoken　to　him　just　a　second　before.　Clay　looks　at　the　magazine,　then　out　the　black　window.　As　he　does　this,　she　turns　very　quickly　toward　him]　Werent　you　staring　at　me　through　the　window?

Clay:　[Wheeling　around　and　very　much　stiffened]　What?

Lula:　Werent　you　staring　at　me　through　the　window?　At　the　last　stop?

Clay:　Staring　at　you?　What　do　you　mean?

Lula:　Dont　you　know　what　staring　means?

Clay:　I　saw　you　through　the　window...if　thats　what　it　means.　I　dont　know　if　I　was　staring.　Seems　to　me　you　were　staring　through　the　window　at　me.

Lula:　I　was.　But　only　after　Id　turned　around　and　saw　you　staring　through　that　window　down　in　the　vicinity　of　my　ass　and　legs.

Clay:　Really?

Lula:　Really.　I　guess　you　were　just　taking　those　idle　potshots.　Nothing　else　to　do.　Run　your　mind　over　peoples　flesh.

Clay:　Oh　boy.　Wow,　now　I　admit　I　was　looking　in　your　direction.　But　the　rest　of　that　weight　is　yours.

本剧这种“颠倒黑白”的处理方式颠覆了传统（非裔）美国文学中白人男性骚扰/侵害黑人女性的性别关系，而居主宰地位的“种族”关系依然继续在此发挥作用。但是，黑人男性柯雷直接点出白人女性“欲加之罪何患无辞”的潜台词，既预示着美国黑人名义上的进步，也表明依然处于受压迫状态的黑人的无奈。

Lula:　I　suppose.

Clay:　Staring　through　train　windows　is　weird　business.　Much　weirder　than　staring　very　sedately　at　abstract　asses.

Lula:　Thats　why　I　came　looking　through　the　window...so　youd　have　more　than　that　to　go　on.　I　even　smiled　at　you.

Clay:　Thats　right.

Lula:　I　even　got　into　this　train,　going　some　other　way　than　mine.　Walked　down　the　aisle...searching　you　out.

Clay:　Really?　Thats　pretty　funny.

Lula:　Thats　pretty　funny....God,　youre　dull.

Clay:　Well,　Im　sorry,　lady,　but　I　really　wasnt　prepared　for　party　talk.

Lula:　No,　youre　not.　What　are　you　prepared　for?　[Wrapping　the　apple　core　in　a　Kleenex　and　dropping　it　on　the　floor]

Clay:　[Takes　her　conversation　as　pure　sex　talk.　He　turns　to　confront　her　squarely　with　this　idea]　Im　prepared　for　anything.　How　about　you?

Lula:　[Laughing　loudly　and　cutting　it　off　abruptly]　What　do　you　think　youre　doing?

Clay:　What?

Lula:　You　think　I　want　to　pick　you　up,　get　you　to　take　me　somewhere　and　screw　me,　huh?

Clay:　Is　that　the　way　I　look?

Lula:　You　look　like　you　been　trying　to　grow　a　beard.　Thats　exactly　what　you　look　like.　You　look　like　you　live　in　New　Jersey　with　your　parents　and　are　trying　to　grow　a　beard.　Thats　what.　You　look　like　youve　been　reading　Chinese　poetry　and　drinking　lukewarm　sugarless　tea.　[Laughs,　uncrossing　and　recrossing　her　legs]　You　look　like　death　eating　a　soda　cracker.

Clay:　[Cocking　his　head　from　one　side　to　the　other,　embarrassed　and　trying　to　make　some　comeback,　but　also　intrigued　by　what　the　woman　is　saying...even　the　sharp　city　coarseness　of　her　voice,　which　is　still　a　kind　of　gentle　sidewalk　throb]　Really?　I　look　like　all　that?

Lula:　Not　all　of　it.　[She　feints　a　seriousness　to　cover　an　actual　somber　tone]　I　lie　a　lot.　[Smiling]　It　helps　me　control　the　world.

Clay:　[Relieved　and　laughing　louder　than　the　humor]　Yeah,　I　bet.

Lula:　But　its　true,　most　of　it,　right?　Jersey?　Your　bumpy　neck?

Clay:　Howd　you　know　all　that?　Huh?　Really,　I　mean　about　Jersey...and　even　the　beard.　I　met　you　before?　You　know　Warren　Enright?

Lula:　You　tried　to　make　it　with　your　sister　when　you　were　ten.　[Clay　leans　back　hard　against　the　back　of　the　seat,　his　eyes　opening　now,　still　trying　to　look　amused]　But　I　succeeded　a　few　weeks　ago.　[She　starts　to　laugh　again]

Clay:　Whatre　you　talking　about?　Warren　tell　you　that?　Youre　a　friend　of　Georgias?

Lula:　I　told　you　I　lie.　I　dont　know　your　sister.　I　dont　know　Warren　Enright.

Clay:　You　mean　youre　just　picking　these　things　out　of　the　air?

Lula:　Is　Warren　Enright　a　tall　skinny　black　black　boy　with　a　phony　English　accent?

Clay:　I　figured　you　knew　him.

Lula:　But　I　dont.　I　just　figured　you　would　know　somebody　like　that.　[Laughs]

Clay:　Yeah,　yeah.

Lula:　Youre　probably　on　your　way　to　his　house　now.

Clay:　Thats　right.

Lula:　[Putting　her　hand　on　Clays　closest　knee,　drawing　it　from　the　knee　up　to　the　thighs　hinge,　then　removing　it,　watching　his　face　very　closely,　and　continuing　to　laugh,　perhaps　more　gently　than　before]　Dull,　dull,　dull.　I　bet　you　think　Im　exciting.

Clay:　Youre　O.　K.

Lula:　Am　I　exciting　you　now?

Clay:　Right.　Thats　not　whats　supposed　to　happen?

Lula:　How　do　I　know?　[She　returns　her　hand,　without　moving　it,　then　takes　it　away　and　plunges　it　in　her　bag　to　draw　out　an　apple]　You　want　this?

Clay:　Sure.

Lula:　[She　gets　one　out　of　the　bag　for　herself]　Eating　apples　together　is　always　the　first　step.　Or　walking　up　uninhabited　Seventh　Avenue　in　the　twenties　on　weekends.　[Bites　and　giggles,　glancing　at　Clay　and　speaking　in　loose　singsong]　Can　get　you　involved...boy!　Get　us　involved.　Umhuh.　[Mock　seriousness]　Would　you　like　to　get　involved　with　me,　Mister　Man?

Clay:　[Trying　to　be　as　flippant　as　Lula,　whacking　happily　at　the　apple]　Sure.　Why　not?　A　beautiful　woman　like　you.　Huh,　Id　be　a　fool　not　to.

Lula:　And　I　bet　youre　sure　you　know　what　youre　talking　about.　[Taking　him　a　little　roughly　by　the　wrist,　so　he　cannot　eat　the　apple,　then　shaking　the　wrist]　I　bet　youre　sure　of　almost　everything　anybody　ever　asked　you　about...right?　[Shakes　his　wrist　harder]　Right?

Clay:　Yeah,　right....Wow,　youre　pretty　strong,　you　know?　Whatta　you,　a　lady　wrestler　or　something?

Lula:　Whats　wrong　with　lady　wrestlers?　And　dont　answer　because　you　never　knew　any.　Huh.　[Cynically]　Thats　for　sure.　They　dont　have　any　lady　wrestlers　in　that　part　of　Jersey.　Thats　for　sure.

Clay:　Hey,　you　still　havent　told　me　how　you　know　so　much　about　me.

Lula:　I　told　you　I　didnt　know　anything　about　you...youre　a　wellknown　type.

Clay:　Really?

Lula:　Or　at　least　I　know　the　type　very　well.　And　your　skinny　English　friend　too.

Clay:　Anonymously?

Lula:　[Settles　back　in　seat,　singlemindedly　finishing　her　apple　and　humming　snatches　of　rhythm　and　blues　song]　What?

Clay:　Without　knowing　us　specifically?

Lula:　Oh　boy.　[Looking　quickly　at　Clay]　What　a　face.　You　know,　you　could　be　a　handsome　man.

Clay:　I　cant　argue　with　you.

Lula:　[Vague,　offcenter　response]　What?

Clay:　[Raising　his　voice,　thinking　the　train　noise　has　drowned　part　of　his　sentence]　I　cant　argue　with　you.

Lula:　My　hair　is　turning　gray.　A　gray　hair　for　each　year　and　type　Ive　come　through.

Clay:　Why　do　you　want　to　sound　so　old?

Lula:　But　its　always　gentle　when　it　starts.　[Attention　drifting]　Hugged　against　tenements,　day　or　night.

Clay:　What?

Lula:　[Refocusing]　Hey,　why　dont　you　take　me　to　that　party　youre　going　to?

Clay:　You　must　be　a　friend　of　Warrens　to　know　about　the　party.

Lula:　Wouldnt　you　like　to　take　me　to　the　party?　[Imitates　clinging　vine]　Oh,　come　on,　ask　me　to　your　party.

Clay:　Of　course　Ill　ask　you　to　come　with　me　to　the　party.　And　Ill　bet　youre　a　friend　of　Warrens.

Lula:　Why　not　be　a　friend　of　Warrens?　Why　not?　[Taking　his　arm]　Have　you　asked　me　yet?

Clay:　How　can　I　ask　you　when　I　dont　know　your　name?

Lula:　Are　you　talking　to　my　name?

Clay:　What　is　it,　a　secret?

Lula:　Im　Lena　the　Hyena.

Clay:　The　famous　woman　poet?

Lula:　Poetess!　The　same!

Clay:　Well,　you　know　so　much　about　me...whats　my　name?

Lula:　Morris　the　Hyena.

Clay:　The　famous　woman　poet?

Lula:　The　same.　[Laughing　and　going　into　her　bag]　You　want　another　apple?

Clay:　Cant　make　it,　lady.　I　only　have　to　keep　one　doctor　away　a　day.

Lula:　I　bet　your　name　is...something　like...uh,　Gerald　or　Walter.　Huh?

Clay:　God,　no.

Lula:　Lloyd,　Norman?　One　of　those　hopeless　colored　names　creeping　out　of　New　Jersey.　Leonard?　Gag....

Clay:　Like　Warren?

Lula:　Definitely.　Just　exactly　like　Warren.　Or　Everett.

Clay:　Gag....

Lula:　Well,　for　sure,　its　not　Willie.

Clay:　Its　Clay.

Lula:　Clay?　Really?　Clay　what?

Clay:　Take　your　pick.　Jackson,　Johnson,　or　Williams.

Lula:　Oh,　really?　Good　for　you.　But　its　got　to　be　Williams.　Youre　too　pretentious　to　be　a　Jackson　or　Johnson.

Clay:　Thats　right.

Lula:　But　Clays　O.　K.

Clay:　Sos　Lena.

Lula:　Its　Lula.

Clay:　Oh?

Lula:　Lula　the　Hyena.

Clay:　Very　good.

Lula:　[Starts　laughing　again]　Now　you　say　to　me,　“Lula,　Lula,　why　dont　you　go　to　this　party　with　me　tonight?”　Its　your　turn,　and　let　those　be　your　lines.

Clay:　Lula,　why　dont　you　go　to　this　party　with　me　tonight,　Huh?

Lula:　Say　my　name　twice　before　you　ask,　and　no　huhs.

Clay:　Lula,　Lula,　why　dont　you　go　to　this　party　with　me　tonight?

Lula:　Id　like　to　go,　Clay,　but　how　can　you　ask　me　to　go　when　you　barely　know　me?

Clay:　That　is　strange,　isnt　it?

Lula:　What　kind　of　reaction　is　that?　Youre　supposed　to　say,　“Aw,　come　on,　well　get　to　know　each　other　better　at　the　party.”

Clay:　Thats　pretty　corny.

Lula:　What　are　you　into　anyway?　[Looking　at　him　half　sullenly　but　still　amused]　What　thing　are　you　playing　at,　Mister?　Mister　Clay　Williams?　[Grabs　his　thigh,　up　near　the　crotch]　What　are　you　thinking　about?

Clay:　Watch　it　now,　youre　gonna　excite　me　for　real.

Lula:　[Taking　her　hand　away　and　throwing　her　apple　core　through　the　window]　I　bet.　[She　slumps　in　the　seat　and　is　heavily　silent]

Clay:　I　thought　you　knew　everything　about　me?　What　happened?　[Lula　looks　at　him,　then　looks　slowly　away,　then　over　where　the　other　aisle　would　be.　Noise　of　the　train.　She　reaches　in　her　bag　and　pulls　out　one　of　the　paper　books.　She　puts　it　on　her　leg　and　thumbs　the　pages　listlessly.　Clay　cocks　his　head　to　see　the　title　of　the　book.　Noise　of　the　train.　Lula　flips　pages　and　her　eyes　drift.　Both　remain　silent]　Are　you　going　to　the　party　with　me,　Lula?

Lula:　[Bored　and　not　even　looking]　I　dont　even　know　you.

Clay:　You　said　you　know　my　type.

Lula:　[Strangely　irritated]　Dont　get　smart　with　me,　Buster.　I　know　you　like　the　palm　of　my　hand.

Clay:　The　one　you　eat　the　apples　with?

Lula:　Yeh.　And　the　one　I　open　doors　late　Saturday　evening　with.　Thats　my　door.　Up　at　the　top　of　the　stairs.　Five　flights.　Above　a　lot　of　Italians　and　lying　Americans.　And　scrape　carrots　with.　Also...[Looks　at　him]　the　same　hand　I　unbutton　my　dress　with,　or　let　my　skirt　fall　down.　Same　hand.　Lover.

Clay:　Are　you　angry　about　anything?　Did　I　say　something　wrong?

Lula:　Everything　you　say　is　wrong.　[Mock　smile]　Thats　what　makes　you　so　attractive.　Ha.　In　that　funnybook　jacket　with　all　the　buttons.　[More　animate,　taking　hold　of　his　jacket]　Whatve　you　got　that　jacket　and　tie　on　in　all　this　heat　for?　And　whyre　you　wearing　a　jacket　and　tie　like　that?　Did　your　people　ever　burn　witches　or　start　revolutions　over　the　price　of　tea?　Boy,　those　narrowshoulder　clothes　come　from　a　tradition　you　ought　to　feel　oppressed　by.　A　threebutton　suit.　What　right　do　you　have　to　be　wearing　a　threebutton　suit　and　striped　tie?　Your　grandfather　was　a　slave,　he　didnt　go　to　Harvard.

Clay:　My　grandfather　was　a　night　watchman.

Lula:　And　you　went　to　a　colored　college　where　everybody　thought　they　were　Averell　Harriman.

Clay:　All　except　me.

Lula:　And　who　did　you　think　you　were?　Who　do　you　think　you　are　now?

Clay:　[Laughs　as　if　to　make　light　of　the　whole　trend　of　the　conversation]　Well,　in　college　I　thought　I　was　Baudelaire.　But　Ive　slowed　down　since.

Lula:　I　bet　you　never　once　thought　you　were　a　black　nigger.　[Mock　serious,　then　she　howls　with　laughter.　Clay　is　stunned　but　after　initial　reaction,　he　quickly　tries　to　appreciate　the　humor.　Lula　almost　shrieks]　A　black　Baudelaire.

Clay:　Thats　right.

Lula:　Boy,　are　you　corny.　I　take　back　what　I　said　before.　Everything　you　say　is　not　wrong.　Its　perfect.　You　should　be　on　television.

Clay:　You　act　like　youre　on　television　already.

Lula:　Thats　because　Im　an　actress.

Clay:　I　thought　so.

Lula:　Well,　youre　wrong.　Im　no　actress.　I　told　you　I　always　lie.　Im　nothing,　honey,　and　dont　you　ever　forget　it.　[Lighter]　Although　my　mother　was　a　Communist.　The　only　person　in　my　family　ever　to　amount　to　anything.

Clay:　My　mother　was　a　Republican.

Lula:　And　your　father　voted　for　the　man　rather　than　the　party.

Clay:　Right!

Lula:　Yea　for　him.　Yea,　yea　for　him.

Clay:　Yea!

Lula:　And　yea　for　America　where　he　is　free　to　vote　for　the　mediocrity　of　his　choice!　Yea!

Clay:　Yea!

Lula:　And　yea　for　both　your　parents　who　even　though　they　differ　about　so　crucial　a　matter　as　the　body　politic　still　forged　a　union　of　love　and　sacrifice　that　was　destined　to　flower　at　the　birth　of　the　noble　Clay...whats　your　middle　name?

Clay:　Clay.

Lula:　A　union　of　love　and　sacrifice　that　was　destined　to　flower　at　the　birth　of　the　noble　Clay　Clay　Williams.　Yea!　And　most　of　all　yea　yea　for　you,　Clay　Clay.　The　Black　Baudelaire!　Yes!　[And　with　knifelike　cynicism]　My　Christ.　My　Christ.

Clay:　Thank　you,　maam.

Lula:　May　the　people　accept　you　as　a　ghost　of　the　future.　And　love　you,　that　you　might　not　kill　them　when　you　can.

Clay:　What?

Lula:　Youre　a　murderer,　Clay,　and　you　know　it.　[Her　voice　darkening　with　significance]　You　know　goddamn　well　what　I　mean.

Clay:　I　do?

Lula:　So　well　pretend　the　air　is　light　and　full　of　perfume.

Clay:　[Sniffing　at　her　blouse]　It　is.

Lula:　And　well　pretend　the　people　cannot　see　you.　That　is,　the　citizens.　And　that　you　are　free　of　your　own　history.　And　I　am　free　of　my　history.　Well　pretend　that　we　are　both　anonymous　beauties　smashing　along　through　the　citys　entrails.　[She　yells　as　loud　as　she　can]　GROOVE!

Scene　2

Scene　is　the　same　as　before,　though　now　there　are　other　seats　visible　in　the　car.　And　throughout　the　scene　other　people　get　on　the　subway.　There　are　maybe　one　or　two　seated　in　the　car　as　the　scene　opens,　though　neither　Clay　nor　Lula　notices　them.　Clays　tie　is　open.　Lula　is　hugging　his　arm.

Clay:　The　party!

Lula:　I　know　itll　be　something　good.　You　can　come　in　with　me,　looking　casual　and　significant.　Ill　be　strange,　haughty,　and　silent,　and　walk　with　long　slow　strides.

Clay:　Right.

Lula:　When　you　get　drunk,　pat　me　once,　very　lovingly　on　the　flanks,　and　Ill　look　at　you　cryptically,　licking　my　lips.

Clay:　It　sounds　like　something　we　can　do.

Lula:　Youll　go　around　talking　to　young　men　about　your　mind,　and　to　old　men　about　your　plans.　If　you　meet　a　very　close　friend　who　is　also　with　someone　like　me,　we　can　stand　together,　sipping　our　drinks　and　exchanging　codes　of　lust.　The　atmosphere　will　be　slithering　in　love　and　halflove　and　very　open　moral　decision.

Clay:　Great.　Great.

Lula:　And　everyone　will　pretend　they　dont　know　your　name,　and　then...[She　pauses　heavily]　later,　when　they　have　to,　theyll　claim　a　friendship　that　denies　your　sterling　character.

Clay:　[Kissing　her　neck　and　fingers]　And　then　what?

Lula:　Then?　Well,　then　well　go　down　the　street,　late　night,　eating　apples　and　winding　very　deliberately　toward　my　house.

Clay:　Deliberately?

Lula:　I　mean,　well　look　in　all　the　shop　windows,　and　make　fun　of　the　queers.　Maybe　well　meet　a　Jewish　Buddhist　and　flatten　his　conceits　over　some　very　pretentious　coffee.

Clay:　In　honor　of　whose　God?

Lula:　Mine.

Clay:　Who　is...?

Lula:　Me...and　you?

Clay:　A　corporate　Godhead.

Lula:　Exactly.　Exactly.　[Notices　one　of　the　other　people　entering]

Clay:　Go　on　with　the　chronicle.　Then　what　happens　to　us?

Lula:　[A　mild　depression,　but　she　still　makes　her　description　triumphant　and　increasingly　direct]　To　my　house,　of　course.

Clay:　Of　course.

Lula:　And　up　the　narrow　steps　of　the　tenement.

Clay:　You　live　in　a　tenement?

Lula:　Wouldnt　live　anywhere　else.　Reminds　me　specifically　of　my　novel　form　of　insanity.

Clay:　Up　the　tenement　stairs.

Lula:　And　with　my　appleeating　hand　I　push　open　the　door　and　lead　you,　my　tender　bigeyed　prey,　into　my...God,　what　can　I　call　it...into　my　hovel.

Clay:　Then　what　happens?

Lula:　After　the　dancing　and　games,　after　the　long　drinks　and　long　walks,　the　real　fun　begins.

Clay:　Ah,　the　real　fun.　[Embarrassed,　in　spite　of　himself]　Which　is...?

Lula:　[Laughs　at　him]　Real　fun　in　the　dark　house.　Hah!　Real　fun　in　the　dark　house,　high　up　above　the　street　and　the　ignorant　cowboys.　I　lead　you　in,　holding　your　wet　hand　gently　in　my　hand...

Clay:　Which　is　not　wet?

Lula:　Which　is　dry　as　ashes.

Clay:　And　cold?

Lula:　Dont　think　youll　get　out　of　your　responsibility　that　way.　Its　not　cold　at　all.　You　Fascist!　Into　my　dark　living　room.　Where　well　sit　and　talk　endlessly,　endlessly.

Clay:　About　what?

Lula:　About　what?　About　your　manhood,　what　do　you　think?　What　do　you　think　weve　been　talking　about　all　this　time?

Clay:　Well,　I　didnt　know　it　was　that.　Thats　for　sure.　Every　other　thing　in　the　world　but　that.　[Notices　another　person　entering,　looks　quickly,　almost　involuntarily　up　and　down　the　car,　seeing　the　other　people　in　the　car]　Hey,　I　didnt　even　notice　when　those　people　got　on.

Lula:　Yeah,　I　know.

Clay:　Man,　this　subway　is　slow.

Lula:　Yeah,　I　know.

Clay:　Well,　go　on.　We　were　talking　about　my　manhood.

Lula:　We　still　are.　All　the　time.

Clay:　We　were　in　your　living　room.

Lula:　My　dark　living　room.　Talking　endlessly.

Clay:　About　my　manhood.

Lula:　Ill　make　you　a　map　of　it.　Just　as　soon　as　we　get　to　my　house.

Clay:　Well,　thats　great.

Lula:　One　of　the　things　we　do　while　we　talk.　And　screw.

Clay:　[Trying　to　make　his　smile　broader　and　less　shaky]　We　finally　got　there.

Lula:　And　youll　call　my　rooms　black　as　a　grave.　Youll　say,　“This　place　is　like　Juliets　tomb.”

Clay:　[Laughs]　I　might.

Lula:　I　know.　Youve　probably　said　it　before.

Clay:　And　is　that　all?　The　whole　grand　tour?

Lula:　Not　all.　Youll　say　to　me　very　close　to　my　face,　many,　many　times,　youll　say,　even　whisper,　that　you　love　me.

Clay:　Maybe　I　will.

Lula:　And　youll　be　lying.

Clay:　I　wouldnt　lie　about　something　like　that.

Lula:　Hah.　Its　the　only　kind　of　thing　you　will　lie　about.　Especially　if　you　think　itll　keep　me　alive.

Clay:　Keep　you　alive?　I　dont　understand.

Lula:　[Bursting　out　laughing,　but　too　shrilly]　Dont　understand?　Well,　dont　look　at　me.　Its　the　path　I　take,　thats　all.　Where　both　feet　take　me　when　I　set　them　down.　One　in　front　of　the　other.

Clay:　Morbid.　Morbid.　You　sure　youre　not　an　actress?　All　that　selfaggrandizement.

Lula:　Well,　I　told　you　I　wasnt　an　actress...but　I　also　told　you　I　lie　all　the　time.　Draw　your　own　conclusions.

Clay:　Morbid.　Morbid.　You　sure　youre　not　an　actress?　All　scribed?　Theres　no　more?

Lula:　Ive　told　you　all　I　know.　Or　almost　all.

Clay:　Theres　no　funny　parts?

Lula:　I　thought　it　was　all　funny.

Clay:　But　you　mean　peculiar,　not　haha.

Lula:　You　dont　know　what　I　mean.

Clay:　Well,　tell　me　the　almost　part　then.　You　said　almost　all.　What　else?　I　want　the　whole　story.

Lula:　[Searching　aimlessly　through　her　bag.　She　begins　to　talk　breathlessly,　with　a　light　and　silly　tone]　All　stories　are　whole　stories.　All　of　em.　Our　whole　story...nothing　but　change.　How　could　things　go　on　like　that　forever?　Huh?　[Slaps　him　on　the　shoulder,　begins　finding　things　in　her　bag,　taking　them　out　and　throwing　them　over　her　shoulder　into　the　aisle]　Except　I　do　go　on　as　I　do.　Apples　and　long　walks　with　deathless　intelligent　lovers.　But　you　mix　it　up.　Look　out　the　window,　all　the　time.　Turning　pages.　Change　change　change.　Till,　shit,　I　dont　know　you.　Wouldnt,　for　that　matter.　Youre　too　serious.　I　bet　youre　even　too　serious　to　be　psychoanalyzed.　Like　all　those　Jewish　poets　from　Yonkers,　who　leave　their　mothers　looking　for　other　mothers,　or　others　mothers,　on　whose　baggy　tits　they　lay　their　fumbling　heads.　Their　poems　are　always　funny,　and　all　about　sex.

Clay:　They　sound　great.　Like　movies.

Lula:　But　you　change.　[Blankly]　And　things　work　on　you　till　you　hate　them.　[More　people　come　into　the　train.　They　come　closer　to　the　couple,　some　of　them　not　sitting,　but　swinging　drearily　on　the　straps,　staring　at　the　two　with　uncertain　interest]

Clay:　Wow.　All　these　people,　so　suddenly.　They　must　all　come　from　the　same　place.

Lula:　Right.　That　they　do.

Clay:　Oh?　You　know　about　them　too?

Lula:　Oh　yeah.　About　them　more　than　I　know　about　you.　Do　they　frighten　you?

Clay:　Frighten　me?　Why　should　they　frighten　me?

Lula:　Cause　youre　an　escaped　nigger.

Clay:　Yeah?

Lula:　Cause　you　crawled　through　the　wire　and　made　tracks　to　my　side.

Clay:　Wire?

Lula:　Dont　they　have　wire　around　plantations?

Clay:　You　must　be　Jewish.　All　you　can　think　about　is　wire.　Plantations　didnt　have　any　wire.　Plantations　were　big　open　whitewashed　places　like　heaven,　and　everybody　on　em　was　grooved　to　be　there.　Just　strummin　and　hummin　all　day.

Lula:　Yes,　yes.

Clay:　And　thats　how　the　blues　was　born.

Lula:　Yes,　yes.　And　thats　how　the　blues　was　born.　[Begins　to　make　up　a　song　that　becomes　quickly　hysterical.　As　she　sings　she　rises　from　her　seat,　still　throwing　things　out　of　her　bag　into　the　aisle,　beginning　a　rhythmical　shudder　and　twistlike　wiggle,　which　she　continues　up　and　down　the　aisle,　bumping　into　many　of　the　standing　people　and　tripping　over　the　feet　of　those　sitting.　Each　time　she　runs　into　a　person　she　lets　out　a　very　vicious　piece　of　profanity,　wiggling　and　stepping　all　the　time]　And　thats　how　the　blues　was　born.　Yes.　Yes.　Son　of　a　bitch,　get　out　of　the　way.　Yes.　Quack.　Yes.　Yes.　And　thats　how　the　blues　was　born.　Ten　little　niggers　sitting　on　a　limb,　but　none　of　them　ever　looked　like　him.　[Points　to　Clay,　returns　toward　the　seat,　with　her　hands　extended　for　him　to　rise　and　dance　with　her]　And　thats　how　blues　was　born.　Yes.　Come　on,　Clay.　Lets　do　the　nasty.　Rub　bellies.　Rub　bellies.

Clay:　[Waves　his　hands　to　refuse.　He　is　embarrassed,　but　determined　to　get　a　kick　out　of　the　proceedings]　Hey,　what　was　in　those　apples?　Mirror,　mirror　on　the　wall,　whos　the　fairest　one　of　all?　Snow　White,　baby,　and　dont　you　forget　it.

Lula:　[Grabbing　for　his　hands,　which　he　draws　away]　Come　on,　Clay.　Lets　rub　bellies　on　the　train.　The　nasty.　The　nasty.　Do　the　gritty　grind,　like　your　ol　raghead　mammy.　Grind　till　you　lose　your　mind.　Shake　it,　shake　it,　shake　it,　shake　it!　OOOOweeee!　Come　on,　Clay.　Lets　do　the　choochoo　train　shuffle,　the　navel　scratcher.

Clay:　Hey,　you　coming　on　like　the　lady　who　smoked　up　her　grass　skirt.

Lula:　[Becoming　annoyed　that　he　will　not　dance,　and　becoming　more　animated　as　if　to　embarrass　him　still　further]　Come　on,　Clay...lets　do　the　thing.　Uhh!　Uhh!　Clay!　Clay!　You　middleclass　black　bastard.　Forget　your　socialworking　mother　for　a　few　seconds　and　lets　knock　stomachs.　Clay,　you　liverlipped　white　man.　You　wouldbe　Christian.　You　aint　no　nigger,　youre　just　a　dirty　white　man.　Get　up,　Clay.　Dance　with　me,　Clay.

Clay:　Lula!　Sit　down,　now.　Be　cool.

Lula:　[Mocking　him,　in　wild　dance]　Be　cool.　Be　cool.　Thats　all　you　know...shaking　that　wildroot　creamoil　on　your　knotty　head,　jackets　buttoning　up　to　your　chin,　so　full　of　white　mans　words.　Christ.　God.　Get　up　and　scream　at　these　people.　Like　scream　meaningless　shit　in　these　hopeless　faces.　[She　screams　at　people　in　train,　still　dancing]　Red　trains　cough　Jewish　underwear　for　keeps!　Expanding　smells　of　silence.　Gravy　snot　whistling　like　sea　birds.　Clay.　Clay,　you　got　to　break　out.　Dont　sit　there　dying　the　way　they　want　you　to　die.　Get　up.

Clay:　Oh,　sit　the　fuck　down.　[He　moves　to　restrain　her]　Sit　down,　goddamn　it.

Lula:　[Twisting　out　of　his　reach]　Screw　yourself,　Uncle　Tom.　Thomas　Woollyhead.　[Begins　to　dance　a　kind　of　jig,　mocking　Clay　with　loud　forced　humor]　There　is　Uncle　Tom...I　mean,　Uncle　Thomas　WoollyHead.　With　old　white　matted　mane.　He　hobbles　on　his　wooden　cane.　Old　Tom.　Old　Tom.　Let　the　white　man　hump　his　ol　mama,　and　he　jes　shuffle　off　in　the　woods　and　hide　his　gentle　gray　head.　Ol　Thomas　WoollyHead.　[Some　of　the　other　riders　are　laughing　now.　A　drunk　gets　up　and　joins　Lula　in　her　dance,　singing,　as　best　he　can,　her　“song.”　Clay　gets　up　out　of　his　seat　and　visibly　scans　the　faces　of　the　other　riders]

Clay:　Lula!　Lula!　[She　is　dancing　and　turning,　still　shouting　as　loud　as　she　can.　The　drunk　too　is　shouting,　and　waving　his　hands　wildly]　Lula...you　dumb　bitch.　Why　dont　you　stop　it?　[He　rushes　half　stumbling　from　his　seat,　and　grabs　one　of　her　flailing　arms]

Lula:　Let　me　go!　You　black　son　of　a　bitch.　[She　struggles　against　him]　Let　me　go!　Help!　[Clay　is　dragging　her　towards　her　seat,　and　the　drunk　seeks　to　interfere.　He　grabs　Clay　around　the　shoulders　and　begins　wrestling　with　him.　Clay　clubs　the　drunk　to　the　floor　without　releasing　Lula,　who　is　still　screaming.　Clay　finally　gets　her　to　the　seat　and　throws　her　into　it]

Clay:　Now　you　shut　the　hell　up.　[Grabbing　her　shoulders]　Just　shut　up.　You　dont　know　what　youre　talking　about.　You　dont　know　anything.　So　just　keep　your　stupid　mouth　closed.

Lula:　Youre　afraid　of　white　people.　And　your　father　was.　Uncle　Tom　Big　Lip!

Clay:　[Slaps　her　as　hard　as　he　can,　across　the　mouth.　Lulas　head　bangs　against　the　back　of　the　seat.　When　she　raises　it　again,　Clay　slaps　her　again]　Now　shut　up　and　let　me　talk.　[He　turns　toward　the　other　riders,　some　of　whom　are　sitting　on　the　edge　of　their　seats.　The　drunk　is　on　one　knee,　rubbing　his　head,　and　singing　softly　the　same　song.　He　shuts　up　too　when　he　sees　Clay　watching　him.　The　others　go　back　to　newspapers　or　stare　out　the　windows]　Shit,　you　dont　have　any　sense,　Lula,　nor　feelings　either.　I　could　murder　you　now.　Such　a　tiny　ugly　throat.　I　could　squeeze　it　flat,　and　watch　you　turn　blue,　on　a　humble.　For　dull　kicks.　And　all　these　weakfaced　ofays　squatting　around　here,　staring　over　their　papers　at　me.　Murder　them　too.　Even　if　they　expected　it.　That　man　there...[Points　to　welldressed　man]　I　could　rip　that　Times　right　out　of　his　hand,　as　skinny　and　middleclassed　as　I　am,　I　could　rip　that　paper　out　of　his　hand　and　just　as　easily　rip　out　his　throat.　It　takes　no　great　effort.　For　what?　To　kill　you　soft　idiots?　You　dont　understand　anything　but　luxury.

Lula:　You　fool!

Clay:　[Pushing　her　against　the　seat]　Im　not　telling　you　again,　Tallulah　Bankhead!　Luxury.　In　your　face　and　your　fingers.　You　telling　me　what　I　ought　to　do.　[Sudden　scream　frightening　the　whole　coach]　Well,　dont!　Dont　you　tell　me　anything!　If　Im　a　middleclass　fake　white　man...let　me　be.　And　let　me　be　in　the　way　I　want.　[Through　his　teeth]　Ill　rip　your　lousy　breasts　off!　Let　me　be　who　I　feel　like　being.　Uncle　Tom.

汤姆叔叔是斯托夫人的小说《汤姆叔叔的小屋》中善良、温顺、虔敬上帝、忠诚于奴隶主人的黑人男性，是不敢直接反抗奴隶主/白人的懦弱形象的代表。Thomas.　Whoever.　Its　none　of　your　business.　You　dont　know　anything　except　whats　there　for　you　to　see.　An　act.　Lies.　Device.　Not　the　pure　heart,　the　pumping　black　heart.　You　dont　ever　know　that.　And　I　sit　here,　in　this　buttonedup　suit,　to　keep　myself　from　cutting　all　your　throats.　I　mean　wantonly.　You　great　liberated　whore!　You　fuck　some　black　man,　and　right　away　youre　an　expert　on　black　people.　What　a　lotta　shit　that　is.　The　only　thing　you　know　is　that　you　come　if　he　bangs　you　hard　enough.　And　thats　all.　The　belly　rub?　You　wanted　to　do　the　belly　rub?　Shit,　you　dont　even　know　how.　You　dont　know　how.　That　ol　diptydip　shit　you　do,　rolling　your　ass　like　an　elephant.　Thats　not　my　kind　of　belly　rub.　Belly　rub　is　not　Queens.　Belly　rub　is　dark　places,　with　big　hats　and　overcoats　held　up　with　one　arm.　Belly　rub　hates　you.　Old　baldheaded　foureyed　ofays　popping　their　fingers...and　dont　know　yet　what　theyre　doing.　They　say,　“I　love　Bessie　Smith.”　And　dont　even　understand　that　Bessie　Smith　is　saying,　“Kiss　my　ass,　kiss　my　black　unruly　ass.”　Before　love,　suffering,　desire,　anything　you　can　explain,　shes　saying,　and　very　plainly,　“Kiss　my　black　ass.”　And　if　you　dont　know　that,　its　you　thats　doing　the　kissing.　Charlie　Parker?　Charlie　Parker.　All　the　hip　white　boys　scream　for　Bird.　And　Bird　saying,　“Up　your　ass,　feebleminded　ofay!　Up　your　ass.”　And　they　sit　there　talking　about　the　tortured　genius　of　Charlie　Parker.　Bird　wouldve　played　not　a　note　of　music　if　he　just　walked　up　to　East　Sixtyseventh　Street　and　killed　the　first　ten　white　people　he　saw.　Not　a　note!　And　Im　the　great　wouldbe　poet.　Yes.　Thats　right!　Poet.　Some　kind　of　bastard　literature...all　it　needs　is　a　simple　knife　thrust.　Just　let　me　bleed　you,　you　loud　whore,　and　one　poem　vanished.　A　whole　people　of　neurotics,　struggling　to　keep　from　being　sane.　And　the　only　thing　that　would　cure　the　neurosis　would　be　your　murder.　Simple　as　that.　I　mean　if　I　murdered　you,　then　other　white　people　would　begin　to　understand　me.　You　understand?　No.　I　guess　not.　If　Bessie　Smith　had　killed　some　white　people　she　wouldnt　have　needed　that　music.　She　could　have　talked　very　straight　and　plain　about　the　world.　No　metaphors.　No　grunts.　No　wiggles　in　the　dark　of　her　soul.　Just　straight　two　and　two　are　four.　Money.　Power.　Luxury.　Like　that.　All　of　them.　Crazy　niggers　turning　their　backs　on　sanity.　When　all　it　needs　is　that　simple　act.　Murder.　Just　murder!　Would　make　us　all　sane.　[Suddenly　weary]　Ahhh.　Shit.　But　who　needs　it?　Id　rather　be　a　fool.　Insane.　Safe　with　my　words,　and　no　deaths,　and　clean,　hard　thoughts,　urging　me　to　new　conquests.　My　peoples　madness.　Hah!　Thats　a　laugh.　My　people.　They　dont　need　me　to　claim　them.　They　got　legs　and　arms　of　their　own.　Personal　insanities.　Mirrors.　They　dont　need　all　those　words.　They　dont　need　any　defense.　But　listen,　though,　one　more　thing.　And　you　tell　this　to　your　father,　whos　probably　the　kind　of　man　who　needs　to　know　at　once.　So　he　can　plan　ahead.　Tell　him　not　to　preach　so　much　rationalism　and　cold　logic　to　these　niggers.　Let　them　alone.　Let　them　sing　curses　at　you　in　code　and　see　your　filth　as　simple　lack　of　style.　Dont　make　the　mistake,　through　some　irresponsible　surge　of　Christian　charity,　of　talking　too　much　about　the　advantages　of　Western　rationalism,　or　the　great　intellectual　legacy　of　the　white　man,　or　maybe　theyll　begin　to　listen.　And　then,　maybe　one　day,　youll　find　they　actually　do　understand　exactly　what　you　are　talking　about,　all　these　fantasy　people.　All　these　blues　people.　And　on　that　day,　as　sure　as　shit,　when　you　really　believe　you　can　“accept”　them　into　your　fold,　as　halfwhite　trusties　late　of　the　subject　peoples.　With　no　more　blues,　except　the　very　old　ones,　and　not　a　watermelon　in　sight,　the　great　missionary　heart　will　have　triumphed,　and　all　of　those　excoons　will　be　standup　Western　men,　with　eyes　for　clean　hard　useful　lives,　sober,　pious　and　sane,　and　theyll　murder　you.　Theyll　murder　you,　and　have　very　rational　explanations.　Very　much　like　your　own.　Theyll　cut　your　throats,　and　drag　you　out　to　the　edge　of　your　cities　so　the　flesh　can　fall　away　from　your　bones,　in　sanitary　isolation.

Lula:　[Her　voice　takes　on　a　different,　more　businesslike　quality]　Ive　heard　enough.

Clay:　[Reaching　for　his　books]　I　bet　you　have.　I　guess　I　better　collect　my　stuff　and　get　off　this　train.　Looks　like　we　wont　be　acting　out　that　little　pageant　you　outlined　before.

Lula:　No.　We　wont.　Youre　right　about　that,　at　least.　[She　turns　to　look　quickly　around　the　rest　of　the　car]　All　right!　[The　others　respond]

Clay:　[Bending　across　the　girl　to　retrieve　his　belongings]　Sorry,　baby,　I　dont　think　we　could　make　it.　[As　he　is　bending　over　her,　the　girl　brings　up　a　small　knife　and　plunges　it　into　Clays　chest.　Twice.　He　slumps　across　her　knees,　his　mouth　working　stupidly]

Lula:　Sorry　is　right.　[Turning　to　the　others　in　the　car　who　have　already　gotten　up　from　their　seats]　Sorry　is　the　rightest　thing　youve　said.　Get　this　man　off　me!　Hurry,　now!　[The　others　come　and　drag　Clays　body　down　the　aisle]　Open　the　door　and　throw　his　body　out.　[They　throw　him　off]　And　all　of　you　get　off　at　the　next　stop.　[Lula　busies　herself　straightening　her　things.　Getting　everything　in　order.　She　takes　out　a　notebook　and　makes　a　quick　scribbling　note.　Drops　it　in　her　bag.　The　train　apparently　stops　and　all　the　others　get　off,　leaving　her　alone　in　the　coach.　Very　soon　a　young　Negro　of　about　twenty　comes　into　the　coach,　with　a　couple　of　books　under　his　arm.　He　sits　a　few　seats　in　back　of　Lula.　When　he　is　seated　she　turns　and　gives　him　a　long　slow　look.　He　looks　up　from　his　book　and　drops　the　book　on　his　lap.　Then　an　old　Negro　conductor　comes　into　the　car,　doing　a　sort　of　restrained　soft　shoe,　and　half　mumbling　the　words　of　some　song.　He　looks　at　the　young　man,　briefly,　with　a　quick　greeting]

Conductor:　Hey,　brother!

如此结尾有故伎重演的味道，可参看当代电影《逃出绝命镇》。

Young　man:　Hey.　[The　conductor　continues　down　the　aisle　with　his　little　dance　and　the　mumbled　song.　Lula　turns　to　stare　at　him　and　follows　his　movements　down　the　aisle.　The　conductor　tips　his　hat　when　he　reaches　her　seat,　and　continues　out　the　car]

Curtain

1964

Questions　for　Discussion

1.　Lula　claims　to　know　the　type　of　Clay　or　the　“colored　man”,　what　does　this　suggest?

2.　How　to　understand　Lulas　“I　lie　a　lot.　It　helps　me　to　control　the　world”?

3.　Clay　is　stabbed　to　death　in　the　play,　do　you　think　it　is　an　accident?　What　does　this　incident　suggest?

3.　Fences

作家简介

奥古斯特·威尔逊（August　Wilson)（1945—2005）是20世纪80年代美国剧坛崛起的一位极负盛名的黑人剧作家。纽约时报著名戏剧评论家弗兰克·里奇把威尔逊的脱颖而出称为美国戏剧界的一个重要发现；更有其他一些剧评家认为他是继尤金·奥尼尔、田纳西·威廉斯和阿瑟·米勒之后美国诞生的又一位伟大戏剧家。遗憾的是，他英年早逝。2005年10月，美国百老汇的弗吉尼亚剧院更名为奥古斯特·威尔逊剧院，以纪念这位伟大的戏剧家。威尔逊由此成为首位获此殊荣的非裔美国作家。

威尔逊倾注了毕生精力创作“20世纪黑人体验史”系列剧，大致以每十年为一阶段，选取其中代表性的事件为剧本题材，以编年史的方式全方位地记录美国黑人过去百年的生命历程，有力地激发了他们重新审视历史的信念。他是一位多产作家，代表性作品有《马雷尼大妈的黑臀》（1984）、《栅栏》（1985）、《乔·特纳来了又走了》（1986）、《钢琴课》（1987）等。这些作品让威尔逊收获了巨大成功，先后荣获普利策戏剧奖、纽约剧评奖、托尼奖等各种著名戏剧奖项。其中，凭借《栅栏》和《钢琴课》，威尔逊获得1987年和1990年普利策戏剧奖。五年内两度荣获普利策奖，这在美国文学史上是极为罕见的。他后期的作品还有《两列奔驰的火车》(1990)、《七把吉他》(1995)、《郝德利王二世》(1999)等。从整体来看，一个贯穿威尔逊系列剧作始终的主题是，美国黑人需要重新追溯历史，重新认识自己，认清自己既是一个美国人，又是一个黑人的事实。

作品简介与赏析

《栅栏》（Fences,　1985）被很多评论家誉为奥古斯特·威尔逊最具代表性的作品。该剧以上演525场、单年赢利1100万美元的佳绩创造了百老汇非音乐剧种的纪录，并且把美国戏剧界最权威、最具影响力的三大奖项全部收入囊中：普利策戏剧奖、托尼奖和纽约剧评人奖。

该剧描述的是20世纪60年代一个美国黑人家庭中发生的故事，深刻反映了美国社会中的种族问题对黑人生活造成的巨大影响。主人公特洛伊·马克森是一个饱尝生活艰辛、心灵受过摧残的黑人。他已经53岁，坐过牢，当过运动员，现在干着垃圾清扫的工作。他曾经是位优秀的棒球运动员，但由于肤色的原因，未能进入任何著名球队。在种族歧视严重的美国社会，他着实际遇不佳。扭曲的生活导致了他复杂又矛盾的性格。他尽力照顾因二战期间受伤而造成智力障碍的可怜哥哥，但又私自挪用哥哥的抚恤金；他设法帮助自己在橄榄球方面有天分的儿子科里，却阻止他获取一份颁发给橄榄球星的大学奖学金；他爱自己的妻子，但却和别的女人生孩子。剧中的其他人物也在痛苦挣扎中求生存。儿子想成为橄榄球明星的梦想被父亲扼杀在摇篮里。他试图对抗、超越父亲,却潜移默化地继承了父亲身上的一些特质。善良的妻子罗斯最终答应收养丈夫和别的女人生的孩子，但却离开了丈夫。兄弟之间、父子之间、夫妻之间，思想上无法沟通，矛盾复杂交织，整个家庭处于濒临破裂的边缘。

《栅栏》这个剧名意味深长。男主人公特洛伊在自家后院里用结实的硬木修筑起一堵栅栏，希望用它来防止外界的侵袭，保护自己和自己的家庭。栅栏给这个黑人家庭带来了些许安全感。然而与此同时，他也筑起了一道无形的围墙，把自己和亲人围了进去，让家庭成员与外界彻底隔绝，孤立无援。栅栏更是横在了他们灵魂深处，让他们倍感窒息。

威尔逊出生于美国贫穷动荡的黑人聚居区匹兹堡。他的母亲是黑人，在穷人区的两间屋子里艰难带大了包括威尔逊在内的六个孩子。由于种族主义的根深蒂固，威尔逊很早就辍学。独特的成长经历使他对美国黑人生活有着极为深刻的体会和认识。在《栅栏》的创作中，他用细腻的笔锋生动而真实地还原了种族歧视下美国黑人的苦难生活。他曾经说过自己创作的目的就是为了把美国黑人的传统形象有血有肉地展现在人们面前。与空泛的说教不同的是，他力求从社会学和文学的双重角度剖析美国黑人的悲惨处境，启发人们关注美国黑人的社会地位，并最终引导美国黑人开启找寻自我身份之路。

威尔逊对当代美国戏剧的巨大贡献，不仅仅体现在他宏大的历史主题上，更体现在他通过独具匠心的戏剧艺术对美国黑人自我身份所进行的深刻探索上。他大胆继承前辈们的创作手法和技巧，对其进行创造性的发展，最终形成自己独特的写作风格。他坚持基于纯黑人的文化传统进行写作。布鲁斯音乐、讲故事模式和隐喻性语言等黑人文化传统形式在作品中的巧妙融合构成了作家最鲜明的戏剧创作特色，也成为作家成熟卓越的戏剧艺术技巧的最完美诠释。通过独特的戏剧表现手法，威尔逊成功地为美国黑人同胞寻找到一条通向自我身份之路。

选篇出自剧本《栅栏》的第一幕第一场。

Characters

Troy　Maxson

Jim　Bono:　Troys　friend

Rose:　Troys　wife

Lyons:　Troys　oldest　son　by　previous　marriage

Gabriel:　Troys　brother

Cory:　Troy　and　Roses　son

Raynell:　Troys　daughter

Setting

The　setting　is　the　yard　which　fronts　the　only　entrance　to　the　Maxson　household,　an　ancient　twostory　brick　house　set　back　off　a　small　alley　in　a　bigcity　neighborhood.　The　entrance　to　the　house　is　gained　by　two　or　three　steps　leading　to　a　wooden　porch　badly　in　need　of　paint.

A　relatively　recent　addition　to　the　house　and　running　its　full　width,　the　porch　lacks　congruence.　It　is　a　sturdy　porch　with　a　flat　roof.　One　or　two　chairs　of　dubious　value　sit　at　one　end　where　the　kitchen　window　opens　onto　the　porch.　An　oldfashioned　icebox　stands　silent　guard　at　the　opposite　end.

The　yard　is　a　small　dirt　yard,　partially　fenced,　except　for　the　last　scene,　with　a　wooden　sawhorse,　a　pile　of　lumber,　and　other　fencebuilding　equipment　set　off　to　the　side.　Opposite　is　a　tree　from　which　hangs　a　ball　made　of　rags.　A　baseball　bat　leans　against　the　tree.　Two　oil　drums　serve　as　garbage　receptacles　and　sit　near　the　house　at　right　to　complete　the　setting.

The　Play

Near　the　turn　of　the　century,　the　destitute　of　Europe　sprang　on　the　city　with　tenacious　claws　and　an　honest　and　solid　dream.　The　city　devoured　them.　They　swelled　its　belly　until　it　burst　into　a　thousand　furnaces　and　sewing　machines,　a　thousand　butcher　shops　and　bakers　ovens,　a　thousand　churches　and　hospitals　and　funeral　parlors　and　moneylenders.　The　city　grew.　It　nourished　itself　and　offered　each　man　a　partnership　limited　only　by　his　talent,　his　guile,　and　his　willingness　and　capacity　for　hard　work.　For　the　immigrants　of　Europe,　a　dream　dared　and　won　true.

The　descendants　of　African　slaves　were　offered　no　such　welcome　or　participation.　They　came　from　places　called　the　Carolinas　and　the　Virginias,　Georgia,　Alabama,　Mississippi,　and　Tennessee.　They　came　strong,　eager,　searching.　The　city　rejected　them　and　they　fled　and　settled　along　the　riverbanks　and　under　bridges　in　shallow,　ramshackle　houses　made　of　sticks　and　tarpaper.　They　collected　rags　and　wood.　They　sold　the　use　of　their　muscles　and　their　bodies.　They　cleaned　houses　and　washed　clothes,　they　shined　shoes,　and　in　quiet　desperation　and　vengeful　pride,　they　stole,　and　lived　in　pursuit　of　their　own　dream.　That　they　could　breathe　free,　finally,　and　stand　to　meet　life　with　the　force　of　dignity　and　whatever　eloquence　the　heart　could　call　upon.

By　1957,　the　hardwon　victories　of　the　European　immigrants　had　solidified　the　industrial　might　of　America.　War　had　been　confronted　and　won　with　new　energies　that　used　loyalty　and　patriotism　as　its　fuel.　Life　was　rich,　full,　and　flourishing.　The　Milwaukee　Braves　won　the　World　Series,　and　the　hot　winds　of　change　that　would　make　the　sixties　a　turbulent,　racing,　dangerous,　and　provocative　decade　had　not　yet　begun　to　blow　full.

Act　One

Scene　One

It　is　1957.　Troy　and　Bono　enter　the　yard,　engaged　in　conversation.　Troy　is　fiftythree　years　old,　a　large　man　with　thick,　heavy　hands;　it　is　this　largeness　that　he　strives　to　fill　out　and　make　an　accommodation　with.　Together　with　his　blackness,　his　largeness　informs　his　sensibilities　and　the　choices　he　has　made　in　his　life.

Of　the　two　men,　Bono　is　obviously　the　follower.　His　commitment　to　their　friendship　of　thirtyodd　years　is　rooted　in　his　admiration　of　Troys　honesty,　capacity　for　hard　work,　and　his　strength,　which　Bono　seeks　to　emulate.

It　is　Friday　night,　payday,　and　the　one　night　of　the　week　the　two　men　engage　in　a　ritual　of　talk　and　drink.　Troy　is　usually　the　most　talkative　and　at　times　he　can　be　crude　and　almost　vulgar,　though　he　is　capable　of　rising　to　profound　heights　of　expression.　The　men　carry　lunch　buckets　and　wear　or　carry　burlap　aprons　and　are　dressed　in　clothes　suitable　to　their　jobs　as　garbage　collectors.

Bono:　Troy,　you　ought　to　stop　that　lying!

Troy:　I　aint　lying!　The　nigger　had　a　watermelon　this　big.　[He　indicates　with　his　hands.]　Talking　about...“What　watermelon,　Mr.　Rand?”　I　liked　to　fell　out!　“What　watermelon,　Mr.　Rand?”...And　it　sitting　there　big　as　life.

Bono:　What　did　Mr.　Rand　say?

Troy:　Aint　said　nothing.　Figure　if　the　nigger　too　dumb　to　know　he　carrying　a　watermelon,　he　wasnt　gonna　get　much　sense　out　of　him.　Trying　to　hide　that　great　big　old　watermelon　under　his　coat.　Afraid　to　let　the　white　man　see　him　carry　it　home.

Bono:　Im　like　you...I　aint　got　no　time　for　them　kind　of　people.

Troy:　Now　what　he　look　like　getting　mad　cause　he　see　the　man　from　the　union　talking　to　Mr.　Rand?

Bono:　He　come　to　me　talking　about...“Maxson　gonna　get　us　fired.”　I　told　him　to　get　away　from　me　with　that.　He　walked　away　from　me　calling　you　a　troublemaker.　What　Mr.　Rand　say?

Troy:　Aint　said　nothing.　He　told　me　to　go　down　the　Commissioners　office　next　Friday.　They　called　me　down　there　to　see　them.

Bono:　Well,　as　long　as　you　got　your　complaint　filed,　they　cant　fire　you.　Thats　what　one　of　them　white　fellows　tell　me.

Troy:　I　aint　worried　about　them　firing　me.　They　gonna　fire　me　cause　I　asked　a　question?　Thats　all　I　did.　I　went　to　Mr.　Rand　and　asked　him,　“Why?　Why　you　got　the　white　mens　driving　and　the　colored　lifting?”　Told　him,　“whats　the　matter,　dont　I　count?　You　think　only　white　fellows　got　sense　enough　to　drive　a　truck.　That　aint　no　paper　job!　Hell,　anybody　can　drive　a　truck.　How　come　you　got　all　whites　driving　and　the　colored　lifting?　He　told　me　“take　it　to　the　union.”　Well,　hell,　thats　what　I　done!　Now　they　wanna　come　up　with　this　pack　of　lies.

Bono:　I　told　Brownie　if　the　man　come　and　ask　him　any　questions...just　tell　the　truth!　It　aint　nothing　but　something　they　done　trumped　up　on　you　cause　you　filed　a　complaint　on　them.

Troy:　Brownie　dont　understand　nothing.　All　I　want　them　to　do　is　change　the　job　description.　Give　everybody　a　chance　to　drive　the　truck.　Brownie　cant　see　that.　He　aint　got　that　much　sense.

Bono:　How　you　figure　he　be　making　out　with　that　gal　be　up　at　Taylors　all　the　time...that　Alberta　gal?

Troy:　Same　as　you　and　me.　Getting　just　as　much　as　we　is.　Which　is　to　say　nothing.

Bono:　It　is,　huh?　I　figure　you　doing　a　little　better　than　me...and　I　aint　saying　what　Im　doing.

Troy:　Aw,　nigger,　look　here...I　know　you.　If　you　had　got　anywhere　near　that　gal,　twenty　minutes　later　you　be　looking　to　tell　somebody.　And　the　first　one　you　gonna　tell...that　you　gonna　want　to　brag　to...is　gonna　be　me.

Bono:　I　aint　saying　that.　I　see　where　you　be　eyeing　her.

Troy:　I　eye　all　the　women.　I　dont　miss　nothing.　Dont　never　let　nobody　tell　you　Troy　Maxson　dont　eye　the　women.

Bono:　You　been　doing　more　than　eyeing　her.　You　done　bought　her　a　drink　or　two.

Troy:　Hell　yeah,　I　bought　her　a　drink!　What　that　mean?　I　bought　you　one,　too.　What　that　mean　cause　I　buy　her　a　drink?　Im　just　being　polite.

Bono:　Its　alright　to　buy　her　one　drink.　Thats　what　you　call　being　polite.　But　when　you　wanna　be　buying　two　or　three...thats　what　you　call　eyeing　her.

Troy:　Look　here,　as　long　as　you　known　me...you　ever　known　me　to　chase　after　women?

Bono:　Hell　yeah!　Long　as　I　done　known　you.　You　forgetting　I　knew　you　when.

Troy:　Naw,　Im　talking　about　since　I　been　married　to　Rose?

Bono:　Oh,　not　since　you　been　married　to　Rose.　Now,　thats　the　truth,　there.　I　can　say　that.

Troy:　Alright　then!　Case　closed.

Bono:　I　see　you　be　walking　up　around　Albertas　house.　You　supposed　to　be　at　Taylors　and　you　be　walking　up　around　there.

Troy:　What　you　watching　where　Im　walking　for?　I　aint　watching　after　you.

Bono:　I　seen　you　walking　around　there　more　than　once.

Troy:　Hell,　you　liable　to　see　me　walking　anywhere!　That　dont　mean　nothing　cause　you　see　me　walking　around　there.

Bono:　Where　she　come　from　anyway?　She　just　kinda　showed　up　one　day.

Troy:　Tallahassee.　You　can　look　at　her　and　tell　she　one　of　them　Florida　gals.　They　got　some　big　healthy　women　down　there.　Grow　them　right　up　out　the　ground.　Got　a　little　bit　of　Indian　in　her.　Most　of　them　niggers　down　in　Florida　got　some　Indian　in　them.

Bono:　I　dont　know　about　that　Indian　part.　But　she　damn　sure　big　and　healthy.　Woman　wear　some　big　stockings.　Got　them　great　big　old　legs　and　hips　as　wide　as　the　Mississippi　River.

Troy:　Legs　dont　mean　nothing.　You　dont　do　nothing　but　push　them　out　of　the　way.　But　them　hips　cushion　the　ride!

Bono:　Troy,　you　aint　got　no　sense.

Troy:　Its　the　truth!　Like　you　riding　on　Goodyears!

[Rose　enters　from　the　house.　She　is　ten　years　younger　than　Troy,　her　devotion　to　him　stems　from　her　recognition　of　the　possibilities　of　her　life　without　him:　a　succession　of　abusive　men　and　their　babies,　a　life　of　partying　and　running　the　streets,　the　Church,　or　aloneness　with　its　attendant　pain　and　frustration.　She　recognizes　Troys　spirit　as　a　fine　and　illuminating　one　and　she　either　ignores　or　forgives　his　faults,　only　some　of　which　she　recognizes.　Though　she　doesnt　drink,　her　presence　is　an　integral　part　of　the　Friday　night　rituals.　She　alternates　between　the　porch　and　the　kitchen,　where　supper　preparations　are　under　way.]

Rose:　What　you　all　out　here　getting　into?

Troy:　What　you　worried　about　what　we　getting　into　for?　This　is　men　talk,　woman.

Rose:　What　I　care　what　you　all　talking　about?　Bono,　you　gonna　stay　for　supper?

Bono:　No,　I　thank　you,　Rose.　But　Lucille　say　she　cooking　up　a　pot　of　pigfeet.

Troy:　Pigfeet!　Hell,　Im　going　home　with　you!　Might　even　stay　the　night　if　you　got　some　pigfeet.　You　got　something　in　there　to　top　them　pigfeet,　Rose?

Rose:　Im　cooking　up　some　chicken.　I　got　some　chicken　and　collard　greens.

Troy:　Well,　go　on　back　in　the　house　and　let　me　and　Bono　finish　what　we　was　talking　about.　This　is　men　talk.　I　got　some　talk　for　you　later.　You　know　what　kind　of　talk　I　mean.　You　go　on　and　powder　it　up.

Rose:　Troy　Maxson,　dont　you　start　that　now!

Troy:　[Puts　his　arm　around　her.]　Aw,　woman...come　here.　Look　here,　Bono...when　I　met　this　woman...I　got　out　that　place,　say,　“Hitch　up　my　pony,　saddle　up　my　mare...theres　a　woman　out　there　for　me　somewhere.　I　looked　here.　Looked　there.　Saw　Rose　and　latched　on　to　her.”　I　latched　on　to　her　and　told　her—Im　gonna　tell　you　the　truth—I　told　her,　“Baby,　I　dont　wanna　marry,　I　just　wanna　be　your　man.”　Rose　told　me...tell　him　what　you　told　me,　Rose.

Rose:　I　told　him　if　he　wasnt　the　marrying　kind,　then　move　out　the　way　so　the　marrying　kind　could　find　me.

Troy:　Thats　what　she　told　me.　“Nigger,　you　in　my　way.　You　blocking　the　view!　Move　out　the　way　so　I　can　find　me　a　husband.”　I　thought　it　over　two　or　three　days.　Come　back—

Rose:　Aint　no　two　or　three　days　nothing.　You　was　back　the　same　night.

Troy:　Come　back,　told　her...“Okay,　baby...but　Im　gonna　buy　me　a　banty　rooster　and　put　him　out　there　in　the　backyard...and　when　he　see　a　stranger　come,　hell　flap　his　wings　and　crow...”　Look　here,　Bono,　I　could　watch　the　front　door　by　myself...it　was　that　back　door　I　was　worried　about.

Rose:　Troy,　you　ought　not　talk　like　that.　Troy　aint　doing　nothing　but　telling　a　lie.

Troy:　Only　thing　is...when　we　first　got　married...forget　the　rooster...we　aint　had　no　yard!

Bono:　I　hear　you　tell　it.　Me　and　Lucille　was　staying　down　there　on　Logan　Street.　Had　two　rooms　with　the　outhouse　in　the　back.　I　aint　mind　the　outhouse　none.　But　when　that　goddamn　wind　blow　through　there　in　the　winter...thats　what　Im　talking　about!　To　this　day　I　wonder　why　in　the　hell　I　ever　stayed　down　there　for　six　long　years.　But　see,　I　didnt　know　I　could　do　no　better.　I　thought　only　white　folks　had　inside　toilets　and　things.

Rose:　Theres　a　lot　of　people　dont　know　they　can　do　no　better　than　they　doing　now.　Thats　just　something　you　got　to　learn.　A　lot　of　folks　still　shop　at　Bellas.

Troy:　Aint　nothing　wrong　with　shopping　at　Bellas.　She　got　fresh　food.

Rose:　I　aint　said　nothing　about　if　she　got　fresh　food.　Im　talking　about　what　she　charge.　She　charge　ten　cents　more　than　the　A　&　P.

Troy:　The　A　&　P　aint　never　done　nothing　for　me.　I　spends　my　money　where　Im　treated　right.　I　go　down　to　Bella,　say,　“I　need　a　loaf　of　bread,　Ill　pay　you　Friday.”　She　give　it　to　me.　What　sense　that　make　when　I　got　money　to　go　and　spend　it　somewhere　else　and　ignore　the　person　who　done　right　by　me?　That　aint　in　the　Bible.

Rose:　We　aint　talking　about　whats　in　the　Bible.　What　sense　it　make　to　shop　there　when　she　overcharge?

Troy:　You　shop　where　you　want　to.　Ill　do　my　shopping　where　the　people　been　good　to　me.

Rose:　Well,　I　dont　think　its　right　for　her　to　overcharge.　Thats　all　I　was　saying.

Bono:　Look　here...I　got　to　get　on.　Lucille　going　be　raising　all　kind　of　hell.

Troy:　Where　you　going,　nigger?　We　aint　finished　this　pint.　Come　here,　finish　this　pint.

Bono:　Well,　hell,　I　am...if　you　ever　turn　the　bottle　loose.

Troy:　[Hands　him　the　bottle.]　The　only　thing　I　say　about　the　A　&　P　is　Im　glad　Cory　got　that　job　down　there.　Help　him　take　care　of　his　school　clothes　and　things.　Gabe　done　moved　out　and　things　getting　tight　around　here.　He　got　that　job....He　can　start　to　look　out　for　himself.

Rose:　Cory　done　went　and　got　recruited　by　a　college　football　team.

Troy:　I　told　that　boy　about　that　football　stuff.　The　white　man　aint　gonna　let　him　get　nowhere　with　that　football.　I　told　him　when　he　first　come　to　me　with　it.　Now　you　come　telling　me　he　done　went　and　got　more　tied　up　in　it.　He　ought　to　go　and　get　recruited　in　how　to　fix　cars　or　something　where　he　can　make　a　living.

Rose:　He　aint　talking　about　making　no　living　playing　football.　Its　just　something　the　boys　in　school　do.　They　gonna　send　a　recruiter　by　to　talk　to　you.　Hell　tell　you　he　aint　talking　about　making　no　living　playing　football.　Its　a　honor　to　be　recruited.

Troy:　It　aint　gonna　get　him　nowhere.　Bonoll　tell　you　that.

Bono:　If　he　be　like　you　in　the　sports...hes　gonna　be　alright.　Aint　but　two　men　ever　played　baseball　as　good　as　you.　Thats　Babe　RuthGeorge　Herman　“Babe”　Ruth,　Jr.　(1895—1948)：美国职业棒球运动员，美国棒球史上最有名的球员，有“棒球之神”的美称。作为20世纪20年代和30年代美国职业棒球史上的扬基强打者，他曾经连续三次打破大联盟全垒打纪录，1936年入选棒球名人堂（Baseball　Hall　of　Fame）。　and　Josh　GibsonJosh　Gibson　(1911—1947)：美国职业棒球运动员，1972年入选棒球名人堂。.　Thems　the　only　two　men　ever　hit　more　home　runs　than　you.

Troy:　What　it　ever　get　me?　Aint　got　a　pot　to　piss　in　or　a　window　to　throw　it　out　of.

Rose:　Times　have　changed　since　you　was　playing　baseball,　Troy.　That　was　before　the　war.　Times　have　changed　a　lot　since　then.

Troy:　How　in　hell　they　done　changed?

Rose:　They　got　lots　of　colored　boys　playing　ball　now.　Baseball　and　football.

Bono:　You　right　about　that,　Rose.　Times　have　changed,　Troy.　You　just　come　along　too　early.

Troy:　There　ought　not　never　have　been　no　time　called　too　early!　Now　you　take　that　fellow...whats　that　fellow　they　had　playing　right　field　for　the　Yankees　back　then?　You　know　who　Im　talking　about,　Bono.　Used　to　play　right　field　for　the　Yankees.

Rose:　SelkirkGeorge　Alexander　Selkirk　(1908—1987)：美国职业棒球运动员，绰号Twinkletoes，该名称来自他特殊的跑垒姿势，生涯九年皆效力于纽约扬基队，是贝比·鲁斯(Babe　Ruth)的接班人。?

Troy:　Selkirk!　Thats　it!　Man　batting.　269,　understand?　.269.　What　kind　of　sense　that　make?　I　was　hitting　.432　with　thirtyseven　home　runs!　Man　batting　.269　and　playing　right　field　for　the　Yankees!　I　saw　Josh　Gibsons　daughter　yesterday.　She　walking　around　with　raggedy　shoes　on　her　feet.　Now　I　bet　you　Selkirks　daughter　aint　walking　around　with　raggedy　shoes　on　her　feet!　I　bet　you　that!

Rose:　They　got　a　lot　of　colored　baseball　players　now.　Jackie　RobinsonJackie　Robinson　(1919—1972)：美国职业棒球运动员，美国职业棒球大联盟（Major　League　Baseball)史上第一位非裔美国人球员，1962年入选棒球名人堂。　was　the　first.　Folks　had　to　wait　for　Jackie　Robinson.

Troy:　I　done　seen　a　hundred　niggers　play　baseball　better　than　Jackie　Robinson.　Hell,　I　know　some　teams　Jackie　Robinson　couldnt　even　make!　What　you　talking　about　Jackie　Robinson.　Jackie　Robinson　wasnt　nobody.　Im　talking　about　if　you　could　play　ball　then　they　ought　to　have　let　you　play.　Dont　care　what　color　you　were.　Come　telling　me　I　come　along　too　early.　If　you　could　play...then　they　ought　to　have　let　you　play.　[Troy　takes　a　long　drink　from　the　bottle.]

Rose:　You　gonna　drink　yourself　to　death.　You　dont　need　to　be　drinking　like　that.

Troy:　Death　aint　nothing.　I　done　seen　him.　Done　wrassled　with　him.　You　cant　tell　me　nothing　about　death.　Death　aint　nothing　but　a　fastball　on　the　outside　corner.　And　you　know　what　Ill　do　to　that!　Lookee　here,　Bono...am　I　lying?　You　get　one　of　them　fastballs,　about　waist　high,　over　the　outside　corner　of　the　plate　where　you　can　get　the　meat　of　the　bat　on　it...and　good　god!　You　can　kiss　it　goodbye.　Now,　am　I　lying?

Bono:　Naw,　you　telling　the　truth　there.　I　seen　you　do　it.

Troy:　If　Im　lying...that　450　feet　worth　of　lying!　[Pause.]　Thats　all　death　is　to　me.　A　fastball　on　the　outside　corner.

Rose:　I　dont　know　why　you　want　to　get　on　talking　about　death.

Troy:　Aint　nothing　wrong　with　talking　about　death.　Thats　part　of　life.　Everybody　gonna　die.　You　gonna　die,　Im　gonna　die.　Bonos　gonna　die.　Hell,　we　all　gonna　die.

Rose:　But　you　aint　got　to　talk　about　it.　I　dont　like　to　talk　about　it.

Troy:　You　the　one　brought　it　up.　Me　and　Bono　was　talking　about　baseball...you　tell　me　Im　gonna　drink　myself　to　death.　Aint　that　right,　Bono?　You　know　I　dont　drink　this　but　one　night　out　of　the　week.　Thats　Friday　night.　Im　gonna　drink　just　enough　to　where　I　can　handle　it.　Then　I　cuts　it　loose.　I　leave　it　alone.　So　dont　you　worry　about　me　drinking　myself　to　death.　Cause　I　aint　worried　about　Death.　I　done　seen　him.　I　done　wrestled　with　him.

Look　here,　Bono...I　looked　up　one　day　and　Death　was　marching　straight　at　me.　Like　Soldiers　on　Parade!　The　Army　of　Death　was　marching　straight　at　me.　The　middle　of　July,　1941.　It　got　real　cold　just　like　it　be　winter.　It　seem　like　Death　himself　reached　out　and　touched　me　on　the　shoulder.　He　touch　me　just　like　I　touch　you.　I　got　cold　as　ice　and　Death　standing　there　grinning　at　me.

Rose:　Troy,　why　dont　you　hush　that　talk.

Troy:　I　say...What　you　want,　Mr.　Death?　You　be　wanting　me?　You　done　brought　your　army　to　be　getting　me?　I　looked　him　dead　in　the　eye.　I　wasnt　fearing　nothing.　I　was　ready　to　tangle.　Just　like　Im　ready　to　tangle　now.　The　Bible　say　be　ever　vigilant.　Thats　why　I　dont　get　but　so　drunk.　I　got　to　keep　watch.

Rose:　Troy　was　right　down　there　in　Mercy　Hospital.　You　remember　he　had　pneumonia?　Laying　there　with　a　fever　talking　plumb　out　of　his　head.

Troy:　Death　standing　there　staring　at　me...carrying　that　sickle　in　his　hand.　Finally　he　say,　“You　want　bound　over　for　another　year?”　See,　just　like　that...“You　want　bound　over　for　another　year?”　I　told　him,　“Bound　over　hell!　Lets　settle　this　now!”

It　seem　like　he　kinda　fell　back　when　I　said　that,　and　all　the　cold　went　out　of　me.　I　reached　down　and　grabbed　that　sickle　and　threw　it　just　as　far　as　I　could　throw　it...and　me　and　him　commenced　to　wrestling.

We　wrestled　for　three　days　and　three　nights.　I　cant　say　where　I　found　the　strength　from.　Every　time　it　seemed　like　he　was　gonna　get　the　best　of　me,　Id　reach　way　down　deep　inside　myself　and　find　the　strength　to　do　him　one　better.

Rose:　Every　time　Troy　tell　that　story　he　find　different　ways　to　tell　it.　Different　things　to　make　up　about　it.

Troy:　I　aint　making　up　nothing.　Im　telling　you　the　facts　of　what　happened.　I　wrestled　with　Death　for　three　days　and　three　nights　and　Im　standing　here　to　tell　you　about　it.　[Pause.]　Alright.　At　the　end　of　the　third　night　we　done　weakened　each　other　to　where　we　cant　hardly　move.　Death　stood　up,　throwed　on　his　robe...had　him　a　white　robe　with　a　hood　on　it.　He　throwed　on　that　robe　and　went　off　to　look　for　his　sickle.　Say,　“Ill　be　back.”　Just　like　that.　“Ill　be　back.”　I　told　him,　say,　“Yeah,　but...you　gonna　have　to　find　me!”　I　wasnt　no　fool.　I　wasnt　going　looking　for　him.　Death　aint　nothing　to　play　with.　And　I　know　hes　gonna　get　me.　I　know　I　got　to　join　his　army...his　camp　followers.　But　as　long　as　I　keep　my　strength　and　see　him　coming...as　long　as　I　keep　up　my　vigilance...hes　gonna　have　to　fight　to　get　me.　I　aint　going　easy.

Bono:　Well,　look　here,　since　you　got　to　keep　up　your　vigilance...let　me　have　the　bottle.

Troy:　Aw　hell,　I　shouldnt　have　told　you　that　part.　I　should　have　left　out　that　part.

Rose:　Troy　be　talking　that　stuff　and　half　the　time　dont　even　know　what　he　be　talking　about.

Troy:　Bono　know　me　better　than　that.

Bono:　Thats　right.　I　know　you.　I　know　you　got　some　Uncle　Remus　in　your　blood.　You　got　more　stories　than　the　devil　got　sinners.

Troy:　Aw　hell,　I　done　seen　him　too!　Done　talked　with　the　devil.

Rose:　Troy,　dont　nobody　wanna　be　hearing　all　that　stuff.

[Lyons　enters　the　yard　from　the　street.　Thirtyfour　years　old,　Troys　son　by　a　previous　marriage,　he　sports　a　neatly　trimmed　goatee,　sport　coat,　white　shirt,　tieless　and　buttoned　at　the　collar.　Though　he　fancies　himself　a　musician,　he　is　more　caught　up　in　the　rituals　and　“idea”　of　being　a　musician　than　in　the　actual　practice　of　the　music.　He　has　come　to　borrow　money　from　Troy,　and　while　he　knows　he　will　be　successful,　he　is　uncertain　as　to　what　extent　his　lifestyle　will　be　held　up　to　scrutiny　and　ridicule.]

Lyons:　Hey,　Pop.

Troy:　What　you　come　“Hey,　Popping”　me　for?

Lyons:　How　you　doing,　Rose?　[He　kisses　her.]　Mr.　Bono.　How　you　doing?

Bono:　Hey,　Lyons...how　you　been?

Troy:　He　must　have　been　doing　alright.　I　aint　seen　him　around　here　last　week.

Rose:　Troy,　leave　your　boy　alone.　He　come　by　to　see　you　and　you　wanna　start　all　that　nonsense.

Troy:　I　aint　bothering　Lyons.　[Offers　him　the　bottle.]　Here...get　you　a　drink.　We　got　an　understanding.　I　know　why　he　come　by　to　see　me　and　he　know　I　know.

Lyons:　Come　on,　Pop...I　just　stopped　by　to　say　hi...see　how　you　was　doing.

Troy:　You　aint　stopped　by　yesterday.

Rose:　You　gonna　stay　for　supper,　Lyons?　I　got　some　chicken　cooking　in　the　oven.

Lyons:　No,　Rose...thanks.　I　was　just　in　the　neighborhood　and　thought　Id　stop　by　for　a　minute.

Troy:　You　was　in　the　neighborhood　alright,　nigger.　You　telling　the　truth　there.　You　was　in　the　neighborhood　cause　its　my　payday.

Lyons:　Well,　hell,　since　you　mentioned　it...let　me　have　ten　dollars.

Troy:　Ill　be　damned!　Ill　die　and　go　to　hell　and　play　blackjack　with　the　devil　before　I　give　you　ten　dollars.

Bono:　Thats　what　I　wanna　know　about...that　devil　you　done　seen.

Lyons:　What...Pop　done　seen　the　devil?　You　too　much,　Pops.

Troy:　Yeah,　I　done　seen　him.　Talked　to　him　too!

Rose:　You　aint　seen　no　devil.　I　done　told　you　that　man　aint　had　nothing　to　do　with　the　devil.　Anything　you　cant　understand,　you　want　to　call　it　the　devil.

Troy:　Look　here,　Bono...I　went　down　to　see　Hertzberger　about　some　furniture.　Got　three　rooms　for　twoninetyeight.　That　what　it　say　on　the　radio.　“Three　rooms...twoninetyeight.”　Even　made　up　a　little　song　about　it.　Go　down　there...man　tell　me　I　cant　get　no　credit.　Im　working　every　day　and　cant　get　no　credit.　What　to　do?　I　got　an　empty　house　with　some　raggedy　furniture　in　it.　Cory　aint　got　no　bed.　Hes　sleeping　on　a　pile　of　rags　on　the　floor.　Working　every　day　and　cant　get　no　credit.　Come　back　here—Rosell　tell　you—madder　than　hell.　Sit　down...try　to　figure　what　Im　gonna　do.　Come　a　knock　on　the　door.　Aint　been　living　here　but　three　days.　Who　know　Im　here?　Open　the　door...devil　standing　there　bigger　than　life.　White　fellow...got　on　good　clothes　and　everything.　Standing　there　with　a　clipboard　in　his　hand.　I　aint　had　to　say　nothing.　First　words　come　out　of　his　mouth　was...“I　understand　you　need　some　furniture　and　cant　get　no　credit.”　I　liked　to　fell　over.　He　say　“Ill　give　you　all　the　credit　you　want,　but　you　got　to　pay　the　interest　on　it.”　I　told　him,　“Give　me　three　rooms　worth　and　charge　whatever　you　want.”　Next　day　a　truck　pulled　up　here　and　two　men　unloaded　them　three　rooms.　Man　what　drove　the　truck　give　me　a　book.　Say　send　ten　dollars,　first　of　every　month　to　the　address　in　the　book　and　everything　will　be　alright.　Say　if　I　miss　a　payment　the　devil　was　coming　back　and　itll　be　hell　to　pay.　That　was　fifteen　years　ago.　To　this　day...the　first　of　the　month　I　send　my　ten　dollars,　Rosell　tell　you.

Rose:　Troy　lying.

Troy:　I　aint　never　seen　that　man　since.　Now　you　tell　me　who　else　that　could　have　been　but　the　devil?　I　aint　sold　my　soul　or　nothing　like　that,　you　understand.　Naw,　I　wouldnt　have　truck　with　the　devil　about　nothing　like　that.　I　got　my　furniture　and　pays　my　ten　dollars　the　first　of　the　month　just　like　clockwork.

Bono:　How　long　you　say　you　been　paying　this　ten　dollars　a　month?

Troy:　Fifteen　years!

Bono:　Hell,　aint　you　finished　paying　for　it　yet?　How　much　the　man　done　charged　you.

Troy:　Aw　hell,　I　done　paid　for　it.　I　done　paid　for　it　ten　times　over!　The　fact　is　Im　scared　to　stop　paying　it.

Rose:　Troy　lying.　We　got　that　furniture　from　Mr.　Glickman.　He　aint　paying　no　ten　dollars　a　month　to　nobody.

Troy:　Aw　hell,　woman.　Bono　know　I　aint　that　big　a　fool.

Lyons:　I　was　just　getting　ready　to　say...I　know　where　theres　a　bridge　for　sale.

Troy:　Look　here,　Ill　tell　you　this...it　dont　matter　to　me　if　he　was　the　devil.　It　dont　matter　if　the　devil　give　credit.　Somebody　has　got　to　give　it.

Rose:　It　ought　to　matter.　You　going　around　talking　about　having　truck　with　the　devil...Gods　the　one　you　gonna　have　to　answer　to.　Hes　the　one　gonna　be　at　the　Judgment.

Lyons:　Yeah,　well,　look　here,　Pop...let　me　have　that　ten　dollars.　Ill　give　it　back　to　you.　Bonnie　got　a　job　working　at　the　hospital.

Troy:　What　I　tell　you,　Bono?　The　only　time　I　see　this　nigger　is　when　he　wants　something.　Thats　the　only　time　I　see　him.

Lyons:　Come　on,　Pop,　Mr.　Bono　dont　want　to　hear　all　that.　Let　me　have　the　ten　dollars.　I　told　you　Bonnie　working.

Troy:　What　that　mean　to　me?　“Bonnie　working.”　I　dont　care　if　she　working.　Go　ask　her　for　the　ten　dollars　if　she　working.　Talking　about　“Bonnie　working.”　Why　aint　you　working?

Lyons:　Aw,　Pop,　you　know　I　cant　find　no　decent　job.　Where　am　I　gonna　get　a　job　at?　You　know　I　cant　get　no　job.

Troy:　I　told　you　I　know　some　people　down　there.　I　can　get　you　on　the　rubbish　if　you　want　to　work.　I　told　you　that　the　last　time　you　came　by　here　asking　me　for　something.

Lyons:　Naw,　Pop...thanks.　That　aint　for　me.　I　dont　wanna　be　carrying　nobodys　rubbish.　I　dont　wanna　be　punching　nobodys　time　clock.

Troy:　Whats　the　matter,　you　too　good　to　carry　peoples　rubbish?　Where　you　think　that　ten　dollars　you　talking　about　come　from?　Im　just　supposed　to　haul　peoples　rubbish　and　give　my　money　to　you　cause　you　too　lazy　to　work.　You　too　lazy　to　work　and　wanna　know　why　you　aint　got　what　I　got.

Rose:　What　hospital　Bonnie　working　at?　Mercy?

Lyons:　Shes　down　at　Passavant　working　in　the　laundry.

Troy:　I　aint　got　nothing　as　it　is.　I　give　you　that　ten　dollars　and　I　got　to　eat　beans　the　rest　of　the　week.　Naw...you　aint　getting　no　ten　dollars　here.

Lyons:　You　aint　got　to　be　eating　no　beans.　I　dont　know　why　you　wanna　say　that.

Troy:　I　aint　got　no　extra　money.　Gabe　done　moved　over　to　Miss　Pearls　paying　her　the　rent　and　things　done　got　tight　around　here.　I　cant　afford　to　be　giving　you　every　payday.

Lyons:　I　aint　asked　you　to　give　me　nothing.　I　asked　you　to　loan　me　ten　dollars.　I　know　you　got　ten　dollars.

Troy:　Yeah,　I　got　it.　You　know　why　I　got　it?　Cause　I　dont　throw　my　money　away　out　there　in　the　streets.　You　living　the　fast　life...wanna　be　a　musician...running　around　in　them　clubs　and　things...then,　you　learn　to　take　care　of　yourself.　You　aint　gonna　find　me　going　and　asking　nobody　for　nothing.　I　done　spent　too　many　years　without.

Lyons:　You　and　me　is　two　different　people,　Pop.

Troy:　I　done　learned　my　mistake　and　learned　to　do　whats　right　by　it.　You　still　trying　to　get　something　for　nothing.　Life　dont　owe　you　nothing.　You　owe　it　to　yourself.　Ask　Bono.　Hell　tell　you　Im　right.

Lyons:　You　got　your　way　of　dealing　with　the　world...I　got　mine.　The　only　thing　that　matters　to　me　is　the　music.

Troy:　Yeah,　I　can　see　that!　It　dont　matter　how　you　gonna　eat...where　your　next　dollar　is　coming　from.　You　telling　the　truth　there.

Lyons:　I　know　I　got　to　eat.　But　I　got　to　live　too.　I　need　something　that　gonna　help　me　to　get　out　of　the　bed　in　the　morning.　Make　me　feel　like　I　belong　in　the　world.　I　dont　bother　nobody.　I　just　stay　with　my　music　cause　thats　the　only　way　I　can　find　to　live　in　the　world.　Otherwise　there　aint　no　telling　what　I　might　do.　Now　I　dont　come　criticizing　you　and　how　you　live.　I　just　come　by　to　ask　you　for　ten　dollars.　I　dont　wanna　hear　all　that　about　how　I　live.

Troy:　Boy,　your　mama　did　a　hell　of　a　job　raising　you.

Lyons:　You　cant　change　me,　Pop.　Im　thirtyfour　years　old.　If　you　wanted　to　change　me,　you　should　have　been　there　when　I　was　growing　up.　I　come　by　to　see　you...ask　for　ten　dollars　and　you　want　to　talk　about　how　I　was　raised.　You　dont　know　nothing　about　how　I　was　raised.

Rose:　Let　the　boy　have　ten　dollars,　Troy.

Troy:　[To　Lyons.]　What　the　hell　you　looking　at　me　for?　I　aint　got　no　ten　dollars.　You　know　what　I　do　with　my　money.　[To　Rose.]　Give　him　ten　dollars　if　you　want　him　to　have　it.

Rose:　I　will.　Just　as　soon　as　you　turn　it　loose.

Troy:　[Handing　Rose　the　money.]　There　it　is.　Seventysix　dollars　and　fortytwo　cents.　You　see　this,　Bono?　Now,　I　aint　gonna　get　but　six　of　that　back.

Rose:　You　ought　to　stop　telling　that　lie.　Here,　Lyons.　[She　hands　him　the　money.]

Lyons:　Thanks,　Rose.　Look...I　got　to　run...Ill　see　you　later.

Troy:　Wait　a　minute.　You　gonna　say,　“thanks,　Rose”　and　aint　gonna　look　to　see　where　she　got　that　ten　dollars　from?　See　how　they　do　me,　Bono?

Lyons:　I　know　she　got　it　from　you,　Pop.　Thanks.　Ill　give　it　back　to　you.

Troy:　There　he　go　telling　another　lie.　Time　I　see　that　ten　dollars...hell　be　owing　me　thirty　more.

Lyons:　See　you,　Mr.　Bono.

Bono:　Take　care,　Lyons!

Lyons:　Thanks,　Pop.　Ill　see　you　again.　[Lyons　exits　the　yard.]

Troy:　I　dont　know　why　he　dont　go　and　get　him　a　decent　job　and　take　care　of　that　woman　he　got.

Bono:　Hell　be　alright,　Troy.　The　boy　is　still　young.

Troy:　The　boy　is　thirtyfour　years　old.

Rose:　Lets　not　get　off　into　all　that.

Bono:　Look　here...I　got　to　be　going.　I　got　to　be　getting　on.　Lucille　gonna　be　waiting.

Troy:　[Puts　his　arm　around　Rose.]　See　this　woman,　Bono?　I　love　this　woman.　I　love　this　woman　so　much　it　hurts.　I　love　her　so　much...I　done　run　out　of　ways　of　loving　her.　So　I　got　to　go　back　to　basics.　Dont　you　come　by　my　house　Monday　morning　talking　about　time　to　go　to　work...cause　Im　still　gonna　be　stroking!

Rose:　Troy!　Stop　it　now!

Bono:　I　aint　paying　him　no　mind,　Rose.　That　aint　nothing　but　gintalk.　Go　on,　Troy.　Ill　see　you　Monday.

Troy:　Dont　you　come　by　my　house,　nigger!　I　done　told　you　what　Im　gonna　be　doing.　[The　lights　go　down　to　black.]

Questions　for　Discussion

1.　As　the　plays　namesake,　“fences”　is　the　center　metaphor　of　the　play.　Please　talk　about　the　function　and　significance　of　it.

2.　Troy　Maxson　is　the　protagonist　of　the　play.　What　is　revealed　through　Troys　characterization　in　Act　One,　Scene　One?

3.　Identify　and　discuss　the　conflicts　introduced　in　Act　One,　Scene　One.　Predict　the　outcomes　of　these　conflicts.

Unit　ThreeAfrican　American　Fiction

Unit　Three

African　American　Fiction

非裔美国小说简介

非裔美国小说主要指由非裔美国人创作的虚构作品，具有比较悠久的历史，无论在奴隶制时期，吉姆·克劳种族隔离时期，还是在民权运动时期，非裔美国小说都主要关注美国社会普遍存在的白人对黑人的歧视以及制度化的不平等。由于欧洲著名思想家康德、休谟等人以能否进行文艺创作作为衡量、判断一个民族优劣的标志，因此，早期非裔美国小说家的创作带有明显的“回应”与“证明”的特点：尝试以自己的创作，证明美国黑人具有和白人一样的人性，因此，黑人民族主义与社会抗议仿佛成为非裔美国小说家的必然选择，与之相适应，现实主义的创作原则仿佛成为许多美国黑人作家的自觉选择。后来，揭露美国社会的种族歧视与压迫，以及寻找自我身份、种族身份、文化身份等成为许多小说家关注的重要主题。

如果说20世纪之前的非裔美国小说主要聚焦奴隶制的残暴与非人性，以及对黑人女性的性剥削，那么20世纪以来的非裔美国小说在现实主义的旗帜下发展壮大，不仅在创作主题方面突破了原来的种族对抗意识形态，如以赖特的《土生子》为代表的社会抗议小说，而且在创作风格方面由原来比较单一的现实主义，转向复杂多样的创作实践，汲取现代主义及后现代主义的创作风格，如里德、莫里森、埃弗雷特的文本实践等。

进入21世纪，虽然美国社会有诸多关于“后种族”的讨论，但是深层次的种族歧视依然几乎无处不在，黑人遭受的不公正对待或“另眼相待”依然普遍存在，也继续对黑人族群产生较大的影响。新世纪非裔美国小说创作如何能够在“淡化”“种族”或“族裔”因素的同时，真实、客观地反映非裔美国人民的生存状态，依然是对非裔美国艺术家，特别是对非裔美国小说家的严峻考验，而当代非裔美国小说家丰富的创作实践与艺术成就仿佛已经证明，他们能够做到。

1.　Their　Eyes　Were　Watching　God

作家简介

佐拉·尼尔·赫斯顿（Zora　Neale　Hurston)(1891—1960)是哈莱姆文艺复兴时期的重要代表人物，杰出的美国黑人女作家和人类学家，被誉为“南方的天才”。

赫斯顿出生于美国南方，在没有种族歧视的黑人小城伊顿维尔度过自己的童年时光。1904年，她的家庭在她母亲去世后解体，她无忧无虑的童年生活也随之结束；离开伊顿维尔后，她才开始意识到种族歧视的存在。1918—1924年就读于霍华德大学期间，她结识了许多黑人作家，开始进行文学创作。1925年，她来到当时黑人文学的中心、哈莱姆黑人文艺复兴的发祥地纽约，成为哈莱姆文艺复兴运动中的活跃分子，与兰斯顿·休斯等共同创办了文学杂志《火》；1926年秋，她进入巴纳德学院，在著名人类学家博厄斯教授的指导下学习人类学，1928年毕业后进入哥伦比亚大学攻读硕士学位，在梅森夫人的资助下，回到南方从事黑人民间故事和传说的收集、整理工作。

1934年，赫斯顿出版自己第一部小说《约拿的葫芦藤》，反映了20世纪30年代美国黑人的感受；1935年，她出版《骡子与人》，这是第一部由美国黑人收集、整理出版的美国黑人民间故事集。1937年，在加勒比地区进行人种史研究时，她创作了被誉为美国黑人文学史上里程碑式的经典之作《他们眼望上苍》，这部作品塑造了一位个性鲜明的黑人女性人物珍妮·斯塔克斯，表现了美国黑人女性意识的觉醒。

1938年，赫斯顿出版旅游札记《告诉我的马》,描写自己在海地的见闻和当地的民俗与风土人情；此外，她发表小说《摩西，山的主宰》（1939），仿照《圣经》中的《出埃及记》塑造了黑人摩西的形象。40年代，她发表自传《道路上的尘迹》（1942）、小说《苏旺尼的六翼天使》（1948），以及多篇涉及种族问题的文章，如“白人出版商不想出版的东西”“漂泊的黑人”和“我最难以启齿的吉姆·克劳经历”等。

赫斯顿共创作4部长篇小说、2本黑人民间故事集、1部自传、50多篇短篇故事。虽然她的文学创作成绩斐然，但是多部作品生前绝版，70年代才被重新发现，其代表作《他们眼望上苍》更是成为现代（非裔）美国文学经典。赫斯顿对自己的黑人身份非常自豪，毕生致力于收集、整理和保护黑人民族的传统文化遗产，其作品深刻揭示了当时黑人社区内部存在的自我鄙视，以及这种内化的种族主义思想对黑人灵魂的腐蚀，力图唤醒黑人对自己身份的肯定和热爱。当代著名黑人女作家艾丽斯·沃克认为，赫斯顿不遗余力地去捕捉乡间黑人语言表达之美。别的作家看到的只是黑人不能完美地掌握英语，而她看到的却是诗一般的语言。赫斯顿着力表现的是黑人文化语境下的黑人经验，她的作品从未停止为受到压迫的黑人说话，为美国黑人创造和谐、平等的生存环境是她一生的追求。

作品简介与赏析

长篇小说《他们眼望上苍》描写了反抗传统习俗的束缚、争取自己做人权利的珍妮的一生，是赫斯顿的代表作，被公认为是美国黑人文学史上的经典之作。通过描写女主人公珍妮的三次婚姻，以及她在三次婚姻中的不断成长，赫斯顿让黑人妇女独领风骚，使被遮蔽的女性自信与自强重新成为社会的关注点，塑造出一个寻找自我、表现自我、肯定自我的黑人女性，是黑人文学中第一部充分展示黑人女性意识觉醒的作品，在黑人女性形象塑造方面具有里程碑式的意义，开启黑人女性主义文学先河。

1940年，赖特的《土生子》轰动美国文坛，抗议小说仿佛代表了美国黑人文学的发展趋势，赖特批评《他们眼望上苍》“没有主题，没有启示性，没有思想”。在赖特作品风靡于世的年代，赫斯顿的作品因缺乏种族抗议和种族斗争而遭受冷落，直到女权运动高涨的70年代，她作品的价值才重新为人们所重视。艾丽斯·沃克认为赫斯顿是“一个伟大的作家。一个有勇气、有令人难以置信的幽默感的作家，所写的每一行里都有诗”，并说，“对我来说，再也没有比这本小说(《他们眼望上苍》)更为重要的书了”。《诺顿非裔美国文学选集》将这部作品列为“哈莱姆文艺复兴时期最伟大的作品之一”。

小说以珍妮自述的方式开始。在第一、二章中，珍妮在丈夫甜点死后回到伊顿维尔的家中，伴随她的是邻居的不解与指责；在珍妮向好友讲述自己一生追求、实现生命意义的过程中，小说展示了姐妹情谊的美好情景。

珍妮女性意识觉醒的每一个阶段，都展示出她对生活的热爱。在珍妮的三次婚姻中，她对自己丈夫的看法都和梨树相关：第一任丈夫洛根·基利克斯“玷污了梨树的纯洁”，第二任丈夫也“并不代表太阳升起和梨树的开花授粉”；只有第三任丈夫才是“蜜蜂找到了梨花——盛开的梨花”。另一个与女人关系密切的重要意象是骡子。在父权制中，女人就像骡子一样，处于受压迫的他者地位。在小说开始，祖母就告诉她“黑人女性的命运和骡子是相同的”，这不但说明黑人女性要承担沉重的劳动，而且说明她们的地位极其低下，这也体现在珍妮的婚姻生活中。经历过三次婚姻后，珍妮从一个单纯的小女孩成长为独立成熟的女性，她用自己的行动感染着身边的人，让她们觉醒，为寻找更加和谐、平等的社会地位而努力。

Chapter　1

Ships　at　a　distance　have　every　mans　wish　on　board.　For　some　they　come　in　with　the　tide.　For　others　they　sail　forever　on　the　horizon,　never　out　of　sight,　never　landing　until　the　Watcher　turns　his　eyes　away　in　resignation,　his　dreams　mocked　to　death　by　Time.　That　is　the　life　of　men.

Now,　women　forget　all　those　things　they　dont　want　to　remember,　and　remember　everything　they　dont　want　to　forget.　The　dream　is　the　truth.　Then　they　act　and　do　things　accordingly.

So　the　beginning　of　this　was　a　woman　and　she　had　come　back　from　burying　the　dead.　Not　the　dead　of　sick　and　ailing　with　friends　at　the　pillow　and　the　feet.　She　had　come　back　from　the　sodden　and　the　bloated;　the　sudden　dead,　their　eyes　flung　wide　open　in　judgment.

The　people　all　saw　her　come　because　it　was　sundown.　The　sun　was　gone,　but　he　had　left　his　footprints　in　the　sky.　It　was　the　time　for　sitting　on　porches　beside　the　road.　It　was　the　time　to　hear　things　and　talk.　These　sitters　had　been　tongueless,　earless,　eyeless　conveniences　all　day　long.　Mules　and　other　brutes　had　occupied　their　skins.　But　now,　the　sun　and　the　bossman　were　gone,　so　the　skins　felt　powerful　and　human.　They　became　lords　of　sounds　and　lesser　things.　They　passed　nations　through　their　mouths.　They　sat　in　judgment.

Seeing　the　woman　as　she　was　made　them　remember　the　envy　they　had　stored　up　from　other　times.　So　they　chewed　up　the　back　parts　of　their　minds　and　swallowed　with　relish.　They　made　burning　statements　with　questions,　and　killing　tools　out　of　laughs.　It　was　mass　cruelty.　A　mood　come　alive.　Words　walking　without　masters;　walking　altogether　like　harmony　in　a　song.

“What　she　doin　coming　back　here　in　dem　overhalls?　Cant　she　find　no　dress　to　put　on?—Wheres　dat　blue　satin　dress　she　left　here　in?—Where　all　dat　money　her　husband　took　and　died　and　left　her?—What　dat　ole　forty　year　ole　oman　doin　wid　her　hair　swingin　down　her　back　lak　some　young　gal?—Where　she　left　dat　young　lad　of　a　boy　she　went　off　here　wid?—Thought　she　was　going　to　marry?—Where　he　left　her?—What　he　done　wid　all　her　money?—Betcha　he　off　wid　some　gal　so　young　she　aint　even　got　no　hairs—why　she　dont　stay　in　her　class?

When　she　got　to　where　they　were　she　turned　her　face　on　the　bander　log　and　spoke.　They　scrambled　a　noisy　“good　evenin”　and　left　their　mouths　setting　open　and　their　ears　full　of　hope.　Her　speech　was　pleasant　enough,　but　she　kept　walking　straight　on　to　her　gate.　The　porch　couldnt　talk　for　looking.

The　men　noticed　her　firm　buttocks　like　she　had　grapefruits　in　her　hip　pockets;　the　great　rope　of　black　hair　swinging　to　her　waist　and　unraveling　in　the　wind　like　a　plume;　then　her　pugnacious　breasts　trying　to　bore　holes　in　her　shirt.　They,　the　men,　were　saving　with　the　mind　what　they　lost　with　the　eye.　The　women　took　the　faded　shirt　and　muddy　overalls　and　laid　them　away　for　remembrance.　It　was　a　weapon　against　her　strength　and　if　it　turned　out　of　no　significance,　still　it　was　a　hope　that　she　might　fall　to　their　level　some　day.

But　nobody　moved,　nobody　spoke,　nobody　even　thought　to　swallow　spit　until　after　her　gate　slammed　behind　her.

Pearl　Stone　opened　her　mouth　and　laughed　real　hard　because　she　didnt　know　what　else　to　do.　She　fell　all　over　Mrs.　Sumpkins　while　she　laughed.　Mrs.　Sumpkins　snorted　violently　and　sucked　her　teeth.

“Humph!　Yall　let　her　worry　yuh.　You　aint　like　me.　Ah　aint　got　her　to　study　bout.　If　she　aint　got　manners　enough　to　stop　and　let　folks　know　how　she　been　makin　out,　let　her　gwan!”

“She　aint　even　worth　talkin　after,”　Lulu　Moss　drawled　through　her　nose.　“She　sits　high,　but　she　looks　low.　Dats　what　Ah　say　bout　dese　ole　women　runnin　after　young　boys.”

Pheoby　Watson　hitched　her　rocking　chair　forward　before　she　spoke.　“Well,　nobody　dont　know　if　its　anything　to　tell　or　not.　Me,　Ahm　her　best　friend,　and　Ah　dont　know.”

“Maybe　us　dont　know　into　things　lak　you　do,　but　we　all　know　how　she　went　way　from　here　and　us　sho　seen　her　come　back.　Taint　no　use　in　your　tryin　to　cloak　no　ole　woman　lak　Janie　Starks,　Pheoby,　friend　or　no　friend.”

“At　dat　she　aint　so　ole　as　some　of　yall　dats　talking.

“Shes　way　past　forty　to　my　knowledge,　Pheoby.”

“No　moren　forty　at　de　outside.”

“Shes　way　too　old　for　a　boy　like　Tea　Cake.”

“Tea　Cake　aint　been　no　boy　for　some　time.　Hes　round　thirty　his　ownself.”

“Dont　keer　what　it　was,　she　could　stop　and　say　a　few　words　with　us.　She　act　like　we　done　done　something　to　her,”　Pearl　Stone　complained.　“She　de　one　been　doin　wrong.”

“You　mean,　you　mad　cause　she　didnt　stop　and　tell　us　all　her　business.　Anyhow,　what　you　ever　know　her　to　do　so　bad　as　yall　make　out?　The　worst　thing　Ah　ever　knowed　her　to　do　was　taking　a　few　years　offa　her　age　and　dat　aint　never　harmed　nobody.　Yall　makes　me　tired.　De　way　you　talkin　youd　think　de　folks　in　dis　town　didnt　do　nothin　in　de　bed　cept　praise　de　Lawd.　You　have　to　scuse　me,　cause　Ahm　bound　to　go　take　her　some　supper.”　Pheoby　stood　up　sharply.

“Dont　mind　us,”　Lulu　smiled,　“just　go　right　ahead,　us　can　mind　yo　house　for　you　till　you　git　back.　Mah　supper　is　done.　You　bettah　go　see　how　she　feel.　You　kin　let　de　rest　of　us　know.”

“Lawd,”　Pearl　agreed,　“Ah　done　scorchedup　dat　lil　meat　and　bread　too　long　to　talk　about.　Ah　kin　stay　way　from　home　long　as　Ah　please.　Mah　husband　aint　fussy.”

“Oh,　er,　Pheoby,　if　youse　ready　to　go,　Ah　could　walk　over　dere　wid　you,”　Mrs.　Sumpkins　volunteered.　“Its　sort　of　duskin　down　dark.　De　booger　man　might　ketch　yuh.”

“Naw,　Ah　thank　yuh.　Nothin　couldnt　ketch　me　dese　few　steps　Ahm　goin.　Anyhow　mah　husband　tell　me　say　no　first　class　booger　would　have　me.　If　she　got　anything　to　tell　yuh,　youll　hear　it.

Pheoby　hurried　on　off　with　a　covered　bowl　in　her　hands.　She　left　the　porch　pelting　her　back　with　unasked　questions.　They　hoped　the　answers　were　cruel　and　strange.　When　she　arrived　at　the　place,　Pheoby　Watson　didnt　go　in　by　the　front　gate　and　down　the　palm　walk　to　the　front　door.　She　walked　around　the　fence　corner　and　went　in　the　intimate　gate　with　her　heaping　plate　of　mulatto　rice.　Janie　must　be　round　that　side.

She　found　her　sitting　on　the　steps　of　the　back　porch　with　the　lamps　all　filled　and　the　chimneys　cleaned.

“Hello,　Janie,　how　you　comin?”　“Aw,　pretty　good,　Ahm　tryin　to　soak　some　uh　de　tiredness　and　de　dirt　outa　mah　feet.”　She　laughed　a　little.　“Ah　see　you　is.　Gal,　you　sho　looks　good.　You　looks　like　youse　yo　own　daughter.”　They　both　laughed.　“Even　wid　dem　overhalls　on,　you　shows　yo　womanhood.”

“Gwan!　Gwan!　You　must　think　Ah　brought　yuh　somethin.　When　Ah　aint　brought　home　a　thing　but　mahself.”　“Dats　a　gracious　plenty.　Yo　friends　wouldnt　want　nothin　better.”

“Ah　takes　dat　flattery　offa　you,　Pheoby,　cause　Ah　know　its　from　de　heart.”　Janie　extended　her　hand.　“Good　Lawd,　Pheoby!　aint　you　never　goin　tuh　gimme　dat　lil　rations　you　brought　me?　Ah　aint　had　a　thing　on　mah　stomach　today　exceptin　mah　hand.”　They　both　laughed　easily.　“Give　it　here　and　have　a　seat.”

“Ah　knowed　youd　be　hongry.　No　time　to　be　huntin　stove　wood　after　dark.　Mah　mulatto　rice　aint　so　good　dis　time.　Not　enough　bacon　grease,　but　Ah　reckon　itll　kill　hongry.”

“Ahll　tell　you　in　a　minute,”　Janie　said,　lifting　the　cover.　“Gal,　its　too　good!　you　switches　a　mean　fanny　round　in　a　kitchen.”

“Aw,　dat　aint　much　to　eat,　Janie.　But　Ahm　liable　to　have　something　sho　nuff　good　tomorrow,　cause　you　done　come.”

Janie　ate　heartily　and　said　nothing.　The　varicolored　cloud　dust　that　the　sun　had　stirred　up　in　the　sky　was　settling　by　slow　degrees.

“Here,　Pheoby,　take　yo　ole　plate.　Ah　aint　got　a　bit　of　use　for　a　empty　dish.　Dat　grub　sho　come　in　handy.

Pheoby　laughed　at　her　friends　rough　joke.　“Youse　just　as　crazy　as　you　ever　was.”

“Hand　me　dat　washrag　on　dat　chair　by　you,　honey.　Lemme　scrub　mah　feet.”　She　took　the　cloth　and　rubbed　vigorously.　Laughter　came　to　her　from　the　big　road.

“Well,　Ah　see　MouthAlmighty　is　still　sittin　in　de　same　place.　And　Ah　reckon　they　got　me　up　in　they　mouth　now.”

“Yes　indeed.　You　know　if　you　pass　some　people　and　dont　speak　tuh　suit　em　dey　got　tuh　go　way　back　in　yo　life　and　see　whut　you　ever　done.

They　know　mo　bout　yuh　than　you　do　yo　self.　An　envious　heart　makes　a　treacherous　ear.　They　done　‘heard’　bout　you　just　what　they　hope　done　happened.”

“If　God　dont　think　no　mo　bout　em　then　Ah　do,　theys　a　lost　ball　in　de　high　grass.

“Ah　hears　what　they　say　cause　they　just　will　collect　round　mah　porch　cause　its　on　de　big　road.　Mah　husband　git　so　sick　of　em　sometime　he　makes　em　all　git　for　home.”

“Sam　is　right　too.　They　just　wearin　out　yo　sittin　chairs.”

“Yeah,　Sam　say　most　of　em　goes　to　church　so　theyll　be　sure　to　rise　in　Judgment基督教及其他一些宗教中所说的末日审判，届时上帝将根据每个人生前所作所为进行判决，决定他/她是上天堂还是下地狱。　.　Dats　de　day　dat　every　secret　is　sposed　to　be　made　known.　They　wants　to　be　there　and　hear　it　all.”

“Sam　is　too　crazy!　You　cant　stop　laughin　when　youse　round　him.”

“Uuh　hunh.　He　says　he　aims　to　be　there　hisself　so　he　can　find　out　who　stole　his　corncob　pipe.”

“Pheoby,　dat　Sam　of　yourn　just　wont　quit!　Crazy　thing!”

“Most　of　dese　zigaboos　is　so　het　up　over　yo　business　till　they　liable　to　hurry　theyself　to　Judgment　to　find　out　about　you　if　they　dont　soon　know.　You　better　make　haste　and　tell　em　bout　you　and　Tea　Cake　gittin　married,　and　if　he　taken　all　yo　money　and　went　off　wid　some　young　gal,　and　where　at　he　is　now　and　where　at　is　all　yo　clothes　dat　you　got　to　come　back　here　in　overhalls.”

“Ah　dont　mean　to　bother　wid　tellin　em　nothin,　Pheoby.　Taint　worth　de　trouble.　You　can　tell　em　what　Ah　say　if　you　wants　to.　Dats　just　de　same　as　me　cause　mah　tongue　is　in　mah　friends　mouf.”

“If　you　so　desire　Ahll　tell　em　what　you　tell　me　to　tell　em.”

“To　start　off　wid,　people　like　dem　wastes　up　too　much　time　puttin　they　mouf　on　things　they　dont　know　nothin　about.　Now　they　got　to　look　into　me　loving　Tea　Cake　and　see　whether　it　was　done　right　or　not!　They　dont　know　if　life　is　a　mess　of　cornmeal　dumplings,　and　if　love　is　a　bedquilt!”

“So　long　as　they　get　a　name　to　gnaw　on　they　dont　care　whose　it　is,　and　what　about,　specially　if　they　can　make　it　sound　like　evil.”

“If　they　wants　to　see　and　know,　why　they　dont　come　kiss　and　be　kissed?　Ah　could　then　sit　down　and　tell　em　things.　Ah　been　a　delegate　to　de　big　ssociation　of　life.　Yessuh!　De　Grand　Lodge,　de　big　convention　of　livin　is　just　where　Ah　been　dis　year　and　a　half　yall　aint　seen　me.”

They　sat　there　in　the　fresh　young　darkness　close　together.　Pheoby　eager　to　feel　and　do　through　Janie,　but　hating　to　show　her　zest　for　fear　it　might　be　thought　mere　curiosity.　Janie　full　of　that　oldest　human　longing—selfrevelation.　Pheoby　held　her　tongue　for　a　long　time,　but　she　couldnt　help　moving　her　feet.　So　Janie　spoke.

“They　dont　need　to　worry　about　me　and　my　overhalls　long　as　Ah　still　got　nine　hundred　dollars　in　de　bank.　Tea　Cake　got　me　into　wearing　em—following　behind　him.　Tea　Cake　aint　wasted　up　no　money　of　mine,　and　he　aint　left　me　for　no　young　gal,　neither.　He　give　me　every　consolation　in　de　world.　Hed　tell　em　so　too,　if　he　was　here.　If　he　wasnt　gone.”

Pheoby　dilated　all　over　with　eagerness,　“Tea　Cake　gone?”

“Yeah,　Pheoby,　Tea　Cake　is　gone.　And　dats　de　only　reason　you　see　me　back　here—cause　Ah　aint　got　nothing　to　make　me　happy　no　more　where　Ah　was　at.　Down　in　the　Everglades　there,　down　on　the　muck.”

“Its　hard　for　me　to　understand　what　you　mean,　de　way　you　tell　it.　And　then　again　Ahm　hard　of　understandin　at　times.”

“Naw,　taint　nothin　lak　you　might　think.　So　taint　no　use　in　me　telling　you　somethin　unless　Ah　give　you　de　understandin　to　go　long　wid　it.　Unless　you　see　de　fur,　a　mink　skin　aint　no　different　from　a　coon　hide.　Looka　heah,　Pheoby,　is　Sam　waitin　on　you　for　his　supper?”

“Its　all　ready　and　waitin.　If　he　aint　got　sense　enough　to　eat　it,　dats　his　hard　luck.”

“Well　then,　we　can　set　right　where　we　is　and　talk.　Ah　got　the　house　all　opened　up　to　let　dis　breeze　get　a　little　catchin.”

“Pheoby,　we　been　kissinfriends　for　twenty　years,　so　Ah　depend　on　you　for　a　good　thought.　And　Ahm　talking　to　you　from　dat　standpoint.”

Time　makes　everything　old　so　the　“Pheoby,　we　been　kissinfriends　for　twenty　years,　so　Ah　depend　on　you　for　a　good　thought.　And　Ahm　talking　to　you　from　dat　standpoint.”

Time　makes　everything　old　so　the　kissing,　young　darkness　became　a　monstropolous　old　thing　while　Janie　talked.

Chapter　2

Janie　saw　her　life　like　a　great　tree　in　leaf　with　the　things　suffered,　things　enjoyed,　things　done　and　undone.　Dawn　and　doom　was　in　the　branches.　“Ah　know　exactly　what　Ah　got　to　tell　yuh,　but　its　hard　to　know　where　to　start　at.

“Ah　aint　never　seen　mah　papa.　And　Ah　didnt　know　im　if　Ah　did.　Mah　mama　neither.　She　was　gone　from　round　dere　long　before　Ah　wuz　big　enough　tuh　know.　Mah　grandma　raised　me.　Mah　grandma　and　de　white　folks　she　worked　wid.　She　had　a　house　out　in　de　backyard　and　dats　where　Ah　wuz　born.　They　was　quality　white　folks　up　dere　in　West　Florida.　Named　Washburn.　She　had　four　granchillun　on　de　place　and　all　of　us　played　together　and　dats　how　come　Ah　never　called　mah　Grandma　nothin　but　Nanny,　cause　dats　what　everybody　on　de　place　called　her.　Nanny　used　to　ketch　us　in　our　devilment　and　lick　every　youngun　on　de　place　and　Mis　Washburn　did　de　same.　Ah　reckon　dey　never　hit　us　ah　lick　amiss　cause　dem　three　boys　and　us　two　girls　wuz　pretty　aggravatin,　Ah　speck.

“Ah　was　wid　dem　white　chillun　so　much　till　Ah　didnt　know　Ah　wuznt　white　till　Ah　was　round　six　years　old.　Wouldnt　have　found　it　out　then,　but　a　man　come　long　takin　pictures　and　without　askin　anybody,　Shelby,　dat　was　de　oldest　boy,　he　told　him　to　take　us.　Round　a　week　later　de　man　brought　de　picture　for　Mis　Washburn　to　see　and　pay　him　which　she　did,　then　give　us　all　a　good　lickin.

“So　when　we　looked　at　de　picture　and　everybody　got　pointed　out　there　wasnt　nobody　left　except　a　real　dark　little　girl　with　long　hair　standing　by　Eleanor.　Dats　where　Ah　wuz　sposed　to　be,　but　Ah　couldnt　recognize　dat　dark　chile　as　me.　So　Ah　ast,　‘where　is　me?　Ah　dont　see　me.’

“Everybody　laughed,　even　Mr.　Washburn.　Miss　Nellie,　de　Mama　of　de　chillun　who　come　back　home　after　her　husband　dead,　she　pointed　to　de　dark　one　and　said,　‘Dats　you,　Alphabet,　dont　you　know　yo　ownself?’

“Dey　all　useter　call　me　Alphabet　cause　so　many　people　had　done　named　me　different　names.　Ah　looked　at　de　picture　a　long　time　and　seen　it　was　mah　dress　and　mah　hair　so　Ah　said:

“‘Aw,　aw!　Ahm　colored!’

“Den　dey　all　laughed　real　hard.　But　before　Ah　seen　de　picture　Ah　thought　Ah　wuz　just　like　de　rest.

“Us　lived　dere　havin　fun　till　de　chillum　at　school　got　to　teasin　me　bout　livin　in　de　white　folks　backyard.　Dere　wuz　uh　knotty　head　gal　name　Mayrella　dat　useter　git　mad　every　time　she　look　at　me.　Mis　Washburn　useter　dress　me　up　in　all　de　clothes　her　granchillun　didnt　need　no　mo　which　still　wuz　bettern　whut　de　rest　uh　de　colored　chillun　had.　And　then　she　useter　put　hair　ribbon　on　mah　head　fuh　me　tuh　wear.　Dat　useter　rile　Mayrella　uh　lot.　So　she　would　pick　at　me　all　de　time　and　put　some　others　up　tuh　do　de　same.　Theyd　push　me　way　from　de　ring　plays　and　make　out　they　couldnt　play　wid　nobody　dat　lived　on　premises.　Den　theyd　tell　me　not　to　be　takin　on　over　mah　looks　cause　they　mama　told　em　bout　de　hound　dawgs　huntin　mah　papa　all　night　long.　Bout　Mr.　Washburn　and　de　sheriff　puttin　de　bloodhounds　on　de　trail　tuh　ketch　mah　papa　for　whut　he　done　tuh　mah　mama.　Dey　didnt　tell　about　how　he　wuz　seen　tryin　tuh　git　in　touch　wid　mah　mama　later　on　so　he　could　marry　her.　Naw,　dey　didnt　talk　dat　part　of　it　atall.　Dey　made　it　sound　real　bad　so　as　tuh　crumple　mah　feathers.　None　of　em　didnt　even　remember　whut　his　name　wuz,　but　dey　all　knowed　de　bloodhound　part　by　heart.　Nanny　didnt　love　tuh　see　me　wid　mah　head　hung　down,　so　she　figgered　it　would　be　mo　better　fuh　me　if　us　had　uh　house.　She　got　de　land　and　everything　and　then　Mis　Washburn　helped　out　uh　whole　heap　wid　things.”

Pheobys　hungry　listening　helped　Janie　to　tell　her　story.　So　she　went　on　thinking　back　to　her　young　years　and　explaining　them　to　her　friend　in　soft,　easy　phrases　while　all　around　the　house,　the　night　time　put　on　flesh　and　blackness.

She　thought　awhile　and　decided　that　her　conscious　life　had　commenced　at　Nannys　gate.　On　a　late　afternoon　Nanny　had　called　her　to　come　inside　the　house　because　she　had　spied　Janie　letting　Johnny　Taylor　kiss　her　over　the　gatepost.

It　was　a　spring　afternoon　in　West　Florida.　Janie　had　spent　most　of　the　day　under　a　blossoming　pear　tree　in　the　backyard.　She　had　been　spending　every　minute　that　she　could　steal　from　her　chores　under　that　tree　for　the　last　three　days.　That　was　to　say,　ever　since　the　first　tiny　bloom　had　opened.　It　had　called　her　to　come　and　gaze　on　a　mystery.　From　barren　brown　stems　to　glistening　leafbuds;　from　the　leafbuds　to　snowy　virginity　of　bloom.　It　stirred　her　tremendously.　How?　Why?　It　was　like　a　flute　song　forgotten　in　another　existence　and　remembered　again.　What?　How?　Why?　This　singing　she　heard　that　had　nothing　to　do　with　her　ears.　The　rose　of　the　world　was　breathing　out　smell.　It　followed　her　through　all　her　waking　moments　and　caressed　her　in　her　sleep.　It　connected　itself　with　other　vaguely　felt　matters　that　had　struck　her　outside　observation　and　buried　themselves　in　her　flesh.　Now　they　emerged　and　quested　about　her　consciousness.

She　was　stretched　on　her　back　beneath　the　pear　tree　soaking　in　the　alto　chant　of　the　visiting　bees,　the　gold　of　the　sun　and　the　panting　breath　of　the　breeze　when　the　inaudible　voice　of　it　all　came　to　her.　She　saw　a　dustbearing　bee　sink　into　the　sanctum　of　a　bloom;　the　thousand　sistercalyxes　arch　to　meet　the　love　embrace　and　the　ecstatic　shiver　of　the　tree　from　root　to　tiniest　branch　creaming　in　every　blossom　and　frothing　with　delight.　So　this　was　a　marriage!　She　had　been　summoned　to　behold　a　revelation.　Then　Janie　felt　a　pain　remorseless　sweet　that　left　her　limp　and　languid.

After　a　while　she　got　up　from　where　she　was　and　went　over　the　little　garden　field　entire.　She　was　seeking　confirmation　of　the　voice　and　vision,　and　everywhere　she　found　and　acknowledged　answers.　A　personal　answer　for　all　other　creations　except　herself.　She　felt　an　answer　seeking　her,　but　where?　When?　How?　She　found　herself　at　the　kitchen　door　and　stumbled　inside.　In　the　air　of　the　room　were　flies　tumbling　and　singing,　marrying　and　giving　in　marriage.　When　she　reached　the　narrow　hallway　she　was　reminded　that　her　grandmother　was　home　with　a　sick　headache.　She　was　lying　across　the　bed　asleep　so　Janie　tipped　on　out　of　the　front　door.　Oh　to　be　a　pear　tree—any　tree　in　bloom!　With　kissing　bees　singing　of　the　beginning　of　the　world!　She　was　sixteen.　She　had　glossy　leaves　and　bursting　buds　and　she　wanted　to　struggle　with　life　but　it　seemed　to　elude　her.　Where　were　the　singing　bees　for　her?　Nothing　on　the　place　nor　in　her　grandmas　house　answered　her.　She　searched　as　much　of　the　world　as　she　could　from　the　top　of　the　front　steps　and　then　went　on　down　to　the　front　gate　and　leaned　over　to　gaze　up　and　down　the　road.　Looking,　waiting,　breathing　short　with　impatience.　Waiting　for　the　world　to　be　made.

Through　pollinated　air　she　saw　a　glorious　being　coming　up　the　road.　In　her　former　blindness　she　had　known　him　as　shiftless　Johnny　Taylor,　tall　and　lean.　That　was　before　the　golden　dust　of　pollen　had　beglamored　his　rags　and　her　eyes.

In　the　last　stages　of　Nannys　sleep,　she　dreamed　of　voices.　Voices　faroff　but　persistent,　and　gradually　coming　nearer.　Janies　voice.　Janie　talking　in　whispery　snatches　with　a　male　voice　she　couldnt　quite　place.　That　brought　her　wide　awake.　She　bolted　upright　and　peered　out　of　the　window　and　saw　Johnny　Taylor　lacerating　her　Janie　with　a　kiss.

“Janie!”

The　old　womans　voice　was　so　lacking　in　command　and　reproof,　so　full　of　crumbling　dissolution,—that　Janie　half　believed　that　Nanny　had　not　seen　her.　So　she　extended　herself　outside　of　her　dream　and　went　inside　of　the　house.　That　was　the　end　of　her　childhood.

Nannys　head　and　face　looked　like　the　standing　roots　of　some　old　tree　that　had　been　torn　away　by　storm.　Foundation　of　ancient　power　that　no　longer　mattered.　The　cooling　palma　christi　leaves　that　Janie　had　bound　about　her　grandmas　head　with　a　white　rag　had　wilted　down　and　become　part　and　parcel　of　the　woman.　Her　eyes　didnt　bore　and　pierce.　They　diffused　and　melted　Janie,　the　room　and　the　world　into　one　comprehension.

“Janie,　youse　uh　oman,　now,　so—”　“Naw,　Nanny,　naw　Ah　aint　no　real　oman　yet.”

The　thought　was　too　new　and　heavy　for　Janie.　She　fought　it　away.

Nanny　closed　her　eyes　and　nodded　a　slow,　weary　affirmation　many　times　before　she　gave　it　voice.

“Yeah,　Janie,　youse　got　yo　womanhood　on　yuh.　So　Ah　mout　ez　well　tell　yuh　whut　Ah　been　savin　up　for　uh　spell.　Ah　wants　to　see　you　married　right　away.

“Me,　married?　Naw,　Nanny,　no　maam!　Whut　Ah　know　bout　uh　husband?”

“Whut　Ah　seen　just　now　is　plenty　for　me,　honey,　Ah　dont　want　no　trashy　nigger,　no　breathandbritches,　lak　Johnny　Taylor　usin　yo　body　to　wipe　his　foots　on.”

Nannys　words　made　Janies　kiss　across　the　gatepost　seem　like　a　manure　pile　after　a　rain.

“Look　at　me,　Janie.　Dont　set　dere　wid　yo　head　hung　down.　Look　at　yo　ole　grandma!”　Her　voice　began　snagging　on　the　prongs　of　her　feelings.　“Ah　dont　want　to　be　talkin　to　you　lak　dis.　Fact　is　Ah　done　been　on　mah　knees　to　mah　Maker　manys　de　time　askin　please—for　Him　not　to　make　de　burden　too　heavy　for　me　to　bear.”

“Nanny,　Ah　just—Ah　didnt　mean　nothin　bad.”

“Dats　what　makes　me　skeered.　You　dont　mean　no　harm.　You　dont　even　know　where　harm　is　at.　Ahm　ole　now.　Ah　cant　be　always　guidin　yo　feet　from　harm　and　danger.　Ah　wants　to　see　you　married　right　away.

“Who　Ahm　goin　tuh　marry　offhand　lak　dat?　Ah　dont　know　nobody.”

“De　Lawd　will　provide.　He　know　Ah　done　bore　de　burden　in　de　heat　uh　de　day.　Somebody　done　spoke　to　me　bout　you　long　time　ago.　Ah　aint　said　nothin　cause　dat　wasnt　de　way　Ah　placed　you.　Ah　wanted　yuh　to　school　out　and　pick　from　a　higher　bush　and　a　sweeter　berry.　But　dat　aint　yo　idea,　Ah　see.”

“Nanny,　who—who　dat　been　askin　you　for　me?”

“Brother　Logan　Killicks.　Hes　a　good　man,　too.”

“Naw,　Nanny,　no　maam!　Is　dat　whut　he　been　hangin　round　here　for?　He　look　like　some　ole　skullhead　in　de　grave　yard.

The　older　woman　sat　bolt　upright　and　put　her　feet　to　the　floor,　and　thrust　back　the　leaves　from　her　face.

“So　you　dont　want　to　marry　off　decent　like,　do　yuh?　You　just　wants　to　hug　and　kiss　and　feel　around　with　first　one　man　and　then　another,　huh?　You　wants　to　make　me　suck　de　same　sorrow　yo　mama　did,　eh?　Mah　ole　head　aint　gray　enough.　Mah　back　aint　bowed　enough　to　suit　yuh!”

The　vision　of　Logan　Killicks　was　desecrating　the　pear　tree,　but　Janie　didnt　know　how　to　tell　Nanny　that.　She　merely　hunched　over　and　pouted　at　the　floor.

“Janie.”

“Yes,　maam.”

“You　answer　me　when　Ah　speak.　Dont　you　set　dere　poutin　wid　me　after　all　Ah　done　went　through　for　you!”

She　slapped　the　girls　face　violently,　and　forced　her　head　back　so　that　their　eyes　met　in　struggle.　With　her　hand　uplifted　for　the　second　blow　she　saw　the　huge　tear　that　welled　up　from　Janies　heart　and　stood　in　each　eye.　She　saw　the　terrible　agony　and　the　lips　tightened　down　to　hold　back　the　cry　and　desisted.　Instead　she　brushed　back　the　heavy　hair　from　Janies　face　and　stood　there　suffering　and　loving　and　weeping　internally　for　both　of　them.

“Come　to　yo　Grandma,　honey.　Set　in　her　lap　lak　yo　use　tuh.　Yo　Nanny　wouldnt　harm　a　hair　uh　yo　head.　She　dont　want　nobody　else　to　do　it　neither　if　she　kin　help　it.　Honey,　de　white　man　is　de　ruler　of　everything　as　fur　as　Ah　been　able　tuh　find　out.　Maybe　its　some　place　way　off　in　de　ocean　where　de　black　man　is　in　power,　but　we　dont　know　nothin　but　what　we　see.　So　de　white　man　throw　down　de　load　and　tell　de　nigger　man　tuh　pick　it　up.　He　pick　it　up　because　he　have　to,　but　he　dont　tote　it.　He　hand　it　to　his　womenfolks.　De　nigger　woman　is　de　mule　uh　de　world　so　fur　as　Ah　can　see.　Ah　been　prayin　fuh　it　tuh　be　different　wid　you.　Lawd,　Lawd,　Lawd!”

For　a　long　time　she　sat　rocking　with　the　girl　held　tightly　to　her　sunken　breast.　Janies　long　legs　dangled　over　one　arm　of　the　chair　and　the　long　braids　of　her　hair　swung　low　on　the　other　side.　Nanny　half　sung,　half　sobbed　a　running　chantprayer　over　the　head　of　the　weeping　girl.

“Lawd　have　mercy!　It　was　a　long　time　on　de　way　but　Ah　reckon　it　had　to　come.　Oh　Jesus!　Do,　Jesus!　Ah　done　de　best　Ah　could.”

Finally,　they　both　grew　calm.

“Janie,　how　long　you　been　lowin　Johnny　Taylor　to　kiss　you?”

“Only　dis　one　time,　Nanny.　Ah　dont　love　him　at　all.　Whut　made　me　do　it　is—oh,　Ah　dont　know.”

“Thank　yuh,　Massa　Jesus.”

“Ah　aint　gointuh　do　it　no　mo,　Nanny.　Please　dont　make　me　marry　Mr.　Killicks.”

“‘Taint　Logan　Killicks　Ah　wants　you　to　have,　baby,　its　protection.　Ah　aint　gittin　ole,　honey.　Ahm　done　ole.　One　mornin　soon,　now,　de　angel　wid　de　sword　is　gointuh　stop　by　here.　De　day　and　de　hour　is　hid　from　me,　but　it　wont　be　long.　Ah　ast　de　Lawd　when　you　was　uh　infant　in　mah　arms　to　let　me　stay　here　till　you　got　grown.　He　done　spared　me　to　see　de　day.　Mah　daily　prayer　now　is　tuh　let　dese　golden　moments　rolls　on　a　few　days　longer　till　Ah　see　you　safe　in　life.”　“Lemme　wait,　Nanny,　please,　jus　a　lil　bit　mo’.”

“Dont　think　Ah　dont　feel　wid　you,　Janie,　cause　Ah　do.　Ah　couldnt　love　yuh　no　more　if　Ah　had　uh　felt　yo　birth　pains　mahself.　Fact　uh　de　matter,　Ah　loves　yuh　a　whole　heap　moren　Ah　do　yo　mama,　de　one　Ah　did　birth.　But　you　got　to　take　in　consideration　you　aint　no　everyday　chile　like　most　of　em.　You　aint　got　no　papa,　you　might　jus　as　well　say　no　mama,　for　de　good　she　do　yuh.　You　aint　got　nobody　but　me.　And　mah　head　is　ole　and　tilted　towards　de　grave.　Neither　can　you　stand　alone　by　yoself.　De　thought　uh　you　bein　kicked　around　from　pillar　tuh　post　is　uh　hurtin　thing.　Every　tear　you　drop　squeezes　a　cup　uh　blood　outa　mah　heart.　Ah　got　tuh　try　and　do　for　you　befo　mah　head　is　cold.”

A　sobbing　sigh　burst　out　of　Janie.　The　old　woman　answered　her　with　little　soothing　pats　of　the　hand.

“You　know,　honey,　us　colored　folks　is　branches　without　roots　and　that　makes　things　come　round　in　queer　ways.　You　in　particular.　Ah　was　born　back　due　in　slavery　so　it　wasnt　for　me　to　fulfill　my　dreams　of　whut　a　woman　oughta　be　and　to　do.　Dats　one　of　de　holdbacks　of　slavery.　But　nothing　cant　stop　you　from　wishin.　You　cant　beat　nobody　down　so　low　till　you　can　rob　em　of　they　will.　Ah　didnt　want　to　be　used　for　a　workox　and　a　broodsow　and　Ah　didnt　want　mah　daughter　used　dat　way　neither.　It　sho　wasnt　mah　will　for　things　to　happen　lak　they　did.　Ah　even　hated　de　way　you　was　born.　But,　all　de　same　Ah　said　thank　God,　Ah　got　another　chance.　Ah　wanted　to　preach　a　great　sermon　about　colored　women　sittin　on　high,　but　they　wasnt　no　pulpit　for　me.　Freedom　found　me　wid　a　baby　daughter　in　mah　arms,

美国内战（1861—1865）结束以后，黑人奴隶制被废除，黑人得以解放，获得自由。　so　Ah　said　Ahd　take　a　broom　and　a　cookpot　and　throw　up　a　highway　through　de　wilderness　for　her.　She　would　expound　what　Ah　felt.　But　somehow　she　got　lost　offa　de　highway　and　next　thing　Ah　knowed　here　you　was　in　de　world.　So　whilst　Ah　was　tendin　you　of　nights　Ah　said　Ahd　save　de　text　for　you.　Ah　been　waitin　a　long　time,　Janie,　but　nothin　Ah　been　through　aint　too　much　if　you　just　take　a　stand　on　high　ground　lak　Ah　dreamed.”

Old　Nanny　sat　there　rocking　Janie　like　an　infant　and　thinking　back　and　back.　Mindpictures　brought　feelings,　and　feelings　dragged　out　dramas　from　the　hollows　of　her　heart.

“Dat　mornin　on　de　big　plantation　close　to　Savannah,　a　rider　come　in　a　gallop　tellin　bout　Sherman　takin　Atlanta.　Marse　Roberts　son　had　done　been　kilt　at　Chickamauga.　So　he　grabbed　his　gun　and　straddled　his　best　horse　and　went　off　wid　de　rest　of　de　grayheaded　men　and　young　boys　to　drive　de　Yankees　back　into　Tennessee.

“They　was　all　cheerin　and　cryin　and　shoutin　for　de　men　dat　was　ridin　off.　Ah　couldnt　see　nothin　cause　yo　mama　wasnt　but　a　week　old,　and　Ah　was　flat　uh　mah　back.　But　pretty　soon　he　let　on　he　forgot　somethin　and　run　into　mah　cabin　and　made　me　let　down　mah　hair　for　de　last　time.　He　sorta　wropped　his　hand　in　it,　pulled　mah　big　toe,　lak　he　always　done,　and　was　gone　after　de　rest　lak　lightnin.　Ah　heard　em　give　one　last　whoop　for　him.　Then　de　big　house　and　de　quarters　got　sober　and　silent.

“It　was　de　cool　of　de　evenin　when　Mistis　come　walkin　in　mah　door.　She　throwed　de　door　wide　open　and　stood　dere　lookin　at　me　outa　her　eyes　and　her　face.　Look　lak　she　been　livin　through　uh　hundred　years　in　January　without　one　day　of　spring.　She　come　stood　over　me　in　de　bed.

“‘Nanny,　Ah　come　to　see　that　baby　uh　yourn.

“Ah　tried　not　to　feel　de　breeze　off　her　face,　but　it　got　so　cold　in　dere　dat　Ah　was　freezin　to　death　under　the　kivvers.　So　Ah　couldnt　move　right　away　lak　Ah　aimed　to.　But　Ah　knowed　Ah　had　to　make　haste　and　do　it.

“‘You　better　git　dat　kivver　offa　dat　youngun　and　dat　quick!’　she　clashed　at　me.　‘Look　lak　you　dont　know　who　is　Mistis　on　dis　plantation,　Madam.　But　Ah　aims　to　show　you.’

“By　dat　time　I　had　done　managed　tuh　unkivver　mah　baby　enough　for　her　to　see　de　head　and　face.

“‘Nigger,　whuts　yo　baby　doin　wid　gray　eyes　and　yaller　hair?’　She　begin　tuh　slap　mah　jaws　ever　which　away.　Ah　never　felt　the　fust　ones　cause　Ah　wuz　too　busy　gittin　de　kivver　back　over　mah　chile.　But　dem　last　lick　burnt　me　lak　fire.　Ah　had　too　many　feelins　tuh　tell　which　one　tuh　follow　so　Ah　didnt　cry　and　Ah　didnt　do　nothin　else.　But　then　she　kept　on　astin　me　how　come　mah　baby　look　white.　She　asted　me　dat　maybe　twentyfive　or　thirty　times,　lak　she　got　tuh　sayin　dat　and　couldnt　help　herself.　So　Ah　told　her,　‘Ah　dont　know　nothin　but　what　Ahm　told　tuh　do,’　cause　Ah　aint　nothin　but　uh　nigger　and　uh　slave.’

“Instead　of　pacifyin　her　lak　Ah　thought,　look　lak　she　got　madder.　But　Ah　reckon　she　was　tired　and　wore　out　cause　she　didnt　hit　me　no　more.　She　went　to　de　foot　of　de　bed　and　wiped　her　hands　on　her　handksher.　‘Ah　wouldnt　dirty　mah　hands　on　yuh.　But　first　thing　in　de　mornin　de　overseer　will　take　you　to　de　whippin　post　and　tie　you　down　on　yo　knees　and　cut　de　hide　offa　yo　yaller　back.　One　hundred　lashes　wid　a　rawhide　on　yo　bare　back.　Ahll　have　you　whipped　till　de　blood　run　down　to　yo　heels!　Ah　mean　to　count　de　licks　mahself.　And　if　it　kills　you　Ahll　stand　de　loss.　Anyhow,　as　soon　as　dat　brat　is　a　month　old　Ahm　going　to　sell　it　offa　dis　place.’

“She　flounced　on　off　and　let　her　wintertime　wid　me.　Ah　knowed　mah　body　wasnt　healed,　but　Ah　couldnt　consider　dat.　In　de　black　dark　Ah　wrapped　mah　baby　de　best　Ah　knowed　how　and　made　it　to　de　swamp　by　de　river.　Ah　knowed　de　place　was　full　uh　moccasins　and　other　bitin　snakes,　but　Ah　was　more　skeered　uh　whut　was　behind　me.　Ah　hide　in　dere　day　and　night　and　suckled　de　baby　every　time　she　start　to　cry,　for　fear　somebody　might　hear　her　and　Ahd　git　found.　Ah　aint　sayin　uh　friend　or　two　didnt　feel　mah　care.　And　den　de　Good　Lawd　seen　to　it　dat　Ah　wasnt　taken.　Ah　dont　see　how　come　mah　milk　didnt　kill　mah　chile,　wid　me　so　skeered　and　worried　all　de　time.　De　noise　uh　de　owls　skeered　me;　de　limbs　of　dem　cypress　trees　took　to　crawlin　and　movin　round　after　dark,　and　two　three　times　Ah　heered　panthers　prowlin　round.　But　nothin　never　hurt　me　cause　de　Lawd　knowed　how　it　was.

“Den,　one　night　Ah　heard　de　big　guns　boomin　lak　thunder.　It　kept　up　all　night　long.　And　de　next　mornin　Ah　could　see　uh　big　ship　at　a　distance　and　a　great　stirrin　round.　So　Ah　wrapped　Leafy　up　in　moss　and　fixed　her　good　in　a　tree　and　picked　mah　way　on　down　to　de　landin.　The　men　was　all　in　blue在美国内战中，穿着蓝色军服的士兵属于北方联邦的军队。,　and　Ah　heard　people　say　Sherman　was　comin　to　meet　de　boats　in　Savannah,　and　all　of　us　slaves　was　free.　So　Ah　run　got　mah　baby　and　got　in　quotation　wid　people　and　found　a　place　Ah　could　stay.

“But　it　was　a　long　time　after　dat　befo　de　Big　Surrender　at　Richmond在美国内战中，南方军队战败，在里士满投降。.　Den　de　big　bell　ring　in　Atlanta　and　all　de　men　in　gray　uniforms在美国内战中，穿着灰色军服的士兵属于南方联邦的军队。　had　to　go　to　Moultrie,　and　bury　their　swords　in　de　ground　to　show　they　was　never　to　fight　about　slavery　no　mo.　So　den　we　knowed　we　was　free.

“Ah　wouldnt　marry　nobody,　though　Ah　could　have　uh　heap　uh　times,　cause　Ah　didnt　want　nobody　mistreating　mah　baby.　So　Ah　got　with　some　good　white　people　and　come　down　here　in　West　Florida　to　work　and　make　de　sun　shine　on　both　sides　of　de　street　for　Leafy.

“Mah　Madam　help　me　wid　her　just　lak　she　been　doin　wid　you.　Ah　put　her　in　school　when　it　got　so　it　was　a　school　to　put　her　in.　Ah　was　spectin　to　make　a　school　teacher　outa　her.

“But　one　day　she　didnt　come　home　at　de　usual　time　and　Ah　waited　and　waited,　but　she　never　come　all　dat　night.　Ah　took　a　lantern　and　went　round　askin　everybody　but　nobody　aint　seen　her.　De　next　mornin　she　come　crawlin　in　on　her　hands　and　knees.　A　sight　to　see.　Dat　school　teacher　had　done　hid　her　in　de　woods　all　night　long,　and　he　had　done　raped　mah　baby　and　run　on　off　just　before　day.

“She　was　only　seventeen,　and　somethin　lak　dat　to　happen!　Lawd　amussy!　Look　lak　Ah　kin　see　it　all　over　again.　It　was　a　long　time　before　she　was　well,　and　by　dat　time　we　knowed　you　was　on　de　way.　And　after　you　was　born　she　took　to　drinkin　likker　and　stayin　out　nights.　Couldnt　git　her　to　stay　here　and　nowhere　else.　Lawd　knows　where　she　is　right　now.　She　aint　dead,　cause　Ahd　know　it　by　mah　feelings,　but　sometimes　Ah　wish　she　was　at　rest.

“And,　Janie,　maybe　it　wasnt　much,　but　Ah　done　de　best　Ah　kin　by　you.　Ah　raked　and　scraped　and　bought　dis　lil　piece　uh　land　so　you　wouldnt　have　to　stay　in　de　white　folks　yard　and　tuck　yo　head　befo　other　chillun　at　school.　Dat　was　all　right　when　you　was　little.　But　when　you　got　big　enough　to　understand　things,　Ah　wanted　you　to　look　upon　yoself.　Ah　dont　want　yo　feathers　always　crumpled　by　folks　throwin　up　things　in　yo　face.　And　Ah　cant　die　easy　thinkin　maybe　de　menfolks　white　or　black　is　makin　a　spit　cup　outa　you:　Have　some　sympathy　fuh　me.　Put　me　down　easy,　Janie,　Ahm　a　cracked　plate.”

Questions　for　Discussion

1.　What　kind　of　black　feminist　ideas　does　Zora　Neale　Hurston　express　in　Their　Eyes　Were　Watching　God?

2.　How　can　we　interpret　the　writing　strategies　used　in　Their　Eyes　Were　Watching　God　from　the　perspective　of　postcolonialism?

3.　Whats　the　big　conflict　represented　in　the　novel,　and　how　can　we　understand　the　misunderstanding　among　black　folks?

2.　Invisible　Man

作者简介

拉尔夫·艾里森（1914—1994）是20世纪最重要的美国作家之一，一生只出版了一部小说《看不见的人》，但创作了大量评论性文章和短篇故事。艾里森于1914年出生于俄克拉荷马城的一个贫寒之家，父亲在1916年的一场事故中去世，母亲独自承担了养育孩子的重任。小学时他首次接触到音乐教育，对音乐的热爱伴随了他的一生，音乐影响了他的小说和批评创作。1933年，他高中毕业前往阿拉巴马州的塔斯克基学院学习作曲。虽然受到古典音乐的训练，但他深爱爵士乐和摇摆乐，并将这两种风格揉入自己的作曲中，这使得他与学院上下的保守风气格格不入。此时他的兴趣部分地转向文学，接触到艾略特的现代主义诗歌，其现代主义风格对艾里森后来创作《看不见的人》影响很大。1936年，他离开塔斯克基学院，北上纽约哈莱姆，结识了兰斯顿·休斯和理查德·赖特，进入哈莱姆文人团体，也由此接触到设立在哈莱姆的美国共产党总部。在为联邦作家项目工作期间，艾里森收集了大量非裔美国民间故事和奴隶叙事，头脑中渐渐形成了很多之后在创作《看不见的人》时的想法和意象。二战中他在美国商船上服役，同时出版了几篇最知名的短篇故事，包括“宾戈游戏之王”和“飞回家”等。1952年《看不见的人》出版后，艾里森立刻着手开始创作第二部小说，但1967年的一场大火毁掉了他的手稿，虽然艾里森后来一直试图重写这部小说，但直至1994年患癌去世也未能完成。在他去世后，这部小说最终以《六月庆典》（1999）为题出版。艾里森一生创作了数量惊人的短篇故事、书评和评论。他有关文学、艺术、文化、民主和爵士乐的文章至今仍是对美国社会最明晰最具鉴赏力的评述。此类文章主要收集在《影子与行动》（Shadow　and　Act,　1964）、《去高地》（Going　to　the　Territory,　1986）以及他去世后由别人编辑整理出版的《艾里森文选》（1994）中，他对20世纪美国黑人文学第二次浪潮的兴起做出了巨大贡献。

作品简介与赏析

小说的无名主人公曾是生活在美国南方的一个好孩子，从懂事起就一直努力按照学校教育所灌输的一整套价值观念塑造自己，直到大学期间无意间让一名白人校董看到了校长布莱索希望掩盖的黑人的真实生活后，他受到惩罚，被学校除名。北上纽约寻找工作时，他一再受挫，最后终于在一家油漆厂找到了工作，却被其他工人视为工贼。油漆厂发生爆炸，他身受重伤，厂医院却将他当实验品，致使他一度失去意识。流浪哈莱姆时，他在街头为一对黑人老夫妇仗义执言，其演讲口才颇为左翼组织“兄弟会”首领杰克兄弟赏识，允其加入，但只是被当作拉选票的工具。最后，主人公为兄弟会所不容，又遭到黑人民族主义极端分子拉斯的追杀，只能遁入地下，栖居在纽约一所公寓的地下室，与社会断绝往来。小说揭示了美国社会的悖论：这个国家依照先辈的理想建国，然而现实表明它早已背叛了这些理想。

《看不见的人》于1952年由兰登书屋出版，获得广泛好评。第二年获得国家图书奖，艾里森成为第一位获此殊荣的非裔美国作家。1965年，《图书周刊》经过问卷调查，将《看不见的人》推选为1945年以来美国最出色的一部作品。在一片赞誉声中也不乏批评的声音。有人责难艾里森没有从“抗议小说”的立场出发进行创作。对此，艾里森回应道：“我要求把我的小说作为艺术来评价；如果失败，那是美学上的失败，而不是因为我是否进行过意识形态的斗争。”事实上，这部作品经受了时间的考验，被誉为美国最伟大的小说之一，跻身于经典美国文学的殿堂。

小说结构由序曲、正文和尾声三部分组成，以第一人称叙述人“沦为看不见的人后藏身于地下”开头，中间回忆他曾经的地上生活，结尾则叙述他重新回到地下，组成了一个环形结构。在时间的处理上，叙事由现在的状态，追溯过往，之后又回到现在，从而将叙述者的过去、现在和将来连成一个有机整体。就类型而言，它属于成长小说，记录了叙述人认识社会和自我的成长经历。与主人公的成长经历相对应的是小说采用了流浪汉小说的模式。小说中事件发生地频繁转换：从偏僻乡间到高等学府，从南方到北方，从工厂到医院，从客栈到社区。小说追随着主人公的脚步，从童年走入成年，从天真走入觉醒。与此同时，社会的方方面面和各色人等透过他的眼睛，呈现在读者面前。

下文选自小说的序曲和第一章。主人公兼叙事人“我”用倒叙的手法讲述了自己为何藏身地下，成为一个看不见的人。而小说以一句“我是一个看不见的人”开启全书的灵魂——序曲，奠定了全书的主题、形式和基调。序曲中“我”以社会反叛者的姿态描述了自己的地下生活，揭开美国文化的疮疤：“我的洞温暖如春，光线充足。确实是光线充足。恐怕走遍整个纽约也找不到像我这个洞这样明亮的地方，即使百老汇也不例外。帝国大厦晚上灯火通明，连摄影师也觉得光线理想，但也比不上我的洞。那是骗人的。这两个地方看来明亮，其实是我们整个文明最为黑暗的场所——请原谅，我该说我们整个文化最为黑暗的地方”……主人公自述自己20年来过着行尸走肉的生活，“直到发现自己是个看不见的人，才意识到自己是个活人。”

第一章中的主人公追述了自己中学毕业前夕的一件往事。作为优秀学生代表，“我”被邀请在本镇白人头面人物的集会上发表自己的毕业演说。“我”赶到集会地，却发现自己必须参加一场以娱乐白人为目的的格斗。格斗者由黑人青少年组成，为争取奖金开展一场你死我活的格斗，同时受尽白人戏耍侮辱。格斗结束，“我”遍体鳞伤，仍然努力完成自己的演讲。作为奖励，“我”得到一只高级公文包，里面是一张州立黑人学院的奖学金证书。当晚“我”梦见自己打开公文包，发现里面无数信封套着的一封短信，上面写着：“敬启者，务必让这个小黑鬼不停地跑下去。”这句话无情地揭示了美国社会种族关系的本质。

Prologue

I　am　an　invisible　man.　No,　I　am　not　a　spook　like　those　who　haunted　Edgar　Allan　Poe;　nor　am　I　one　of　your　Hollywoodmovie　ectoplasms.　I　am　a　man　of　substance,　of　flesh　and　bone,　fiber　and　liquids—and　I　might　even　be　said　to　possess　a　mind.　I　am　invisible,　understand,　simply　because　people　refuse　to　see　me.　Like　the　bodiless　heads　you　see　sometimes　in　circus　sideshows,　it　is　as　though　I　have　been　surrounded　by　mirrors　of　hard,　distorting　glass.　When　they　approach　me　they　see　only　my　surroundings,　themselves,　or　figments　of　their　imagination—indeed,　everything　and　anything　except　me.

Nor　is　my　invisibility　exactly　a　matter　of　a　biochemical　accident　to　my　epidermis.　That　invisibility　to　which　I　refer　occurs　because　of　a　peculiar　disposition　of　the　eyes　of　those　with　whom　I　come　in　contact.　A　matter　of　the　construction　of　their　inner　eyes,　those　eyes　with　which　they　look　through　their　physical　eyes　upon　reality.　I　am　not　complaining,　nor　am　I　protesting　either.　It　is　sometimes　advantageous　to　be　unseen,　although　it　is　most　often　rather　wearing　on　the　nerves.　Then　too,　youre　constantly　being　bumped　against　by　those　of　poor　vision.　Or　again,　you　often　doubt　if　you　really　exist.　You　wonder　whether　you　arent　simply　a　phantom　in　other　peoples　minds.　Say,　a　figure　in　a　nightmare　which　the　sleeper　tries　with　all　his　strength　to　destroy.　Its　when　you　feel　like　this　that,　out　of　resentment,　you　begin　to　bump　people　back.　And,　let　me　confess,　you　feel　that　way　most　of　the　time.　You　ache　with　the　need　to　convince　yourself　that　you　do　exist　in　the　real　world,　that　youre　a　part　of　all　the　sound　and　anguish,　and　you　strike　out　with　your　fists,　you　curse　and　you　swear　to　make　them　recognize　you.　And,　alas,　its　seldom　successful.

One　night　I　accidentally　bumped　into　a　man,　and　perhaps　because　of　the　near　darkness　he　saw　me　and　called　me　an　insulting　name.　I　sprang　at　him,　seized　his　coat　lapels　and　demanded　that　he　apologize.　He　was　a　tall　blond　man,　and　as　my　face　came　close　to　his　he　looked　insolently　out　of　his　blue　eyes　and　cursed　me,　his　breath　hot　in　my　face　as　he　struggled.　I　pulled　his　chin　down　sharp　upon　the　crown　of　my　head,　butting　him　as　I　had　seen　the　West　Indians　do,　and　I　felt　his　flesh　tear　and　the　blood　gush　out,　and　I　yelled,　“Apologize!　Apologize!”　But　he　continued　to　curse　and　struggle,　and　I　butted　him　again　and　again　until　he　went　down　heavily,　on　his　knees,　profusely　bleeding.　I　kicked　him　repeatedly,　in　a　frenzy　because　he　still　uttered　insults　though　his　lips　were　frothy　with　blood.　Oh　yes,　I　kicked　him!　And　in　my　outrage　I　got　out　my　knife　and　prepared　to　slit　his　throat,　right　there　beneath　the　lamplight　in　the　deserted　street,　holding　him　in　the　collar　with　one　hand,　and　opening　the　knife　with　my　teeth—when　it　occurred　to　me　that　the　man　had　not　seen　me,　actually;　that　he,　as　far　as　he　knew,　was　in　the　midst　of　a　walking　nightmare!　And　I　stopped　the　blade,　slicing　the　air　as　I　pushed　him　away,　letting　him　fall　back　to　the　street.　I　stared　at　him　hard　as　the　lights　of　a　car　stabbed　through　the　darkness.　He　lay　there,　moaning　on　the　asphalt;　a　man　almost　killed　by　a　phantom.　It　unnerved　me.　I　was　both　disgusted　and　ashamed.　I　was　like　a　drunken　man　myself,　wavering　about　on　weakened　legs.　Then　I　was　amused:　Something　in　this　mans　thick　head　had　sprung　out　and　beaten　him　within　an　inch　of　his　lifewithin　an　inch　of　his　life:　使他几乎丧命。.　I　began　to　laugh　at　this　crazy　discovery.　Would　he　have　awakened　at　the　point　of　death?　Would　Death　himself　have　freed　him　for　wakeful　living?　But　I　didnt　linger.　I　ran　away　into　the　dark,　laughing　so　hard　I　feared　I　might　rupture　myself.　The　next　day　I　saw　his　picture　in　the　Daily　News,　beneath　a　caption　stating　that　he　had　been　“mugged.”　Poor　fool,　poor　blind　fool,　I　thought　with　sincere　compassion,　mugged　by　an　invisible　man!

Most　of　the　time　(although　I　do　not　choose　as　I　once　did　to　deny　the　violence　of　my　days　by　ignoring　it)　I　am　not　so　overtly　violent.　I　remember　that　I　am　invisible　and　walk　softly　so　as　not　to　awaken　the　sleeping　ones.　Sometimes　it　is　best　not　to　awaken　them;　there　are　few　things　in　the　world　as　dangerous　as　sleepwalkers.　I　learned　in　time　though　that　it　is　possible　to　carry　on　a　fight　against　them　without　their　realizing　it.　For　instance,　I　have　been　carrying　on　a　fight　with　Monopolated　Light　&　PowerMonopolated　Light　&　Power：独营电灯电力公司。　for　some　time　now.　I　use　their　service　and　pay　them　nothing　at　all,　and　they　dont　know　it.　Oh,　they　suspect　that　power　is　being　drained　off,　but　they　dont　know　where.　All　they　know　is　that　according　to　the　master　meter　back　there　in　their　power　station　a　hell　of　a　lot　of　free　current　is　disappearing　somewhere　into　the　jungle　of　Harlem.　The　joke,　of　course,　is　that　I　dont　live　in　Harlem　but　in　a　border　area.　Several　years　ago　(before　I　discovered　the　advantages　of　being　invisible)　I　went　through　the　routine　process　of　buying　service　and　paying　their　outrageous　rates.　But　no　more.　I　gave　up　all　that,　along　with　my　apartment,　and　my　old　way　of　life:　That　way　based　upon　the　fallacious　assumption　that　I,　like　other　men,　was　visible.　Now,　aware　of　my　invisibility,　I　live　rentfree　in　a　building　rented　strictly　to　whites,　in　a　section　of　the　basement　that　was　shut　off　and　forgotten　during　the　nineteenth　century,　which　I　discovered　when　I　was　trying　to　escape　in　the　night　from　Ras　the　DestroyerRas　the　Destroyer：煞星拉斯，小说中的黑人极端主义分子。.　But　thats　getting　too　far　ahead　of　the　story,　almost　to　the　end,　although　the　end　is　in　the　beginning　and　lies　far　ahead.

The　point　now　is　that　I　found　a　home—or　a　hole　in　the　ground,　as　you　will.　Now　dont　jump　to　the　conclusion　that　because　I　call　my　home　a　“hole”　it　is　damp　and　cold　like　a　grave;　there　are　cold　holes　and　warm　holes.　Mine　is　a　warm　hole.　And　remember,　a　bear　retires　to　his　hole　for　the　winter　and　lives　until　spring;　then　he　comes　strolling　out　like　the　Easter　chick　breaking　from　its　shell.　I　say　all　this　to　assure　you　that　it　is　incorrect　to　assume　that,　because　Im　invisible　and　live　in　a　hole,　I　am　dead.　I　am　neither　dead　nor　in　a　state　of　suspended　animation.　Call　me　JacktheBearJacktheBear：爵士音乐家艾灵顿（Duke　Ellington）　(1899—1974)和他的乐队在1940年的一个唱片标题。,　for　I　am　in　a　state　of　hibernation.

My　hole　is　warm　and　full　of　light.　Yes,　full　of　light.　I　doubt　if　there　is　a　brighter　spot　in　all　New　York　than　this　hole　of　mine,　and　I　do　not　exclude　Broadway.　Or　the　Empire　State　Building　on　a　photographers　dream　night.　But　that　is　taking　advantage　of　you.　Those　two　spots　are　among　the　darkest　of　our　whole　civilization—pardon　me,　our　whole　culture　(an　important　distinction,　Ive　heard)—which　might　sound　like　a　hoax,　or　a　contradiction,　but　that　(by　contradiction,　I　mean)　is　how　the　world　moves:　Not　like　an　arrow,　but　a　boomerang.　(Beware　of　those　who　speak　of　the　spiral　of　history;　they　are　preparing　a　boomerang.　Keep　a　steel　helmet　handy.)　I　know;　I　have　been　boomeranged　across　my　head　so　much　that　I　now　can　see　the　darkness　of　lightness.　And　I　love　light.　Perhaps　youll　think　it　strange　that　an　invisible　man　should　need　light,　desire　light,　love　light.　But　maybe　it　is　exactly　because　I　am　invisible.　Light　confirms　my　reality,　gives　birth　to　my　form.　A　beautiful　girl　once　told　me　of　a　recurring　nightmare　in　which　she　lay　in　the　center　of　a　large　dark　room　and　felt　her　face　expand　until　it　filled　the　whole　room,　becoming　a　formless　mass　while　her　eyes　ran　in　bilious　jelly　up　the　chimney.　And　so　it　is　with　me.　Without　light　I　am　not　only　invisible,　but　formless　as　well;　and　to　be　unaware　of　ones　form　is　to　live　a　death.　I　myself,　after　existing　some　twenty　years,　did　not　become　alive　until　I　discovered　my　invisibility.

That　is　why　I　fight　my　battle　with　Monopolated　Light　&　Power.　The　deeper　reason,　I　mean:　It　allows　me　to　feel　my　vital　aliveness.　I　also　fight　them　for　taking　so　much　of　my　money　before　I　learned　to　protect　myself.　In　my　hole　in　the　basement　there　are　exactly　1,　369　lights.　Ive　wired　the　entire　ceiling,　every　inch　of　it.　And　not　with　fluorescent　bulbs,　but　with　the　older,　moreexpensivetooperate　kind,　the　filament　type.　An　act　of　sabotage,　you　know.　Ive　already　begun　to　wire　the　wall.　A　junk　man　I　know,　a　man　of　vision,　has　supplied　me　with　wire　and　sockets.　Nothing,　storm　or　flood,　must　get　in　the　way　of　our　need　for　light　and　ever　more　and　brighter　light.　The　truth　is　the　light　and　light　is　the　truth.　When　I　finish　all　four　walls,　then　Ill　start　on　the　floor.　Just　how　that　will　go,　I　dont　know.　Yet　when　you　have　lived　invisible　as　long　as　I　have　you　develop　a　certain　ingenuity.　Ill　solve　the　problem.　And　maybe　Ill　invent　a　gadget　to　place　my　coffee　pot　on　the　fire　while　I　lie　in　bed,　and　even　invent　a　gadget　to　warm　my　bed—like　the　fellow　I　saw　in　one　of　the　picture　magazines　who　made　himself　a　gadget　to　warm　his　shoes!　Though　invisible,　I　am　in　the　great　American　tradition　of　tinkers.　That　makes　me　kin　to　Ford,　Edison　and　Franklin.　4　Call　me,　since　I　have　a　theory　and　a　concept,　a　“thinkertinker.”　Yes,　Ill　warm　my　shoes;　they　need　it,　theyre　usually　full　of　holes.　Ill　do　that　and　more.

Now　I　have　one　radiophonograph;　I　plan　to　have　five.　There　is　a　certain　acoustical　deadness　in　my　hole,　and　when　I　have　music　I　want　to　feel　its　vibration,　not　only　with　my　ear　but　with　my　whole　body.　Id　like　to　hear　five　recordings　of　Louis　ArmstrongLouis　Armstrong：路易斯·阿姆斯特朗（1900—1971），美国著名爵士音乐家。　playing　and　singing　“What　Did　I　Do　to　Be　so　Black　and　Blue”—all　at　the　same　time.　Sometimes　now　I　listen　to　Louis　while　I　have　my　favorite　dessert　of　vanilla　ice　cream　and　sloe　gin.　I　pour　the　red　liquid　over　the　white　mound,　watching　it　glisten　and　the　vapor　rising　as　Louis　bends　that　military　instrument　into　a　beam　of　lyrical　sound.　Perhaps　I　like　Louis　Armstrong　because　hes　made　poetry　out　of　being　invisible.　I　think　it　must　be　because　hes　unaware　that　he　is　invisible.　And　my　own　grasp　of　invisibility　aids　me　to　understand　his　music.　Once　when　I　asked　for　a　cigarette,　some　jokers　gave　me　a　reefer,　which　I　lighted　when　I　got　home　and　sat　listening　to　my　phonograph.　It　was　a　strange　evening.　Invisibility,　let　me　explain,　gives　one　a　slightly　different　sense　of　time,　youre　never　quite　on　the　beat.　Sometimes　youre　ahead　and　sometimes　behind.　Instead　of　the　swift　and　imperceptible　flowing　of　time,　you　are　aware　of　its　nodes,　those　points　where　time　stands　still　or　from　which　it　leaps　ahead.　And　you　slip　into　the　breaks　and　look　around.　Thats　what　you　hear　vaguely　in　Louis　music.

Once　I　saw　a　prizefighter　boxing　a　yokel.　The　fighter　was　swift　and　amazingly　scientific.　His　body　was　one　violent　flow　of　rapid　rhythmic　action.　He　hit　the　yokel　a　hundred　times　while　the　yokel　held　up　his　arms　in　stunned　surprise.　But　suddenly　the　yokel,　rolling　about　in　the　gale　of　boxing　gloves,　struck　one　blow　and　knocked　science,　speed　and　footwork　as　cold　as　a　welldiggers　posterior.　The　smart　money　hit　the　canvas.　The　long　shot　got　the　nod.　The　yokel　had　simply　stepped　inside　of　his　opponents　sense　of　time.　So　under　the　spell　of　the　reefer　I　discovered　a　new　analytical　way　of　listening　to　music.　The　unheard　sounds　came　through,　and　each　melodic　line　existed　of　itself,　stood　out　clearly　from　all　the　rest,　said　its　piece,　and　waited　patiently　for　the　other　voices　to　speak.　That　night　I　found　myself　hearing　not　only　in　time,　but　in　space　as　well.　I　not　only　entered　the　music　but　descended,　like　DanteDante：但丁，意大利诗人，文艺复兴运动的先驱人物，代表作是史诗《神曲》。,　into　its　depths.　And　beneath　the　swiftness　of　the　hot　tempo　there　was　a　slower　tempo　and　a　cave　and　I　entered　it　and　looked　around　and　heard　an　old　woman　singing　a　spiritual　as　full　of　Weltschmerz　as　flamencoflamenco:　弗拉门科舞曲，一种西班牙舞。,　and　beneath　that　lay　a　still　lower　level　on　which　I　saw　a　beautiful　girl　the　color　of　ivory　pleading　in　a　voice　like　my　mothers　as　she　stood　before　a　group　of　slaveowners　who　bid　for　her　naked　body,　and　below　that　I　found　a　lower　level　and　a　more　rapid　tempo　and　I　heard　someone　shout:

“Brothers　and　sisters,　my　text　this　morning　is　the　‘Blackness　of　Blackness.’”

And　a　congregation　of　voices　answered:　“That　blackness　is　most　black,　brother,　most　black...”

“In　the　beginning...”

“At　the　very　start,”　they　cried.

“...there　was　blackness...”

“Preach　it...”

“...and　the　sun...”

“The　sun,　Lawd...”

“...was　bloody　red...”

“Red...”

“Now　black　is...”　the　preacher　shouted.

“Bloody...”

“I　said　black　is...”

“Preach　it,　brother...”

“...an　black　aint...”

“Red,　Lawd,　red:　He　said　its　red!”

“Amen,　brother...”

“Black　will　git　you...”

“Yes,　it　will...”

“Yes,　it　will...”

“...an　black　wont...”

“Now,　it　wont!”

“It　do...”

“It　do,　Lawd...”

“...an　it　dont.”

“Halleluiah...”

“...Itll　put　you,　glory,　glory,　Oh　my　Lawd,　in　the　whales　belly.”

“Preach　it,　dear　brother...”

“....an　make　you　tempt...”

“Good　God　amighty!”

“Old　Aunt　Nelly!”

“Black　will　make　you...”

“Black...”

“...or　black　will　unmake　you...”

“Aint　it　the　truth,　Lawd?”

And　at　that　point　a　voice　of　trombone　timbre　screamed　at　me,　“Git　out　of　here,　you　fool!　Is　you　ready　to　commit　treason?”

And　I　tore　myself　away,　hearing　the　old　singer　of　spirituals　moaning,　“Go　curse　your　God,　boy,　and　die.”

I　stopped　and　questioned　her,　asked　her　what　was　wrong.

“I　dearly　loved　my　master,　son,”　she　said.

“You　should　have　hated　him,”　I　said.

“He　gave　me　several　sons,”　she　said,　“and　because　I　loved　my　sons　I　learned　to　love　their　father　though　I　hated　him　too.”

“I　too　have　become　acquainted　with　ambivalence,”　I　said.　“Thats　why　Im　here.”

“Whats　that?”

“Nothing,　a　word　that　doesnt　explain　it.　Why　do　you　moan?”

“I　moan　this　way　cause　hes　dead,”　she　said.

“Then　tell　me,　who　is　that　laughing　upstairs?”

“Thems　my　sons.　They　glad.”

“Yes,　I　can　understand　that　too,”　I　said.

“I　laughs　too,　but　I　moans　too.　He　promised　to　set　us　free　but　he　never　could　bring　hisself　to　do　it.　Still　I　loved　him...”

“Loved　him?　You　mean...?”

“Oh　yes,　but　I　loved　something　else　even　more.”

“What　more?”

“Freedom.”

“Freedom,”　I　said.　“Maybe　freedom　lies　in　hating.”

“Naw,　son,　its　in　loving.　I　loved　him　and　give　him　the　poison　and　he　withered　away　like　a　frostbit　apple.　Them　boys　would　a　tore　him　to　pieces　with　they　homemade　knives.”

“A　mistake　was　made　somewhere,”　I　said,　“Im　confused.”　And　I　wished　to　say　other　things,　but　the　laughter　upstairs　became　too　loud　and　moanlike　for　me　and　I　tried　to　break　out　of　it,　but　I　couldnt.　Just　as　I　was　leaving　I　felt　an　urgent　desire　to　ask　her　what　freedom　was　and　went　back.　She　sat　with　her　head　in　her　hands,　moaning　softly;　her　leatherbrown　face　was　filled　with　sadness.

“Old　woman,　what　is　this　freedom　you　love　so　well?”　I　asked　around　a　corner　of　my　mind.

She　looked　surprised,　then　thoughtful,　then　baffled.　“I　done　forgot,　son.　Its　all　mixed　up.　First　I　think　its　one　thing,　then　I　think　its　another.　It　gits　my　head　to　spinning.　I　guess　now　it　aint　nothing　but　knowing　how　to　say　what　I　got　up　in　my　head.　But　its　a　hard　job,　son.　Too　much　is　done　happen　to　me　in　too　short　a　time.　Hits　like　I　have　a　fever.　Ever　time　I　starts　to　walk　my　head　gits　to　swirling　and　I　falls　down.　Or　if　it　aint　that,　its　the　boys;　they　gits　to　laughing　and　wants　to　kill　up　the　white　folks.　Theys　bitter,　thats　what　they　is...”

“But　what　about　freedom?”

“Leave　me　lone,　boy;　my　head　aches!”

I　left　her,　feeling　dizzy　myself.　I　didnt　get　far.

Suddenly　one　of　the　sons,　a　big　fellow　six　feet　tall,　appeared　out　of　nowhere　and　struck　me　with　his　fist.

“Whats　the　matter,　man?”　I　cried.

“You　made　Ma　cry!”

“But　how?”　I　said,　dodging　a　blow.

“Askin　her　them　questions,　thats　how.　Git　outa　here　and　stay,　and　next　time　you　got　questions　like　that,　ask　yourself!”

He　held　me　in　a　grip　like　cold　stone,　his　fingers　fastening　upon　my　windpipe　until　I　thought　I　would　suffocate　before　he　finally　allowed　me　to　go.　I　stumbled　about　dazed,　the　music　beating　hysterically　in　my　ears.　It　was　dark.　My　head　cleared　and　I　wandered　down　a　dark　narrow　passage,　thinking　I　heard　his　footsteps　hurrying　behind　me.　I　was　sore,　and　into　my　being　had　come　a　profound　craving　for　tranquillity,　for　peace　and　quiet,　a　state　I　felt　I　could　never　achieve.　For　one　thing,　the　trumpet　was　blaring　and　the　rhythm　was　too　hectic.　A　tomtom　beating　like　heartthuds　began　drowning　out　the　trumpet,　filling　my　ears.　I　longed　for　water　and　I　heard　it　rushing　through　the　cold　mains　my　fingers　touched　as　I　felt　my　way,　but　I　couldnt　stop　to　search　because　of　the　footsteps　behind　me.

“Hey,　Ras,”　I　called.　“Is　it　you,　Destroyer?　Rinehart?”

No　answer,　only　the　rhythmic　footsteps　behind　me.　Once　I　tried　crossing　the　road,　but　a　speeding　machine　struck　me,　scraping　the　skin　from　my　leg　as　it　roared　past.

Then　somehow　I　came　out　of　it,　ascending　hastily　from　this　underworld　of　sound　to　hear　Louis　Armstrong　innocently　asking,

What　did　I　do

To　be　so　black

And　blue?

At　first　I　was　afraid;　this　familiar　music　had　demanded　action,　the　kind　of　which　I　was　incapable,　and　yet　had　I　lingered　there　beneath　the　surface　I　might　have　attempted　to　act.　Nevertheless,　I　know　now　that　few　really　listen　to　this　music.　I　sat　on　the　chairs　edge　in　a　soaking　sweat,　as　though　each　of　my　1,　369　bulbs　had　every　one　become　a　klieg　light　in　an　individual　setting　for　a　third　degree　with　Ras　and　Rinehart　in　charge.　It　was　exhausting—as　though　I　had　held　my　breath　continuously　for　an　hour　under　the　terrifying　serenity　that　comes　from　days　of　intense　hunger.　And　yet,　it　was　a　strangely　satisfying　experience　for　an　invisible　man　to　hear　the　silence　of　sound.　I　had　discovered　unrecognized　compulsions　of　my　being—even　though　I　could　not　answer　“yes”　to　their　promptings.　I　havent　smoked　a　reefer　since,　however;　not　because　theyre　illegal,　but　because　to　see　around　corners　is　enough　(that　is　not　unusual　when　you　are　invisible).　But　to　hear　around　them　is　too　much;　it　inhibits　action.　And　despite　Brother　JackBrother　Jack：兄弟会头目杰克兄弟，书中人物。　and　all　that　sad,　lost　period　of　the　Brotherhood,　I　believe　in　nothing　if　not　in　action.

Please,　a　definition:　A　hibernation　is　a　covert　preparation　for　a　more　overt　action.

Besides,　the　drug　destroys　ones　sense　of　time　completely.　If　that　happened,　I　might　forget　to　dodge　some　bright　morning　and　some　cluck　would　run　me　down　with　an　orange　and　yellow　street　car,　or　a　bilious　bus!　Or　I　might　forget　to　leave　my　hole　when　the　moment　for　action　presents　itself.

Meanwhile　I　enjoy　my　life　with　the　compliments　of　Monopolated　Light　&　Power.　Since　you　never　recognize　me　even　when　in　closest　contact　with　me,　and　since,　no　doubt,　youll　hardly　believe　that　I　exist,　it　wont　matter　if　you　know　that　I　tapped　a　power　line　leading　into　the　building　and　ran　it　into　my　hole　in　the　ground.　Before　that　I　lived　in　the　darkness　into　which　I　was　chased,　but　now　I　see.　Ive　illuminated　the　blackness　of　my　invisibility—and　vice　versa.　And　so　I　play　the　invisible　music　of　my　isolation.　The　last　statement　doesnt　seem　just　right,　does　it?　But　it　is;　you　hear　this　music　simply　because　music　is　heard　and　seldom　seen,　except　by　musicians.　Could　this　compulsion　to　put　invisibility　down　in　black　and　white　be　thus　an　urge　to　make　music　of　invisibility?　But　I　am　an　orator,　a　rabblerouser—Am?　I　was,　and　perhaps　shall　be　again.　Who　knows?　All　sickness　is　not　unto　death,　neither　is　invisibility.

I　can　hear　you　say,　“What　a　horrible,　irresponsible　bastard!”　And　youre　right.　I　leap　to　agree　with　you.　I　am　one　of　the　most　irresponsible　beings　that　ever　lived.　Irresponsibility　is　part　of　my　invisibility;　any　way　you　face　it,　it　is　a　denial.　But　to　whom　can　I　be　responsible,　and　why　should　I　be,　when　you　refuse　to　see　me?　And　wait　until　I　reveal　how　truly　irresponsible　I　am.　Responsibility　rests　upon　recognition,　and　recognition　is　a　form　of　agreement.　Take　the　man　whom　I　almost　killed:　Who　was　responsible　for　that　near　murder—I?　I　dont　think　so,　and　I　refuse　it.　I　wont　buy　it.　You　cant　give　it　to　me.　He　bumped　me,　he　insulted　me.　Shouldnt　he,　for　his　own　personal　safety,　have　recognized　my　hysteria,　my　“danger　potential”?　He,　let　us　say,　was　lost　in　a　dream　world.　But　didnt　he　control　that　dream　world—which,　alas,　is　only　too　real!—and　didnt　he　rule　me　out　of　it?　And　if　he　had　yelled　for　a　policeman,　wouldnt　I　have　been　taken　for　the　offending　one?　Yes,　yes,　yes!　Let　me　agree　with　you,　I　was　the　irresponsible　one;　for　I　should　have　used　my　knife　to　protect　the　higher　interests　of　society.　Some　day　that　kind　of　foolishness　will　cause　us　tragic　trouble.　All　dreamers　and　sleepwalkers　must　pay　the　price,　and　even　the　invisible　victim　is　responsible　for　the　fate　of　all.　But　I　shirked　that　responsibility;　I　became　too　snarled　in　the　incompatible　notions　that　buzzed　within　my　brain.　I　was　a　coward...

But　what　did　I　do　to　be　so　blue?　Bear　with　me.

Chapter　1

It　goes　a　long　way　back,　some　twenty　years.　All　my　life　I　had　been　looking　for　something,　and　everywhere　I　turned　someone　tried　to　tell　me　what　it　was.　I　accepted　their　answers　too,　though　they　were　often　in　contradiction　and　even　selfcontradictory.　I　was　nave.　I　was　looking　for　myself　and　asking　everyone　except　myself　questions　which　I,　and　only　I,　could　answer.　It　took　me　a　long　time　and　much　painful　boomeranging　of　my　expectations　to　achieve　a　realization　everyone　else　appears　to　have　been　born　with:　That　I　am　nobody　but　myself.　But　first　I　had　to　discover　that　I　am　an　invisible　man!

And　yet　I　am　no　freak　of　nature,　nor　of　history.　I　was　in　the　cards,　other　things　having　been　equal　(or　unequal)　eightyfive　years　ago.　I　am　not　ashamed　of　my　grandparents　for　having　been　slaves.　I　am　only　ashamed　of　myself　for　having　at　one　time　been　ashamed.　About　eightyfive　years　ago　they　were　told　that　they　were　free,　united　with　others　of　our　country　in　everything　pertaining　to　the　common　good,　and,　in　everything　social,　separate　like　the　fingers　of　the　hand.　And　they　believed　it.　They　exulted　in　it.　They　stayed　in　their　place,　worked　hard,　and　brought　up　my　father　to　do　the　same.　But　my　grandfather　is　the　one.　He　was　an　odd　old　guy,　my　grandfather,　and　I　am　told　I　take　after　him.　It　was　he　who　caused　the　trouble.　On　his　deathbed　he　called　my　father　to　him　and　said,　“Son,　after　Im　gone　I　want　you　to　keep　up　the　good　fight.　I　never　told　you,　but　our　life　is　a　war　and　I　have　been　a　traitor　all　my　born　days,　a　spy　in　the　enemys　country　ever　since　I　give　up　my　gun　back　in　the　ReconstructionReconstruction：美国南方重建时期（1865—1877）。.　Live　with　your　head　in　the　lions　mouth.　I　want　you　to　overcome　em　with　yeses,　undermine　em　with　grins,　agree　em　to　death　and　destruction,　let　em　swoller　you　till　they　vomit　or　bust　wide　open.”　They　thought　the　old　man　had　gone　out　of　his　mind.　He　had　been　the　meekest　of　men.　The　younger　children　were　rushed　from　the　room,　the　shades　drawn　and　the　flame　of　the　lamp　turned　so　low　that　it　sputtered　on　the　wick　like　the　old　mans　breathing.　“Learn　it　to　the　younguns,”　he　whispered　fiercely;　then　he　died.

But　my　folks　were　more　alarmed　over　his　last　words　than　over　his　dying.　It　was　as　though　he　had　not　died　at　all,　his　words　caused　so　much　anxiety.　I　was　warned　emphatically　to　forget　what　he　had　said　and,　indeed,　this　is　the　first　time　it　has　been　mentioned　outside　the　family　circle.　It　had　a　tremendous　effect　upon　me,　however.　I　could　never　be　sure　of　what　he　meant.　Grandfather　had　been　a　quiet　old　man　who　never　made　any　trouble,　yet　on　his　deathbed　he　had　called　himself　a　traitor　and　a　spy,　and　he　had　spoken　of　his　meekness　as　a　dangerous　activity.　It　became　a　constant　puzzle　which　lay　unanswered　in　the　back　of　my　mind.　And　whenever　things　went　well　for　me　I　remembered　my　grandfather　and　felt　guilty　and　uncomfortable.　It　was　as　though　I　was　carrying　out　his　advice　in　spite　of　myself.　And　to　make　it　worse,　everyone　loved　me　for　it.　I　was　praised　by　the　most　lilywhite　men　of　the　town.　I　was　considered　an　example　of　desirable　conduct—just　as　my　grandfather　had　been.　And　what　puzzled　me　was　that　the　old　man　had　defined　it　as　treachery.　When　I　was　praised　for　my　conduct　I　felt　a　guilt　that　in　some　way　I　was　doing　something　that　was　really　against　the　wishes　of　the　white　folks,　that　if　they　had　understood　they　would　have　desired　me　to　act　just　the　opposite,　that　I　should　have　been　sulky　and　mean,　and　that　that　really　would　have　been　what　they　wanted,　even　though　they　were　fooled　and　thought　they　wanted　me　to　act　as　I　did.　It　made　me　afraid　that　some　day　they　would　look　upon　me　as　a　traitor　and　I　would　be　lost.　Still　I　was　more　afraid　to　act　any　other　way　because　they　didnt　like　that　at　all.　The　old　mans　words　were　like　a　curse.　On　my　graduation　day　I　delivered　an　oration　in　which　I　showed　that　humility　was　the　secret,　indeed,　the　very　essence　of　progress.　(Not　that　I　believed　this—how　could　I,　remembering　my　grandfather?—I　only　believed　that　it　worked.)　It　was　a　great　success.　Everyone　praised　me　and　I　was　invited　to　give　the　speech　at　a　gathering　of　the　towns　leading　white　citizens.　It　was　a　triumph　for　our　whole　community.

It　was　in　the　main　ballroom　of　the　leading　hotel.　When　I　got　there　I　discovered　that　it　was　onthe　occasion　of　a　smoker,　and　I　was　told　that　since　I　was　to　be　there　anyway　I　might　as　well　take　part　in　the　battle　royal　to　be　fought　by　some　of　my　schoolmates　as　part　of　the　entertainment.　The　battle　royal　came　first.

All　of　the　towns　big　shots　were　there　in　their　tuxedoes,　wolfing　down　the　buffet　foods,　drinking　beer　and　whiskey　and　smoking　black　cigars.　It　was　a　large　room　with　a　high　ceiling.　Chairs　were　arranged　in　neat　rows　around　three　sides　of　a　portable　boxing　ring.　The　fourth　side　was　clear,　revealing　a　gleaming　space　of　polished　floor.　I　had　some　misgivings　over　the　battle　royal,　by　the　way.　Not　from　a　distaste　for　fighting,　but　because　I　didnt　care　too　much　for　the　other　fellows　who　were　to　take　part.　They　were　tough　guys　who　seemed　to　have　no　grandfathers　curse　worrying　their　minds.　No　one　could　mistake　their　toughness.　And　besides,　I　suspected　that　fighting　a　battle　royal　might　detract　from　the　dignity　of　my　speech.　In　those　preinvisible　days　I　visualized　myself　as　a　potential　Booker　T.　WashingtonBooker　T.　Washington：布克·华盛顿，黑奴出生的美国教育家，强调美国黑人的经济平等胜过社会平等。.　But　the　other　fellows　didnt　care　too　much　for　me　either,　and　there　were　nine　of　them.　I　felt　superior　to　them　in　my　way,　and　I　didnt　like　the　manner　in　which　we　were　all　crowded　together　into　the　servants　elevator.　Nor　did　they　like　my　being　there.　In　fact,　as　the　warmly　lighted　floors　flashed　past　the　elevator　we　had　words　over　the　fact　that　I,　by　taking　part　in　the　fight,　had　knocked　one　of　their　friends　out　of　a　nights　work.

We　were　led　out　of　the　elevator　through　a　rococo16　hall　into　an　anteroom　and　told　to　get　into　our　fighting　togs.　Each　of　us　was　issued　a　pair　of　boxing　gloves　and　ushered　out　into　the　big　mirrored　hall,　which　we　entered　looking　cautiously　about　us　and　whispering,　lest　we　might　accidentally　be　heard　above　the　noise　of　the　room.　It　was　foggy　with　cigar　smoke.　And　already　the　whiskey　was　taking　effect.　I　was　shocked　to　see　some　of　the　most　important　men　of　the　town　quite　tipsy.　They　were　all　there—bankers,　lawyers,　judges,　doctors,　fire　chiefs,　teachers,　merchants.　Even　one　of　the　more　fashionable　pastors.　Something　we　could　not　see　was　going　on　up　front.　A　clarinet　was　vibrating　sensuously　and　the　men　were　standing　up　and　moving　eagerly　forward.　We　were　a　small　tight　group,　clustered　together,　our　bare　upper　bodies　touching　and　shining　with　anticipatory　sweat;　while　up　front　the　big　shots　were　becoming　increasingly　excited　over　something　we　still　could　not　see.　Suddenly　I　heard　the　school　superintendent,　who　had　told　me　to　come,　yell,　“Bring　up　the　shinesshines：（贬）黑家伙。,　gentlemen!　Bring　up　the　little　shines!”

We　were　rushed　up　to　the　front　of　the　ballroom,　where　it　smelled　even　more　strongly　of　tobacco　and　whiskey.　Then　we　were　pushed　into　place.　I　almost　wet　my　pants.　A　sea　of　faces,　some　hostile,　some　amused,　ringed　around　us,　and　in　the　center,　facing　us,　stood　a　magnificent　blonde—stark　naked.　There　was　dead　silence.　I　felt　a　blast　of　cold　air　chill　me.　I　tried　to　back　away,　but　they　were　behind　me　and　around　me.　Some　of　the　boys　stood　with　lowered　heads,　trembling.　I　felt　a　wave　of　irrational　guilt　and　fear.　My　teeth　chattered,　my　skin　turned　to　goose　flesh,　my　knees　knocked.　Yet　I　was　strongly　attracted　and　looked　in　spite　of　myself.　Had　the　price　of　looking　been　blindness,　I　would　have　looked.　The　hair　was　yellow　like　that　of　a　circus　kewpie　doll,　the　face　heavily　powdered　and　rouged,　as　though　to　form　an　abstract　mask,　the　eyes　hollow　and　smeared　a　cool　blue,　the　color　of　a　baboons　butt.　I　felt　a　desire　to　spit　upon　her　as　my　eyes　brushed　slowly　over　her　body.　Her　breasts　were　firm　and　round　as　the　domes　of　East　Indian　temples,　and　I　stood　so　close　as　to　see　the　fine　skin　texture　and　beads　of　pearly　perspiration　glistening　like　dew　around　the　pink　and　erected　buds　of　her　nipples.　I　wanted　at　one　and　the　sametime　to　run　from　the　room,　to　sink　through　the　floor,　or　go　to　her　and　cover　her　from　my　eyes　and　the　eyes　of　the　others　with　my　body;　to　feel　the　soft　thighs,　to　caress　her　and　destroy　her,　to　love　her　and　murder　her,　to　hide　from　her,　and　yet　to　stroke　where　below　the　small　American　flag　tattooed　upon　her　belly　her　thighs　formed　a　capital　V.　I　had　a　notion　that　of　all　in　the　room　she　saw　only　me　with　her　impersonal　eyes.

And　then　she　began　to　dance,　a　slow　sensuous　movement;　the　smoke　of　a　hundred　cigars　clinging　to　her　like　the　thinnest　of　veils.　She　seemed　like　a　fair　birdgirl　girdled　in　veils　calling　to　me　from　the　angry　surface　of　some　gray　and　threatening　sea.　I　was　transported.　Then　I　became　aware　of　the　clarinet　playing　and　the　big　shots　yelling　at　us.　Some　threatened　us　if　we　looked　and　others　if　we　did　not.　On　my　right　I　saw　one　boy　faint.　And　now　a　man　grabbed　a　silver　pitcher　from　a　table　and　stepped　close　as　he　dashed　ice　water　upon　him　and　stood　him　up　and　forced　two　of　us　to　support　him　as　his　head　hung　and　moans　issued　from　his　thick　bluish　lips.　Another　boy　began　to　plead　to　go　home.　He　was　the　largest　of　the　group,　wearing　dark　red　fighting　trunks　much　too　small　to　conceal　the　erection　which　projected　from　him　as　though　in　answer　to　the　insinuating　lowregistered　moaning　of　the　clarinet.　He　tried　to　hide　himself　with　his　boxing　gloves.

And　all　the　while　the　blonde　continued　dancing,　smiling　faintly　at　the　big　shots　who　watched　her　with　fascination,　and　faintly　smiling　at　our　fear.　I　noticed　a　certain　merchant　who　followed　her　hungrily,　his　lips　loose　and　drooling.　He　was　a　large　man　who　wore　diamond　studs　in　a　shirtfront　which　swelled　with　the　ample　paunch　underneath,　and　each　time　the　blonde　swayed　her　undulating　hips　he　ran　his　hand　through　the　thin　hair　of　his　bald　head　and,　with　his　arms　upheld,　his　posture　clumsy　like　that　of　an　intoxicated　panda,　wound　his　belly　in　a　slow　and　obscene　grind.　This　creature　was　completely　hypnotized.　The　music　had　quickened.　As　the　dancer　flung　herself　about　with　a　detached　expression　on　her　face,　the　men　began　reaching　out　to　touch　her.　I　could　see　their　beefy　fingers　sink　into　the　soft　flesh.　Some　of　the　others　tried　to　stop　them　and　she　began　to　move　around　the　floor　in　graceful　circles,　as　they　gave　chase,　slipping　and　sliding　over　the　polished　floor.　It　was　mad.　Chairs　went　crashing,　drinks　were　spilt,　as　they　ran　laughing　and　howling　after　her.　They　caught　her　just　as　she　reached　a　door,　raised　her　from　the　floor,　and　tossed　her　as　college　boys　are　tossed　at　a　hazing,　and　above　her　red,　fixedsmiling　lips　I　saw　the　terror　and　disgust　in　her　eyes,　almost　like　my　own　terror　and　that　which　I　saw　in　some　of　the　other　boys.　As　I　watched,　they　tossed　her　twice　and　her　soft　breasts　seemed　to　flatten　against　the　air　and　her　legs　flung　wildly　as　she　spun.　Some　of　the　more　sober　ones　helped　her　to　escape.　And　I　started　off　the　floor,　heading　for　the　anteroom　with　the　rest　of　the　boys.

Some　were　still　crying　and　in　hysteria.　But　as　we　tried　to　leave　we　were　stopped　and　ordered　to　get　into　the　ring.　There　was　nothing　to　do　but　what　we　were　told.　All　ten　of　us　climbed　under　the　ropes　and　allowed　ourselves　to　be　blindfolded　with　broad　bands　of　white　cloth.　One　of　the　men　seemed　to　feel　a　bit　sympathetic　and　tried　to　cheer　us　up　as　we　stood　with　our　backs　against　the　ropes.　Some　of　us　tried　to　grin.　“See　that　boy　over　there?”　one　of　the　men　said.　“I　want　you　to　run　across　at　the　bell　and　give　it　to　him　right　in　the　belly.　If　you　dont　get　him,　Im　going　to　get　you.　I　dont　like　his　looks.”　Each　of　us　was　told　the　same.　The　blindfolds　were　put　on.　Yet　even　then　I　had　been　going　over　my　speech.　In　my　mind　each　word　was　as　bright　as　flame.　I　felt　the　cloth　pressed　into　place,　and　frowned　so　that　it　would　be　loosened　when　I　relaxed.

But　now　I　felt　a　sudden　fit　of　blind　terror.　I　was　unused　to　darkness.　It　was　as　though　I　had　suddenly　found　myself　in　a　dark　room　filled　with　poisonous　cottonmouths.　I　could　hear　the　bleary　voices　yelling　insistently　for　the　battle　royal　to　begin.

“Get　going　in　there!”

“Let　me　at　that　big　nigger!”

I　strained　to　pick　up　the　school　superintendents　voice,　as　though　to　squeeze　some　security　out　of　that　slightly　more　familiar　sound.

“Let　me　at　those　black　sonsabitches!”　someone　yelled.

“No,　Jackson,　no!”　another　voice　yelled.　“Here,　somebody,　help　me　hold　Jack.”

“I　want　to　get　at　that　gingercolored　nigger.　Tear　him　limb　from　limb,”　the　first　voice　yelled.

I　stood　against　the　ropes　trembling.　For　in　those　days　I　was　what　they　called　gingercolored,　and　he　sounded　as　though　he　might　crunch　me　between　his　teeth　like　a　crisp　ginger　cookie.

Quite　a　struggle　was　going　on.　Chairs　were　being　kicked　about　and　I　could　hear　voices　grunting　as　with　a　terrific　effort.　I　wanted　to　see,　to　see　more　desperately　than　ever　before.　But　the　blindfold　was　tight　as　a　thick　skinpuckering　scab　and　when　I　raised　my　gloved　hands　to　push　the　layers　of　white　aside　a　voice　yelled,　“Oh,　no　you　dont,　black　bastard!　Leave　that　alone!”

“Ring　the　bell　before　Jackson　kills　him　a　cooncoon:　黑鬼。!”　someone　boomed　in　the　sudden　silence.　And　I　heard　the　bell　clang　and　the　sound　of　the　feet　scuffing　forward.

A　glove　smacked　against　my　head.　I　pivoted,　striking　out　stiffly　as　someone　went　past,　and　felt　the　jar　ripple　along　the　length　of　my　arm　to　my　shoulder.　Then　it　seemed　as　though　all　nine　of　the　boys　had　turned　upon　me　at　once.　Blows　pounded　me　from　all　sides　while　I　struck　out　as　best　I　could.　So　many　blows　landed　upon　me　that　I　wondered　if　I　were　not　the　only　blindfolded　fighter　in　the　ring,　or　if　the　man　called　Jackson　hadnt　succeeded　in　getting　me　after　all.

Blindfolded,　I　could　no　longer　control　my　motions.　I　had　no　dignity.　I　stumbled　about　like　a　baby　or　a　drunken　man.　The　smoke　had　become　thicker　and　with　each　new　blow　it　seemed　to　sear　and　further　restrict　my　lungs.　My　saliva　became　like　hot　bitter　glue.　A　glove　connected　with　my　head,　filling　my　mouth　with　warm　blood.　It　was　everywhere.　I　could　not　tell　if　the　moisture　I　felt　upon　my　body　was　sweat　or　blood.　A　blow　landed　hard　against　the　nape　of　my　neck.　I　felt　myself　going　over,　my　head　hitting　the　floor.　Streaks　of　blue　light　filled　the　black　world　behind　the　blindfold.　I　lay　prone,　pretending　that　I　was　knocked　out,　but　felt　myself　seized　by　hands　and　yanked　to　my　feet.　“Get　going,　black　boy!　Mix　it　up!”　My　arms　were　like　lead,　my　head　smarting　from　blows.　I　managed　to　feel　my　way　to　the　ropes　and　held　on,　trying　to　catch　my　breath.　A　glove　landed　in　my　midsection　and　I　went　over　again,　feeling　as　though　the　smoke　had　become　a　knife　jabbed　into　my　guts.　Pushed　this　way　and　that　by　the　legs　milling　around　me,　I　finally　pulled　erect　and　discovered　that　I　could　see　the　black,　sweatwashed　forms　weaving　in　the　smokyblue　atmosphere　like　drunken　dancers　weaving　to　the　rapid　drumlike　thuds　of　blows.

Everyone　fought　hysterically.　It　was　complete　anarchy.　Everybody　fought　everybody　else.　No　group　fought　together　for　long.　Two,　three,　four,　fought　one,　then　turned　to　fight　each　other,　were　themselves　attacked.　Blows　landed　below　the　belt　and　in　the　kidney,　with　the　gloves　open　as　well　as　closed,　and　with　my　eye　partly　opened　now　there　was　not　so　much　terror.　I　moved　carefully,　avoiding　blows,　although　not　too　many　to　attract　attention,　fighting　from　group　to　group.　The　boys　groped　about　like　blind,　cautious　crabs　crouching　to　protect　their　midsections,　their　heads　pulled　in　short　against　their　shoulders,　their　arms　stretched　nervously　before　them,　with　their　fists　testing　the　smokefilled　air　like　the　knobbed　feelers　of　hypersensitive　snails.　In　one　corner　I　glimpsed　a　boy　violently　punching　the　air　and　heard　him　scream　in　pain　as　he　smashed　his　hand　against　a　ring　post.　For　a　second　I　saw　him　bent　over　holding　his　hand,　then　going　down　as　a　blow　caught　his　unprotected　head.　I　played　one　group　against　the　other,　slipping　in　and　throwing　a　punch　then　stepping　out　of　range　while　pushing　the　others　into　the　melee　to　take　the　blows　blindly　aimed　at　me.　The　smoke　was　agonizing　and　there　were　no　rounds,　no　bells　at　threeminute　intervals　to　relieve　our　exhaustion.　The　room　spun　round　me,　a　swirl　of　lights,　smoke,　sweating　bodies　surrounded　by　tense　white　faces.　I　bled　from　both　nose　and　mouth,　the　blood　spattering　upon　my　chest.

The　men　kept　yelling,　“Slug　him,　black　boy!　Knock　his　gets　out!”

“Uppercut　him!　Kill　him!　Kill　that　big　boy!”

Taking　a　fake　fall,　I　saw　a　boy　going　down　heavily　beside　me　as　though　we　were　felled　by　a　single　blow,　saw　a　sneakerclad　foot　shoot　into　his　groin　as　the　two　who　had　knocked　him　down　stumbled　upon　him.　I　rolled　out　of　range,　feeling　a　twinge　of　nausea.

The　harder　we　fought　the　more　threatening　the　men　became.　And　yet,　I　had　begun　to　worry　about　my　speech　again.　How　would　it　go?　Would　they　recognize　my　ability?　What　would　they　give　me?

I　was　fighting　automatically　when　suddenly　I　noticed　that　one　after　another　of　the　boys　was　leaving　the　ring.　I　was　surprised,　filled　with　panic,　as　though　I　had　been　left　alone　with　an　unknown　danger.　Then　I　understood.　The　boys　had　arranged　it　among　themselves.　It　was　the　custom　for　the　two　men　left　in　the　ring　to　slug　it　out　for　the　winners　prize.　I　discovered　this　too　late.　When　the　bell　sounded　two　men　in　tuxedoes　leaped　into　the　ring　and　removed　the　blindfold.　I　found　myself　facing　Tatlock,　the　biggest　of　the　gang.　I　felt　sick　at　my　stomach.　Hardly　had　the　bell　stopped　ringing　in　my　ears　than　it　clanged　again　and　I　saw　him　moving　swiftly　toward　me.　Thinking　of　nothing　else　to　do　I　hit　him　smash　on　the　nose.　He　kept　coming,　bringing　the　rank　sharp　violence　of　stale　sweat.　His　face　was　a　black　blank　of　a　face,　only　his　eyes　alive—with　hate　of　me　and　aglow　with　a　feverish　terror　from　what　had　happened　to　us　all.　I　became　anxious.　I　wanted　to　deliver　my　speech　and　he　came　at　me　as　though　he　meant　to　beat　it　out　of　me.　I　smashed　him　again　and　again,　taking　his　blows　as　they　came.　Then　on　a　sudden　impulse　I　struck　him　lightly　and　as　we　clinched,　I　whispered,　“Fake　like　I　knocked　you　out,　you　can　have　the　prize.”

“Ill　break　your　behind,”　he　whispered　hoarsely.

“For　them?”

“For　me,　sonofabitch!”

They　were　yelling　for　us　to　break　it　up　and　Tatlock　spun　me　half　around　with　a　blow,　and　as　a　joggled　camera　sweeps　in　a　reeling　scene,　I　saw　the　howling　red　faces　crouching　tense　beneath　the　cloud　of　bluegray　smoke.　For　a　moment　the　world　wavered,　unraveled,　flowed,　then　my　head　cleared　and　Tatlock　bounced　before　me.　That　fluttering　shadow　before　my　eyes　was　his　jabbing　left　hand.　Then　falling　forward,　my　head　against　his　damp　shoulder,　I　whispered,

“Ill　make　it　five　dollars　more.”

“Go　to　hell!”

But　his　muscles　relaxed　a　trifle　beneath　my　pressure　and　I　breathed,　“Seven?”

“Give　it　to　your　ma,”　he　said,　ripping　me　beneath　the　heart.

And　while　I　still　held　him　I　butted　him　and　moved　away.　I　felt　myself　bombarded　with　punches.　I　fought　back　with　hopeless　desperation.　I　wanted　to　deliver　my　speech　more　than　anything　else　in　the　world,　because　I　felt　that　only　these　men　could　judge　truly　my　ability,　and　now　this　stupid　clown　was　ruining　my　chances.　I　began　fighting　carefully　now,　moving　in　to　punch　him　and　out　again　with　my　greater　speed.　A　lucky　blow　to　his　chin　and　I　had　him　going　too—until　I　heard　a　loud　voice　yell,　“I　got　my　money　on　the　big　boy.”

Hearing　this,　I　almost　dropped　my　guard.　I　was　confused:　Should　I　try　to　win　against　the　voice　out　there?　Would　not　this　go　against　my　speech,　and　was　not　this　a　moment　for　humility,　for　nonresistance?　A　blow　to　my　head　as　I　danced　about　sent　my　right　eye　popping　like　a　jackinthebox　and　settled　my　dilemma.　The　room　went　red　as　I　fell.　It　was　a　dream　fall,　my　body　languid　and　fastidious　as　to　where　to　land,　until　the　floor　became　impatient　and　smashed　up　to　meet　me.　A　moment　later　I　came　to.　An　hypnotic　voice　said　FIVE　emphatically.　And　I　lay　there,　hazily　watching　a　dark　red　spot　of　my　own　blood　shaping　itself　into　a　butterfly,　glistening　and　soaking　into　the　soiled　gray　world　of　the　canvas.

When　the　voice　drawled　TEN　I　was　lifted　up　and　dragged　to　a　chair.　I　sat　dazed.　My　eye　pained　and　swelled　with　each　throb　of　my　pounding　heart　and　I　wondered　if　now　I　would　be　allowed　to　speak.　I　was　wringing　wet,　my　mouth　still　bleeding.　We　were　grouped　along　the　wall　now.　The　other　boys　ignored　me　as　they　congratulated　Tatlock　and　speculated　as　to　how　much　they　would　be　paid.　One　boy　whimpered　over　his　smashed　hand.　Looking　up　front,　I　saw　attendants　in　white　jackets　rolling　the　portable　ring　away　and　placing　a　small　square　rug　in　the　vacant　space　surrounded　by　chairs.　Perhaps,　I　thought,　I　will　stand　on　the　rug　to　deliver　my　speech.

Then　the　M.　C.　M.　C.：master　of　ceremonies,　司仪。　called　to　us,　“Come　on　up　here　boys　and　get　your　money.”

We　ran　forward　to　where　the　men　laughed　and　talked　in　their　chairs,　waiting.　Everyone　seemed　friendly　now.

“There　it　is　on　the　rug,”　the　man　said.　I　saw　the　rug　covered　with　coins　of　all　dimensions　and　a　few　crumpled　bills.　But　what　excited　me,　scattered　here　and　there,　were　the　gold　pieces.

“Boys,　its　all　yours,”　the　man　said.　“You　get　all　you　grab.”

“Thats　right,　SamboSambo：（贬）傻宝，黑鬼。,”　a　blond　man　said,　winking　at　me　confidentially.

I　trembled　with　excitement,　forgetting　my　pain.　I　would　get　the　gold　and　the　bills,　I　thought.　I　would　use　both　hands.　I　would　throw　my　body　against　the　boys　nearest　me　to　block　them　from　the　gold.

“Get　down　around　the　rug　now,”　the　man　commanded,　“and　dont　anyone　touch　it　until　I　give　the　signal.”

“This　ought　to　be　good,”　I　heard.

As　told,　we　got　around　the　square　rug　on　our　knees.　Slowly　the　man　raised　his　freckled　hand　as　we　followed　it　upward　with　our　eyes.

I　heard,　“These　niggers　look　like　theyre　about　to　pray!”

Then,　“Ready,”　the　man　said.　“Go!”

I　lunged　for　a　yellow　coin　lying　on　the　blue　design　of　the　carpet,　touching　it　and　sending　a　surprised　shriek　to　join　those　rising　around　me.　I　tried　frantically　to　remove　my　hand　but　could　not　let　go.　A　hot,　violent　force　tore　through　my　body,　shaking　me　like　a　wet　rat.　The　rug　was　electrified.　The　hair　bristled　up　on　my　head　as　I　shook　myself　free.　My　muscles　jumped,　my　nerves　jangled,　writhed.　But　I　saw　that　this　was　not　stopping　the　other　boys.　Laughing　in　fear　and　embarrassment,　some　were　holding　back　and　scooping　up　the　coins　knocked　off　by　the　painful　contortions　of　the　others.　The　men　roared　above　us　as　we　struggled.

“Pick　it　up,　goddamnit,　pick　it　up!”　someone　called　like　a　bassvoiced　parrot.　“Go　on,　get　it!”

I　crawled　rapidly　around　the　floor,　picking　up　the　coins,　trying　to　avoid　the　coppers　and　to　get　greenbacks　and　the　gold.　Ignoring　the　shock　by　laughing,　as　I　brushed　the　coins　off　quickly,　I　discovered　that　I　could　contain　the　electricity—a　contradiction,　but　it　works.　Then　the　men　began　to　push　us　onto　the　rug.　Laughing　embarrassedly,　we　struggled　out　of　their　hands　and　kept　after　the　coins.　We　were　all　wet　and　slippery　and　hard　to　hold.　Suddenly　I　saw　a　boy　lifted　into　the　air,　glistening　with　sweat　like　a　circus　seal,　and　dropped,　his　wet　back　landing　flush　upon　the　charged　rug,　heard　him　yell　and　saw　him　literally　dance　upon　his　back,　his　elbows　beating　a　frenzied　tattoo　upon　the　floor,　his　muscles　twitching　like　the　flesh　of　a　horse　stung　by　many　flies.　When　he　finally　rolled　off,　his　face　was　gray　and　no　one　stopped　him　when　he　ran　from　the　floor　amid　booming　laughter.

“Get　the　money,”　the　M.　C.　called.　“Thats　good　hard　American　cash!”

And　we　snatched　and　grabbed,　snatched　and　grabbed.　I　was　careful　not　to　come　too　close　to　the　rug　now,　and　when　I　felt　the　hot　whiskey　breath　descend　upon　me　like　a　cloud　of　foul　air　I　reached　out　and　grabbed　the　leg　of　a　chair.　It　was　occupied　and　I　held　on　desperately.

“Leggo,　nigger!　Leggo!”

The　huge　face　wavered　down　to　mine　as　he　tried　to　push　me　free.　But　my　body　was　slippery　and　he　was　too　drunk.　It　was　Mr.　Colcord,　who　owned　a　chain　of　movie　houses　and　“entertainment　palaces.”　Each　time　he　grabbed　me　I　slipped　out　of　his　hands.　It　became　a　real　struggle.　I　feared　the　rug　more　than　I　did　the　drunk,　so　I　held　on,　surprising　myself　for　a　moment　by　trying　to　topple　him　upon　the　rug.　It　was　such　an　enormous　idea　that　I　found　myself　actually　carrying　it　out.　I　tried　not　to　be　obvious,　yet　when　I　grabbed　his　leg,　trying　to　tumble　him　out　of　the　chair,　he　raised　up　roaring　with　laughter,　and,　looking　at　me　with　soberness　dead　in　the　eye,　kicked　me　viciously　in　the　chest.　The　chair　leg　flew　out　of　my　hand　and　I　felt　myself　going　and　rolled.　It　was　as　though　I　had　rolled　through　a　bed　of　hot　coals.　It　seemed　a　whole　century　would　pass　before　I　would　roll　free,　a　century　in　which　I　was　seared　through　the　deepest　levels　of　my　body　to　the　fearful　breath　within　me　and　the　breath　seared　and　heated　to　the　point　of　explosion.　Itll　all　be　over　in　a　flash,　I　thought　as　I　rolled　clear.　Itll　all　be　over　in　a　flash.

But　not　yet,　the　men　on　the　other　side　were　waiting,　red　faces　swollen　as　though　from　apoplexy　as　they　bent　forward　in　their　chairs.　Seeing　their　fingers　coming　toward　me　I　rolled　away　as　a　fumbled　football　rolls　off　the　receivers　fingertips,　back　into　the　coals.　That　time　I　luckily　sent　the　rug　sliding　out　of　place　and　heard　the　coins　ringing　against　the　floor　and　the　boys　scuffling　to　pick　them　up　and　the　M.　C.　calling,　“All　right,　boys,　thats　all.　Go　get　dressed　and　get　your　money.”

I　was　limp　as　a　dish　rag.　My　back　felt　as　though　it　had　been　beaten　with　wires.

When　we　had　dressed　the　M.　C.　came　in　and　gave　us　each　five　dollars,　except　Tatlock,　who　got　ten　for　being　last　in　the　ring.　Then　he　told　us　to　leave.　I　was　not　to　get　a　chance　to　deliver　my　speech,　I　thought.　I　was　going　out　into　the　dim　alley　in　despair　when　I　was　stopped　and　told　to　go　back.　I　returned　to　the　ballroom,　where　the　men　were　pushing　back　their　chairs　and　gathering　in　groups　to　talk.

The　M.　C.　knocked　on　a　table　for　quiet.　“Gentlemen,”　he　said,　“we　almost　forgot　an　important　part　of　the　program.　A　most　serious　part,　gentlemen.　This　boy　was　brought　here　to　deliver　a　speech　which　he　made　at　his　graduation　yesterday...”

“Bravo!”

“Im　told　that　he　is　the　smartest　boy　weve　got　out　there　in　Greenwood.　Im　told　that　he　knows　more　big　words　than　a　pocketsized　dictionary.”

Much　applause　and　laughter.

“So　now,　gentlemen,　I　want　you　to　give　him　your　attention.”

There　was　still　laughter　as　I　faced　them,　my　mouth　dry,　my　eye　throbbing.　I　began　slowly,　but　evidently　my　throat　was　tense,　because　they　began　shouting,　“Louder!　Louder!”

“We　of　the　younger　generation　extol　the　wisdom　of　that　great　leader　and　educatorthat　great　leader　and　educator：　指布克·华盛顿。,”　I　shouted,　“who　first　spoke　these　flaming　words　of　wisdom:　‘A　ship　lost　at　sea　for　many　days　suddenly　sighted　a　friendly　vessel.　From　the　mast　of　the　unfortunate　vessel　was　seen　a　signal:　“Water,　water;　we　die　of　thirst!”　The　answer　from　the　friendly　vessel　came　back:　“Cast　down　your　bucket　where　you　are.”　The　captain　of　the　distressed　vessel,　at　last　heeding　the　injunction,　cast　down　his　bucket,　and　it　came　up　full　of　fresh　sparkling　water　from　the　mouth　of　the　Amazon　River.　　And　like　him　I　say,　and　in　his　words,　‘To　those　of　my　race　who　depend　upon　bettering　their　condition　in　a　foreign　land,　or　who　underestimate　the　importance　of　cultivating　friendly　relations　with　the　southern　white　man,　who　is　his　nextdoor　neighbor,　I　would　say:　“Cast　down　your　bucket　where　you　are”—cast　it　down　in　making　friends　in　every　manly　way　of　the　people　of　all　races　by　whom　we　are　surrounded...’”

I　spoke　automatically　and　with　such　fervor　that　I　did　not　realize　that　the　men　were　still　talking　and　laughing　until　my　dry　mouth,　filling　up　with　blood　from　the　cut,　almost　strangled　me.　I　coughed,　wanting　to　stop　and　go　to　one　of　the　tall　brass,　sandfilled　spittoons　to　relieve　myself,　but　a　few　of　the　men,　especially　the　superintendent,　were　listening　and　I　was　afraid.　So　I　gulped　it　down,　blood,　saliva　and　all,　and　continued.　(What　powers　of　endurance　I　had　during　those　days!　What　enthusiasm!　What　a　belief　in　the　rightness　of　things!)　I　spoke　even　louder　in　spite　of　the　pain.　But　still　they　talked　and　still　they　laughed,　as　though　deaf　with　cotton　in　dirty　ears.　So　I　spoke　with　greater　emotional　emphasis.　I　closed　my　ears　and　swallowed　blood　until　I　was　nauseated.　The　speech　seemed　a　hundred　times　as　long　as　before,　but　I　could　not　leave　out　a　single　word.　All　had　to　be　said,　each　memorized　nuance　considered,　rendered.　Nor　was　that　all.　Whenever　I　uttered　a　word　of　three　or　more　syllables　a　group　of　voices　would　yell　for　me　to　repeat　it.　I　used　the　phrase　“social　responsibility”　and　they　yelled:

“Whats　that　word　you　say,　boy?”

“Social　responsibility,”　I　said.

“What?”

“Social...”

“Louder.”

“...responsibility.”

“More!”

“Respon—”

“Repeat!”

“—sibility.”

The　room　filled　with　the　uproar　of　laughter　until,　no　doubt　distracted　by　having　to　gulp　down　my　blood,　I　made　a　mistake　and　yelled　a　phrase　I　had　often　seen　denounced　in　newspaper　editorials,　heard　debated　in　private.

“Social...”

“What?”　they　yelled.

“...equality—”

The　laughter　hung　smokelike　in　the　sudden　stillness.　I　opened　my　eyes,　puzzled.　Sounds　of　displeasure　filled　the　room.　The　M.C.　rushed　forward.　They　shouted　hostile　phrases　at　me.　But　I　did　not　understand.

A　small　dry　mustached　man　in　the　front　row　blared　out,　“Say　that　slowly,　son!”

“What,　sir?”

“What　you　just　said!”

“Social　responsibility,　sir,”　I　said.

“You　werent　being　smart,　were　you,　boy?”　he　said,　not　unkindly.

“No,　sir!”

“You　sure　that　about　‘equality’　was　a　mistake?”

“Oh,　yes,　sir,”　I　said.　“I　was　swallowing　blood.”

“Well,　you　had　better　speak　more　slowly　so　we　can　understand.　We　mean　to　do　right　by　you,　but　youve　got　to　know　your　place　at　all　times.　All　right,　now,　go　on　with　your　speech.”

I　was　afraid.　I　wanted　to　leave　but　I　wanted　also　to　speak　and　I　was　afraid　theyd　snatch　me　down.

“Thank　you,　sir,”　I　said,　beginning　where　I　had　left　off,　and　having　them　ignore　me　as　before.

Yet　when　I　finished　there　was　a　thunderous　applause.　I　was　surprised　to　see　the　superintendent　come　forth　with　a　package　wrapped　in　white　tissue　paper,　and,　gesturing　for　quiet,　address　the　men.

“Gentlemen,　you　see　that　I　did　not　overpraise　this　boy.　He　makes　a　good　speech　and　some　day　hell　lead　his　people　in　the　proper　paths.　And　I　dont　have　to　tell　you　that　that　is　important　in　these　days　and　times.　This　is　a　good,　smart　boy,　and　so　to　encourage　him　in　the　right　direction,　in　the　name　of　the　Board　of　Education　I　wish　to　present　him　a　prize　in　the　form　of　this...”

He　paused,　removing　the　tissue　paper　and　revealing　a　gleaming　calfskin　brief　case.

“...in　the　form　of　this　firstclass　article　from　Shad　Whitmores　shop.”

“Boy,”　he　said,　addressing　me,　“take　this　prize　and　keep　it　well.　Consider　it　a　badge　of　office.　Prize　it.　Keep　developing　as　you　are　and　some　day　it　will　be　filled　with　important　papers　that　will　help　shape　the　destiny　of　your　people.”

I　was　so　moved　that　I　could　hardly　express　my　thanks.　A　rope　of　bloody　saliva　forming　a　shape　like　an　undiscovered　continent　drooled　upon　the　leather　and　I　wiped　it　quickly　away.　I　felt　an　importance　that　I　had　never　dreamed.

“Open　it　and　see　whats　inside,”　I　was　told.

My　fingers　atremble,　I　complied,　smelling　the　fresh　leather　and　finding　an　officiallooking　document　inside.　It　was　a　scholarship　to　the　state　college　for　Negroes.　My　eyes　filled　with　tears　and　I　ran　awkwardly　off　the　floor.

I　was　overjoyed;　I　did　not　even　mind　when　I　discovered　that　the　gold　pieces　I　had　scrambled　for　were　brass　pocket　tokens　advertising　a　certain　make　of　automobile.

When　I　reached　home　everyone　was　excited.　Next　day　the　neighbors　came　to　congratulate　me.　I　even　felt　safe　from　grandfather,　whose　deathbed　curse　usually　spoiled　my　triumphs.　I　stood　beneath　his　photograph　with　my　brief　case　in　hand　and　smiled　triumphantly　into　his　stolid　black　peasants　face.　It　was　a　face　that　fascinated　me.　The　eyes　seemed　to　follow　everywhere　I　went.

That　night　I　dreamed　I　was　at　a　circus　with　him　and　that　he　refused　to　laugh　at　the　clowns　no　matter　what　they　did.　Then　later　he　told　me　to　open　my　brief　case　and　read　what　was　inside　and　I　did,　finding　an　official　envelope　stamped　with　the　state　seal;　and　inside　the　envelope　I　found　another　and　another,　endlessly,　and　I　thought　I　would　fall　of　weariness.　“Thems　years,”　he　said.　“Now　open　that　one.”　And　I　did　and　in　it　I　found　an　engraved　document　containing　a　short　message　in　letters　of　gold.　“Read　it,”　my　grandfather　said.　“Out　loud!”

“To　Whom　It　May　Concern,”　I　intoned.　“Keep　This　NiggerBoy　Running.”

I　awoke　with　the　old　mans　laughter　ringing　in　my　ears.

(It　was　a　dream　I　was　to　remember　and　dream　again　for　many　years　after.　But　at　that　time　I　had　no　insight　into　its　meaning.　First　I　had　to　attend　college.)

Questions　for　Discussion

1.　The　novel　is　entitled　“Invisible　Man”　and　the　invisible　man　is　the　narrator　and　protagonist　of　the　story.　Is　his　invisibility　literal　or　figurative?　What　does　it　mean　for　a　black　to　be　invisible　in　a　white　world?

2.　How　does　the　narrator/protagonist　feel　upon　hearing　his　grandfathers　words　at　deathbed?　What　causes　the　feeling?

3.　How　do　you　relate　the　invisible　man　as　a　model　black　citizen　in　the　South　to　the　ideas　advocated　by　Booker　T.　Washington,　who　is　mentioned　many　times　in　this　novel?

3.　The　Color　Purple

作者简介

艾丽斯·沃克（1944—）是当代美国黑人文学最有影响力的人物之一，黑人女性主义的倡导人，提出“妇女主义”以区别于白人女性主义。她出生于佐治亚州一个贫苦佃农家庭，8岁时，一只眼睛被打瞎。高中毕业后去了亚特兰大的斯佩尔曼学院读书，后转到纽约的萨拉·劳伦斯学院。大学三年级时她去非洲访问，非洲后来成为她小说的一个背景。1965年大学毕业后，她前往密西西比州工作，积极投身民权运动，这段经历为她的小说《梅丽蒂恩》提供了素材。1970年，她重新发现了哈莱姆文艺复兴时期的黑人女作家赫斯顿，后者对沃克产生了重大影响。

沃克的创作包括长篇小说、诗歌、短篇故事以及文学批评。主要有长篇小说《格兰奇·科普兰的第三次生命》（1970）、《梅丽蒂恩》（1976)、《紫色》（1982）、《我熟悉的一切之神庙》（1989）、《拥有欢乐的秘密》（1992）、《我父亲的微笑之光》（1989）、《魔鬼是我的敌人》（2008），诗集《一度》（1968）、《笃信地球之善》（2003）,短篇小说集《爱情与麻烦：黑人妇女的故事》（1973）、《伤心前行》(2000),及批评文集《寻找我们母亲的花园》（1983）等。

作品简介与赏析

沃克的代表作《紫色》为她赢得美国国家图书奖和普利策小说奖，刻画了20世纪初挣扎在社会最底层的美国黑人妇女的生活原貌和心路历程。全书采用书信体，以朴素的文字、真挚的情感和生动的黑人土语记录了黑人妇女们当下的生活。全书由主人公西丽及其妹妹的书信组成。西丽14岁时被继父强暴，生下两个孩子都被他送人，孤苦无依的西丽只能给上帝写信倾诉痛苦。嫁给某某先生后，常遭丈夫打骂；妹妹耐蒂为躲避继父纠缠前来投靠，却因拒绝某某先生的示爱被后者赶走。耐蒂后来去非洲当传教士，她给西丽的来信却被某某先生藏了起来。知道了实情的西丽非常愤怒，在某某先生的情人萨格的帮助下，离家前往孟菲斯做裁缝谋生，获得了经济上的独立。某某先生后来也逐渐意识到自己的错误而真心忏悔，两人言归于好。小说结尾，耐蒂带着西丽的孩子从非洲回来，一家人最终团聚。

沃克把《紫色》称为一部历史小说，但它不同于通常意义上的“正史”，而是民间的历史，聚焦黑人家庭，尤其是黑人妇女当下生活的历史。这样的历史叙事与人们意识之中的传统历史有着很大出入。小说呈现了南方黑人妇女那段无人提及的历史，揭示了黑人内部的性别压迫和两性冲突，如继父和丈夫某某先生对西丽的凌辱和欺压，儿媳索菲亚的女性抗争意识以及由此引发的与丈夫之间的矛盾。在刻画黑人妇女追求自我解放和尊严的同时，沃克也准确抓住了黑人男性的复杂心理：他们既是受害者，同时又是施害者，他们将种族歧视带给自己的创伤和无力感转移、发泄到妻儿身上。

从底层黑人妇女的视角出发来记录历史是该小说的一大特色。此外，作家对文类的选择和语言的运用也独具匠心。

首先，沃克对书信体小说的挪用深化了黑人女性主体复归这一主题。在《紫色》中，书信既是贯穿全文的内容，也构成了小说的叙事框架。值得注意的是，西丽的大部分信件都是写给上帝这个不存在的读者的，在受述人缺席的情况下，原本作为叙述核心的叙述内容让位于叙述行为本身，后者对于叙述人本人的意义得以凸显。写信上升为小说最为重要的情节，正是写信这一行为，使得西丽从失语状态中挣脱出来，让她在自己日益变得自信强大的声音中找回自我。书信见证了西丽的成长，让她从逆来顺受的无知少女转变为自立坚强的新女性，这个历程使黑人女性书写本身成为小说的主题。

其次，西丽用黑人土语写信，而受过教育的妹妹则用标准英语写信。相比之下，后者的语言显然不如前者那样生动传神，因为西丽富于本土特色的表达抓住了黑人民间语言的精髓，得以和思想、话语紧密联系起来。换句话说，基于共同现实和心理意识的黑人语言负载着黑人文化及其价值观，以一种差异性的重复，改写了白人的标准英语及其内含的价值观，在与主流话语形成对抗的同时消解后者。

此外，沃克提出的“妇女主义”概念是其作品解读的重要索引。赫斯顿的小说，特别是《他们眼望上苍》，以浓厚的南方黑人文化和黑人女性特有的语言、形象和象征，深深地影响着沃克。无论从主题还是形式上来看，沃克的作品都是对这位“精神向导”的文学先辈的致敬。如今，《紫色》已成为“黑人妇女小说的一种格式”。可以说，沃克的“妇女主义”模式，正是将赫斯顿的作品作为黑人女性写作的范本，建构出来的现代黑人妇女文学的经典模式。沃克致力于塑造那些经历了女性意识和族群意识的双重觉醒，自立自强、互相关爱的黑人妇女形象，致力于建构一个黑人民族两性和谐的理想社会。换句话说，妇女主义体现了女性主义的多元性，它既从种族的视角去审视女性主义研究，又从性属的视角去审视黑人研究，以差异性的表述——汇合了种族、性属、阶级的多声话语——拓展了二者，是黑人妇女独特的文化经历在美学上的表述。

《紫色》发表后好评如潮，1985年被改编成电影，2005年又被改编成音乐剧，进一步扩大了作者的影响力。

下面的选文出自《紫色》的三封信。第一封信叙述了西丽的儿媳——性格勇猛刚烈的索菲亚——的不幸遭遇。因为对市长太太顶嘴，又用拳头回敬了市长的耳光，索菲亚被一群警察殴打致残后关进了监狱。第二封信记录了索菲亚在狱中遭受的非人待遇，以及她虽然表面顺从，却日夜想着杀人的疯狂的心理状态。第三封信和前两封信在时间上相隔近12年，讲述索菲亚被亲朋好友设法弄出监狱后在市长家度过十来年奴隶般的帮佣生活，终于得以回家与亲人相聚，却变得畏畏缩缩，失去了以往的斗志。席上西丽宣布自己的计划——要离开某某先生，追随萨格前往孟菲斯开创新生活。此举引起轩然大波，遭到某某先生的极力反对，却得到家中妇女们的一致赞同。西丽等女性的勇气和姐妹情谊极大地鼓舞了索菲亚，她的抗争精神开始复苏。三封信都出自西丽，用黑人口语体创作，与标准英语在拼写和语法上都有着较大差异。

Dear　God，

Harpo

Harpo：哈波，西丽丈夫某某先生的长子。　mope.　Wipe　the　counter,　light　a　cigarette,　look　outdoors,　walk　up　and　down.　Little　Squeak

Squeak:　哈波的情人。　run　long　all　up　under　him　trying　to　git　his　tension.　Baby　this,　she　say,　Baby　that.　Harpo　look　through　her　head,　blow　smoke.

Squeak　come　over　to　the　corner　where　me　and　Mr.

Mr.　:　某某先生，西丽的丈夫。　at.　She　got　two　bright　gold　teef　in　the　side　of　her　mouth,　generally　grin　all　the　time.　Now　she　cry.　Miss　Celie,　she　say,　What　the　matter　with　Harpo?

Sofia

Sofia:　索菲亚，哈波的妻子。　in　jail,　I　say.

In　jail?　She　look　like　I　say　Sofia　on　the　moon.

What　she　in　jail　for?　she　ast.

Sassing　the　mayors　wife,　I　say.

Squeak　pull　up　a　chair.　Look　down　my　throat.

What　your　real　name?　I　ast　her.　She　say,　Mary　Agnes.

Make　Harpo　call　you　by　your　real　name,　I　say.　Then　maybe　he　see　you　even　when　he　trouble.

She　look　at　me　puzzle.　I　let　it　go.　I　tell　her　what　one　of　Sofia　sister　tell　me　and　Mr.　.

Sofia　and　the　prizefighter

the　prizefighter:　拳击手，索菲亚的情人。　and　all　the　children　got　in　the　prizefighter　car　and　went　to　town.　Clam　out　on　the　street　looking　like　somebody.　Just　then　the　mayor　and　his　wife　come　by.

All　these　children,　say　the　mayors　wife,　digging　in　her　pocketbook.　Cute　as　little　buttons　though,　she　say.　She　stop,　put　her　hand　on　one　of　the　children　head.　Say,　and　such　strong　white　teef.

Sofia　and　the　prizefighter　dont　say　nothing.　Wait　for　her　to　pass.　Mayor　wait　too,　stand　back　and　tap　his　foot,　watch　her　with　a　little　smile.　Now　Millie,　he　say.　Always　going　on　over　colored.

Always　going　on　over　colored:　你老要打量这些黑人。　Miss　Millie　finger　the　children　some　more,　finally　look　at　Sofia　and　the　prizefighter.　She　look　at　the　prizefighter　car.　She　eye　Sofia　wristwatch.　She　say　to　Sofia,　All　your　children　so　clean,　she　say,　would　you　like　to　work　for　me,　be　my　maid?

Sofia　say,　Hell　no.

She　say,　What　you　say?

Sofia　say,　Hell　no.

Mayor　look　at　Sofia,　push　his　wife　out　the　way.　Stick　out　his　chest.　Girl,　what　you　say　to　Miss　Millie?

Sofia　say,　I　say,　Hell　no.

He　slap　her.

I　stop　telling　it　right　there.

Squeak　on　the　edge　of　her　seat.　She　wait.　Look　down　my　throat　some　more.

No　need　to　say　no　more,　Mr.　say.　You　know　what　happen　if　somebody　slap　Sofia.

Squeak　go　white　as　a　sheet.　Naw,　she　say.

Naw　nothing,　I　say.　Sofia　knock　the　man　down.

The　polices　come,　start　slinging　the　children　off　the　mayor,　bang　they　heads　together.　Sofia　really　start　to　fight.　They　drag　her　to　the　ground.

This　far　as　I　can　go　with　it,　look　like.　My　eyes　git　full　of　water　and　my　throat　close.

Poor　Squeak　all　scrunch　down　in　her　chair,　trembling.

They　beat　Sofia,　Mr.　say.

Squeak　fly　up　like　she　sprung,　run　over　hind　the　counter　to　Harpo,　put　her　arms　round　him.　They　hang　together　a　long　time,　cry.

What　the　prizefighter　do　in　all　this?　I　ast　Sofia　sister,　Odessa.

Odessa:　奥德莎，索菲亚的姐姐。

He　want　to　jump　in,　she　say.　Sofia　say　No,　take　the　children　home.

Polices　have　they　guns　on　him　anyway.　One　move,　he　dead.　Six　of　them,　you　know.

Mr.　go　plead　with　the　sheriff　to　let　us　see　Sofia.　Bub

Bub:　鲍勃，某某先生的次子。　be　in　so　much　trouble,　look　so　much　like　the　sheriff,　he　and　Mr.　almost　on　family　terms.　Just　long　as　Mr.　know　he　colored.

Sheriff　say,　She　a　crazy　woman,　your　boys　wife.　You　know　that?

Mr.　say,　Yassur,　us　do　know　it.　Been　trying　to　tell　Harpo　she　crazy　for　twelve　years.　Since　way　before　they　marry.　Sofia　come　from　crazy　peoples,　Mr.　say,　it　not　all　her　fault.　And　then　again,　the　sheriff　know　how　womens　is,　anyhow.

Sheriff　think　bout　the　women　he　know,　say,　Yep,　you　right　there.

Mr.　say,　Wegon　tell　her　she　crazy　too,　if　us　ever　do　git　in　to　see　her.

Sheriff　say,　Well　make　sure　you　do.　And　tell　her　she　lucky　she　alive.

When　I　see　Sofia　I　dont　know　why　she　still　alive.　They　crack　her　skull,　they　crack　her　ribs.　They　tear　her　nose　loose　on　one　side.　They　blind　her　in　one　eye.　She　swole　from　head　to　foot.　Her　tongue　the　size　of　my　arm,　it　stick　out　tween　her　teef　like　a　piece　of　rubber.　She　cant　talk.　And　she　just　about　the　color　of　a　eggplant.

Scare　me　so　bad　I　near　bout　drop　my　grip.　But　I　dont.　I　put　it　on　the　floor　of　the　cell,　take　out　comb　and　brush,　nightgown,　witch　hazel　and　alcohol　and　I　start　to　work　on　her.　The　colored　tendant　bring　me　water　to　wash　her　with,　and　I　start　at　her　two　little　slits　for　eyes.

Dear　God,

They　put　Sofia　to　work　in　the　prison　laundry.　All　day　long　from　five　to　eight　she　washing　clothes.　Dirty　convict　uniforms,　nasty　sheets　and　blankets　piled　way　over　her　head.　Us　see　her　twice　a　month　for　half　a　hour.　Her　face　yellow　and　sickly,　her　fingers　look　like　fatty　sausage.

Everything　nasty　here,　she　say,　even　the　air.　Food　bad　enough　to　kill　you　with　it.　Roaches　here,　mice,　flies,　lice　and　even　a　snake　or　two.　If　you　say　anything　they　strip　you,　make　you　sleep　on　a　cement　floor　without　a　light.

How　you　manage?　us　ast.

Every　time　they　ast　me　to　do　something,　Miss　Celie,　I　act　like　Im　you.　I　jump　right　up　and　do　just　what　they　say.

She　look　wild　when　she　say　that,　and　her　bad　eye　wander　round　the　room.

Mr.　suck　in　his　breath.　Harpo　groan.　Miss　Shug

Shug:　萨格，布鲁斯歌手，某某先生的情人，后成为西丽的好友和情人，并帮助她觉醒和成长。　cuss.　She　come　from　Memphis　special　to　see　Sofia.

I　cant　fix　my　mouth　to　say　how　I　feel.

Im　a　good　prisoner,　she　say.　Best　convict　they　ever　see.　They　cant　believe　Im　the　one　sass　the　mayors　wife,　knock　the　mayor　down.　She　laugh.　It　sound　like　something　from　a　song.　The　part　where　everybody　done　gone　home　but　you.

Twelve　years　a　long　time　to　be　good　though,　she　say.

Maybe　you　git　out　on　good　behavior,　say　Harpo.

Good　behavior　aint　good　enough　for　them,　say　Sofia.　Nothing　less　than　sliding　on　your　belly　with　your　tongue　on　they　boots　can　even　git　they　attention.　I　dream　of　murder,　she　say,　I　dream　of　murder　sleep　or　wake.

Us　dont　say　nothing.

How　the　children?　she　ast.

They　all　fine,　say　Harpo.　Tween　Odessa　and　Squeak,　they　git　by.

Say　thank　you　to　Squeak,　she　say.　Tell　Odessa　I　think　about　her.

Dear　Nettie

Nettie:　耐蒂，西丽的妹妹。,

When　I　told　Shug　Im　writing　to　you　instead　of　to　God,　she　laugh.　Nettie　dont　know　these　people,　she　say.　Considering　who　I　been　writing　to,　this　strike　me　funny.

It　was　Sofia　you　saw　working　as　the　mayors　maid.　The　woman　you　saw　carrying　the　white　womans　packages　that　day　in　town.　Sofia　Mr.　s　son　Harpos　wife.　Polices　lock　her　up　for　sassing　the　mayors　wife　and　hitting　the　mayor　back.　First　she　was　in　prison　working　in　the　laundry　and　dying　fast.　Then　us　got　her　move　to　the　mayors　house.　She　had　to　sleep　in　a　little　room　up　under　the　house,　but　it　was　better　than　prison.　Flies,　maybe,　but　no　rats.

Anyhow,　they　kept　her　eleven　and　a　half　years,　give　her　six　months　off　for　good　behavior　so　she　could　come　home　early　to　her　family.　Her　bigger　children　married　and　gone,　and　her　littlest　children　mad　at　her,　dont　know　who　she　is.　Think　she　act　funny,　look　old　and　dote　on　that　little　white　gal　she　raise.

Yesterday　us　all　had　dinner　at　Odessas　house.　Odessa　Sofias　sister.　She　raise　the　kids.　Her　and　her　husband　Jack.　Harpos　woman　Squeak,　and　Harpo　himself.

Sofia　sit　down　at　the　big　table　like　theres　no　room　for　her.　Children　reach　cross　her　like　shenot　there.　Harpo　and　Squeak　act　like　a　old　married　couple.　Children　call　Odessa　mama.　Call　Squeak　little　mama.　Call　Sofia　“Miss.”　The　only　one　seem　to　pay　her　any　tention　at　all　is　Harpo　and　Squeaks　little　girl,　Suzie　Q.　She　sit　cross　from　Sofia　and　squinch　up　her　eyes　at　her.

As　soon　as　dinner　over,　Shug　push　back　her　chair　and　light　a　cigarette.　Now　is　come　the　time　to　tell　yall,　she　say.

Tell　us　what?　Harpo　ast.

Us　leaving,　she　say.

Yeah?　say　Harpo,　looking　round　for　the　coffee.　And　then　looking　over　at　Grady.

Us　leaving,　Shug　say　again.　Mr.　look　struck,　like　he　always　look　when　Shug　say　she　going　anywhere.　He　reach　down　and　rub　his　stomach,　look　off　side　her　head　like　nothing　been　said.

Grady　say,　Such　good　peoples,　thats　the　truth.　The　salt　of　the　earth.

The　salt　of　the　earth:　都是些高尚的人。　But—time　to　move　on.

Squeak　not　saying　nothing.　She　got　her　chin　glued　to　her　plate.　Im　not　saying　nothing　either.　Im　waiting　for　the　feathers　to　fly.Im　waiting　for　the　feathers　to　fly:　我等着吵架呢。

Celie　is　coming　with　us,　say　Shug.

Mr.　s　head　swivel　back　straight.　Say　what?　he　ast.

Celie　is　coming　to　Memphis　with　me.

Over　my　dead　body,　Mr.　say.

You　satisfied　that　what　you　want,　Shug　say,　cool　as　clabber.

Shug　say,　cool　as　clabber:　萨格很冷静地说。

Mr.　start　up　from　his　seat,　look　at　Shug,　plop　back　down　again.　He　look　over　at　me.　I　thought　you　was　finally　happy,　he　say.　What　wrong　now?

You　a　lowdown　dog　is　whats　wrong,　I　say.　Its　time　to　leave　you　and　enter　into　the　Creation.　And　your　dead　body　just　the　welcome　mat　I　need.

Say　what?　he　ast.　Shock.

All　round　the　table　folkses　mouths　be　dropping　open.

You　took　my　sister　Nettie　away　from　me,　I　say.　And　she　was　the　only　person　love　me　in　the　world.

Mr.　start　to　sputter.　ButButButButBut.　Sound　like　some　kind　of　motor.

But　Nettie　and　my　children　coming　home　soon,　I　say.　And　when　she　do,　all　us　together　gon　whup　your　ass.

Nettie　and　your　children!　say　Mr.　____.　You　talking　crazy.

I　got　children,　I　say.　Being　brought　up　in　Africa.　Good　schools,　lots　of　fresh　air　and　exercise.　Turning　out　a　heap　better　than　the　fools　you　didnt　even　try　to　raise.

Hold　on,　say　Harpo.

Oh,　hold　on　hell,　I　say.　If　you　hadnt　tried　to　rule　over　Sofia　the　white　folks　never　would　have　caught　her.

Sofia　so　surprise　to　hear　me　speak　up　she　aint　chewed　for　ten　minutes.

Thats　a　lie,　say　Harpo.

A　little　truth　in　it,　say　Sofia.

Everybody　look　at　her　like　they　surprise　she　there.　It　like　a　voice　speaking　from　the　grave.

You　was　all　rotten　children,　I　say.　You　made　my　life　a　hell　on　earth.　And　your　daddy　here　aint　dead　horses　shit.

Mr.　reach　over　to　slap　me.　I　jab　my　case　knife　in　his　hand.

You　bitch,　he　say.　What　will　people　say,　you　running　off　to　Memphis　like　you　dont　have　a　house　to　look　after?

Shug　say,　Albert.　Try　to　think　like　you　got　some　sense.　Why　any　woman　give　a　shit　what　people　think　is　a　mystery　to　me.

Well,　say　Grady,　trying　to　bring　light.　A　woman　cant　git　a　man　if　peoples　talk.

Shug　look　at　me　and　us　giggle.　Then　us　laugh　sure　nuff.　Then　Squeak　start　to　laugh.　Then　Sofia.　All　us　laugh　and　laugh.

Shug　say,　Aint　they　something?　Us　say　um　hum,　and　slap　the　table,　wipe　the　water　from　our　eyes.

Harpo　look　at　Squeak.　Shut　up　Squeak,　he　say.　It　bad　luck　for　women　to　laugh　at　men.

She　say,　Okay.　She　sit　up　straight,　suck　in　her　breath,　try　to　press　her　face　together.

He　look　at　Sofia.　She　look　at　him　and　laugh　in　his　face.　I　already　had　my　bad　luck,　she　say.　I　had　enough　to　keep　me　laughing　the　rest　of　my　life.

Harpo　look　at　her　like　he　did　the　night　she　knock　Mary　Agnes　down.　A　little　spark　fly　cross　the　table.

A　little　spark　fly　cross　the　table:　桌上空气紧张得快冒火星了。

I　got　six　children　by　this　crazy　woman,　he　mutter.

Five,　she　say.

He　so　outdone　he　cant　even　say,　Say　what?

He　look　over　at　the　youngest　child.　She　sullen,　mean,　mischeevous　and　too　stubborn　to　live　in　this　world.　But　he　love　her　best　of　all.　Her　name　Henrietta.

Henrietta,　he　say.

She　say,　Yesssss...like　they　say　it　on　the　radio.

Everything　she　say　confuse　him.　Nothing,　he　say.　Then　he　say,　Gogit　me　a　cool　glass　of　water.

She　dont　move.

Please,　he　say.

She　go　git　the　water,　put　it　by　his　plate,　give　him　a　peck　on　the　cheek.　Say,　Poor　Daddy.　Sit　back　down.

You　not　gitting　a　penny　of　my　money,　Mr.　say　to　me.　Not　one　thin　dime.

Did　I　ever　ast　you　for　money?　I　say.　I　never　ast　you　for　nothing.　Not　even　for　your　sorry　hand　in　marriage.

Shug　break　in　right　there.　Wait,　she　say.　Hold　it.　Somebody　else　going　with　us　too.　No　use　in　Celie　being　the　only　one　taking　the　weight.

Everybody　sort　of　cut　they　eyes　at　Sofia.　She　the　one　they　cant　quite　find　a　place　for.　She　the　stranger.

It　aint　me,　she　say,　and　her　look　say,　Fuck　you　for　entertaining　the　thought.　She　reach　for　a　biscuit　and　sort　of　root　her　behind　deeper　into　her　seat.　One　look　at　this　big　stout　graying,　wildeyed　woman　and　you　know　not　even　to　ast.　Nothing.

But　just　to　clear　this　up　neat　and　quick,　she　say,　Im　home.　Period.

Her　sister　Odessa　come　and　put　her　arms　round　her.　Jack

Jack:　奥德莎的丈夫，索菲亚的姐夫。　move　up　close.

Course　you　is,　Jack　say.

Mama　crying?　ast　one　of　Sofia　children.

Miss　Sofia　too,　another　one　say.

But　Sofia　cry　quick,　like　she　do　most　things.

Who　going?　she　ast.

Nobody　say　nothing.　It　so　quiet　you　can　hear　the　embers　dying　back　in　the　stove.　Sound　like　they　falling　in　on　each　other.

Finally,　Squeak　look　at　everybody　from　under　her　bangs.　Me,　she　say.　Im　going　North.

You　going　What?　say　Harpo.　He　so　surprise.　He　begin　to　sputter,　sputter,　just　like　his　daddy.　Sound　like　I　dont　know　what.

I　want　to　sing,　say　Squeak.

Sing!　say　Harpo.

Yeah,　say　Squeak.　Sing.　I　aint　sung　in　public　since　Jolentha　was　born.　Her　name　Jolentha.　They　call　her　Suzie　Q.

You　aint　had　to　sing　in　public　since　Jolentha　was　born.　Everything　you　need　I　done　provided　for.

I　need　to　sing,　say　Squeak.

Listen　Squeak,　say　Harpo.　You　cant　go　to　Memphis.　Thats　all　there　is　to　it.

Mary　Agnes,　say　Squeak.

Squeak,　Mary　Agnes,　what　difference　do　it　make?

It　make　a　lot,　say　Squeak.　When　I　was　Mary　Agnes　I　could　sing　in　public.

Just　then　a　little　knock　come　on　the　door.

Odessa　and　Jack　look　at　each　other.　Come　in,　say　Jack.

A　skinny　little　white　woman　stick　most　of　herself　through　the　door.

Oh,　you　all　are　eating　dinner,　she　say.　Excuse　me.

Thats　all　right,　say　Odessa.　Us　just　finishing　up.　But　theres　plenty　left.　Why　dont　you　sit　down　and　join　us.　Or　I　could　fix　you　something　to　eat　on　the　porch.

Oh　lord,　say　Shug.

It　Eleanor　Jane

Eleanor　Jane:　埃莉诺·简，市长的女儿，索菲亚带大的白人女孩。,　the　white　girl　Sofia　used　to　work　for.

She　look　round　till　she　spot　Sofia,　then　she　seem　to　let　her　breath　out.　No　thank　you,　Odessa,　she　say.　I　aint　hungry.　I　just　come　to　see　Sofia.

Sofia,　she　say.　Can　I　see　you　on　the　porch　for　a　minute.

All　right,　Miss　Eleanor,　she　say.　Sofia　push　back　from　the　table　and　they　go　out　on　the　porch.　A　few　minutes　later　us　hear　Miss　Eleanor　sniffling.　Then　she　really　boohoo.

What　the　matter　with　her?　Mr.　ast.

Henrietta　say,　Problimbszzzz...like　somebody　on　the　radio.

Odessa　shrug.　She　always　underfoot,　she　say.

A　lot　of　drinking　in　that　family,　say　Jack.　Plus,　they　cant　keep　that　boy　of　theirs　in　college.　He　get　drunk,　aggravate　his　sister,　chase　women,　hunt　niggers,　and　that　aint　all.

That　enough,　say　Shug.　Poor　Sofia.

Pretty　soon　Sofia　come　back　in　and　sit　down.

What　the　matter?　ast　Odessa.

A　lot　of　mess　back　at　the　house,　say　Sofia.

You　got　to　go　back　up　there?　Odessa　ast.

Yeah,　say　Sofia.　In　a　few　minutes.　But　Ill　try　to　be　back　before　the　children　go　to　bed.

Henrietta　ast　to　be　excuse,　say　she　got　a　stomach　ache.

Squeak　and　Harpos　little　girl　come　over,　look　up　at　Sofia,　say,　You　gotta　go　Misofia?

Sofia　say,　Yeah,　pull　her　up　on　her　lap.　Sofia　on　parole,　she　say.　Got　to　act　nice.

Suzie　Q　lay　her　head　on　Sofia　chest.　Poor　Sofia,　she　say,　just　like　she　heard　Shug.　Poor　Sofia.

Mary　Agnes,　darling,　say　Harpo,　look　how　Suzie　Q　take　to　Sofia.

Yeah,　say　Squeak,　children　know　good　when　they　see　it.　She　and　Sofia　smile　at　one　nother.

Go　on　sing,　say　Sofia,　Ill　look　after　this　one　till　you　come　back.

You　will?　say　Squeak.

Yeah,　say　Sofia.

And　look　after　Harpo,　too,　say　Squeak.　Please　maam.

Amen

Questions　for　Discussion

1.　In　the　first　letter,　what　does　the　incident　which　leads　up　to　Sofias　ending　up　in　jail　tell　us　about　U.　S.　racial　relations　in　the　story?　And　how　does　the　incident　reveal　Sofias　personality?

2.　How　do　you　understand　Sofias　statement　in　the　second　letter　that　shes　the　best　convict　yet　at　the　same　time　dreaming　of　murder　sleep　or　wake?

3.　At　the　beginning　of　the　third　letter,　Sofias　experience　as　a　prisoner　and　as　a　maid　for　the　mayors　family　turns　her　into　a　different　person.　Yet　with　the　conflict　between　men　and　women　in　Mr.　s　household　unfolding,　her　old　defiant　self　returns.　What　do　you　think　effects　the　change?

4.　Why　does　Squeak,　in　the　third　letter,　emphasize　her　real　name　Mary　Agnes?　What　does　a　name　mean　to　a　black　woman,　given　the　glaring　sexism　within　the　black　community　in　the　story?

4.　Beloved

作者简介

托妮·莫里森(1931—2019)是当代美国黑人文坛最耀眼的明星，获得包括普利策奖和诺贝尔文学奖在内的诸多奖项。她在黑人传统文学的基础上不断探索，形成了自己的创作特色，是继赖特、埃里森之后美国黑人文学史上的又一座高峰。

莫里森出生于美国中西部俄亥俄州洛雷恩镇的一个黑人家庭。父母对黑人音乐和民间故事的热爱让莫里森从小就深受黑人文化的熏陶。1949年，她考入霍华德大学，主修英语，副修古典文学。本科毕业后前往康奈尔大学深造，获文学硕士学位，硕士论文是关于福克纳和伍尔夫的小说。1958年，她与牙买加建筑师哈罗德·莫里森结婚。1964年离婚后，她独自抚养两个儿子。从1965年到1984年，莫里森担任兰登书屋出版公司的教科书编辑和小说类图书编辑。在此期间编辑了《黑人之书》(The　Black　Book,　1974)——一部汇集了记载美国黑人历史的照片和文本的大作。从1984到1989年，她在纽约州立大学任教，1989年后在普林斯顿大学任教，笔耕不辍，至今已经出版11部长篇小说，包括《最蓝的眼睛》(1970)、《秀拉》(1973)、《所罗门之歌》(1977)、《柏油娃》(1981),反映美国黑人百年历史的三部曲《宠儿》(1987)、《爵士乐》(1992)、《乐园》(1998)；进入21世纪以来陆续发表《爱》(2003)、《恩惠》(2008)、《家园》(2012),和《愿上帝保佑你，孩子》(2015)。除长篇小说之外，她还创作了戏剧、短篇故事、儿童书籍以及批评文集《在黑暗中嬉戏——白人性与文学想象》(1992)、《他者之源》(2017)和《自尊之源》(2019)。

作品简介与赏析

《宠儿》是莫里森最知名的小说，出版后一年即获得普利策奖，作者也因这部小说获得诺贝尔文学奖。2006年，《纽约时报书评》组织100名作家和编辑评选25年来美国最佳小说，《宠儿》高居榜首。小说主人公塞丝以真实的美国历史人物——逃亡黑奴玛格丽特·加纳为原型。1855年，从肯塔基州的种植园“甜蜜之家”出逃到俄亥俄州的女黑奴塞丝面对前来抓捕的白人，为避免自己的孩子重蹈奴隶的悲惨命运，她亲手杀死不到两岁的女儿，出狱后让人在其墓碑上刻上“宠儿”二字。18年后，一个自称名叫宠儿的年轻女子走进了塞丝的生活，从此一切都改变了……故事的开头是1873年，处于重建时期的美国南方依然盛行着蓄奴制时代的种族暴行。塞丝和女儿丹芙独自住在辛辛那提城郊，基本不与人往来。之前同在“甜蜜之家”为奴的保罗·D来到她家，引发了她对过去的痛苦回忆。与此同时，18年前被母亲杀死的女儿宠儿的鬼魂重返人间，前来向塞丝索爱。在设计赶走保罗·D后，宠儿无限度地向塞丝提出各种要求，让后者变成母爱的奴隶。最后，丹芙带着一群黑人邻居前来驱鬼，宠儿终于消失，塞丝也从过去的阴影中走了出来。

《宠儿》着力刻画了蓄奴制对已获自由的美国黑人的身心伤害，体现了作家在小说创作中惯常表现的政治敏锐性。20世纪的最后25年，一种新的文类——新奴隶叙事在美国黑人文坛悄然兴起。以埃里克斯·哈利的《根》为标志，一大批新奴隶叙事体小说次第登场。为了辨明后民权运动时代自由的含义，这批作品重新开启了对奴隶制的探讨，其中最受赞誉的便是《宠儿》。《宠儿》以深刻的批判意识和高度的人文关怀，改写了被主流历史观所忽视与边缘化的黑人历史，还原了他们的生存状态，讲述美国南方重建时期，已成为自由人的黑奴重建自我身份的故事。小说对外部世界着墨不多，重点追踪人物的内心发展轨迹，通过倒叙的方式，由几个主要人物的叙事声音将情节依次推进。透过主要叙事人也是主人公塞丝的意识和回忆，大部分的故事情节得以浮现。

小说的叙事技巧堪称完美。首先，它打破了传统的时间顺序和线形叙事，将过去的点点滴滴穿插到现在的时间层面上，不仅使得故事的进展十分缓慢，而且混淆了过去与现在的时间界限，使二者浑然一体。这种表现手法淋漓尽致地展现了人物不愿却不得不面对过去的痛苦而混乱的心境。其次，小说基于声音和听觉的叙事特点十分明显。在小说起始的寥寥数页里，第三人称叙事人的叙事声音就已不露痕迹地迅速将书中几个主要人物推上前台。如果说叙事声音在编织情节的过程中将不同的身份赋予人物，那么人物形象的逐渐丰满乃至呼之欲出，则应归功于书中出现的其他种种声音：人物的对话、内心独白、歌谣、布道、多声部的合唱等，它们构成一部波澜壮阔的交响乐，成为黑人重建自我、缔结家庭纽带关系、从群体中汲取力量的重要手段。再次，则是作者对黑人口语体的大量运用。她在小说中成功地吸取和发扬了黑人文化传统独特的魅力，把从黑奴时代起就开始流传的民间口头文学的传统运用到自己的创作中。作品多处采用口吻亲切、如同唠家常一般的口语体，字里行间透露出听者和说者双方的默契，同时在书中零星散落条条线索，留下了一处处空白，需要读者用自己的想象力和经验来填补。这使文本具有了强大的召唤力，在文本与读者之间形成一种动态交流。读者不再是被动地接受文本，而是必须主动参与到小说情节的建构和想象中。

虽然属于基于事实的新奴隶叙事体，作家却将现实与超现实相结合，赋予小说魔幻现实主义的色彩。比如，小说第一章就以“凶宅闹鬼”的情节牢牢抓住读者，把哥特式小说元素放在这部取材于真人真事的故事中，其颠覆意味跃然纸上。西方理性主义传统把鬼视为被排斥、被压制、被放逐的对象，而宠儿这个冤鬼却能肉身还魂，回到人间索取那过早丢失的母爱。与宠儿的鬼魂相比，真正可怕的其实是蓄奴制，尽管已在法律层面被废除，但它的余响依然如鬼魅般如影随形，是黑人心中不可触及的伤痕。这种情节安排也反映了莫里森与黑人本土文化的契合。她的小说富含神话寓言、民俗仪式、民间传说、民间信仰、黑人音乐等黑人传统文化的因素，也带有明显的非洲传统宗教观和生死观的印记。相信、接受、容忍鬼魂的存在，甚至与之交流的情形，在书中随处可见。在一次访谈中，莫里森明确表示她相信鬼魂的存在。对这一主题的渲染其实反衬出她所倡导的黑人民族传统对现代文明既定秩序的有力反驳。

莫里森还善于通过塑造身份神秘、性格模糊的人物形象来构建开放性的小说文本。宠儿究竟是人是鬼？这是个至今依然争议不休的问题。实际上，小说的开放性表明，莫里森在小说中交叉运用了偏重双重意识的非裔美国人的视角，和重视多样性、多声部和过程的后现代视角，结合了西方传统文学的精髓和黑人口头文学的特质，体现了艺术性和思想性的完美融合，成为20世纪后半叶唯有《看不见的人》能与之比肩的最具影响力的美国黑人小说。

下文选自《宠儿》第一章。凶宅闹鬼与故人来访的重合开启了女主人公的意识流动，记忆深处的过往点滴泛起，作者以高超的叙事技巧将过去与现在、现实与幻象巧妙地编织在一起，吸引着读者去探寻故事的真相。

One

124　WAS　SPITEFUL.　Full　of　a　babys　venom.　The　women　in　the　house　knew　it　and　so　did　the　children.　For　years　each　put　up　with　the　spite　in　his　own　way,　but　by　1873　Sethe　and　her　daughter　Denver　were　its　only　victims.　The　grandmother,　Baby　Suggs,　was　dead,　and　the　sons,　Howard　and　Buglar,　had　run　away　by　the　time　they　were　thirteen　years　old—as　soon　as　merely　looking　in　a　mirror　shattered　it　(that　was　the　signal　for　Buglar);　as　soon　as　two　tiny　hand　prints　appeared　in　the　cake　(that　was　it　for　Howard).　Neither　boy　waited　to　see　more;　another　kettleful　of　chickpeas　smoking　in　a　heap　on　the　floor;　soda　crackers　crumbled　and　strewn　in　a　line　next　to　the　door　sill.　Nor　did　they　wait　for　one　of　the　relief　periods:　the　weeks,　months　even,　when　nothing　was　disturbed.　No.　Each　one　fled　at　once—the　moment　the　house　committed　what　was　for　him　the　one　insult　not　to　be　borne　or　witnessed　a　second　time.　Within　two　months,　in　the　dead　of　winter,　leaving　their　grandmother,　Baby　Suggs;　Sethe,　their　mother;　and　their　little　sister,　Denver,　all　by　themselves　in　the　gray　and　white　house　on　Bluestone　Road.　It　didnt　have　a　number　then,　because　Cincinnati　didnt　stretch　that　far.　In　fact,　Ohio　had　been　calling　itself　a　state　only　seventy　years　when　first　one　brother　and　then　the　next　stuffed　quilt　packing　into　his　hat,　snatched　up　his　shoes,　and　crept　away　from　the　lively　spite　the　house　felt　for　them.

Baby　Suggs　didnt　even　raise　her　head.　From　her　sickbed　she　heard　them　go　but　that　wasnt　the　reason　she　lay　still.　It　was　a　wonder　to　her　that　her　grandsons　had　taken　so　long　to　realize　that　every　house　wasnt　like　the　one　on　Bluestone　Road.　Suspended　between　the　nastiness　of　life　and　the　meanness　of　the　dead,　she　couldnt　get　interested　in　leaving　life　or　living　it,　let　alone　the　fright　of　two　creepingoff　boys.　Her　past　had　been　like　her　present—intolerable—and　since　she　knew　death　was　anything　but　forgetfulness,　she　used　the　little　energy　left　her　for　pondering　color.

“Bring　a　little　lavender　in,　if　you　got　any.　Pink,　if　you　dont.”

And　Sethe　would　oblige　her　with　anything　from　fabric　to　her　own　tongue.　Winter　in　Ohio　was　especially　rough　if　you　had　an　appetite　for　color.　Sky　provided　the　only　drama,　and　counting　on　a　Cincinnati　horizon　for　lifes　principal　joy　was　reckless　indeed.　So　Sethe　and　the　girl　Denver　did　what　they　could,　and　what　the　house　permitted,　for　her.　Together　they　waged　a　perfunctory　battle　against　the　outrageous　behavior　of　that　place;　against　turnedover　slop　jars,　smacks　on　the　behind,　and　gusts　of　sour　air.　For　they　understood　the　source　of　the　outrage　as　well　as　they　knew　the　source　of　light.

Baby　Suggs　died　shortly　after　the　brothers　left,　with　no　interest　whatsoever　in　their　leavetaking　or　hers,　and　right　afterward　Sethe　and　Denver　decided　to　end　the　persecution　by　calling　forth　the　ghost　that　tried　them　so.　Perhaps　a　conversation,　they　thought,　an　exchange　of　views　or　something　would　help.　So　they　held　hands　and　said,　“Come　on.　Come　on.　You　may　as　well　just　come　on.”

The　sideboard　took　a　step　forward　but　nothing　else　did.

“Grandma　Baby　must　be　stopping　it,”　said　Denver.　She　was　ten　and　still　mad　at　Baby　Suggs　for　dying.

Sethe　opened　her　eyes.　“I　doubt　that,”　she　said.

“Then　why　dont　it　come?”

“You　forgetting　how　little　it　is,”　said　her　mother.　“She　wasnt　even　two　years　old　when　she　died.　Too　little　to　understand.　Too　little　to　talk　much　even.”

“Maybe　she　dont　want　to　understand,”　said　Denver.

“Maybe.　But　if　shed　only　come,　I　could　make　it　clear　to　her.”　Sethe　released　her　daughters　hand　and　together　they　pushed　the　sideboard　back　against　the　wall.　Outside　a　driver　whipped　his　horse　into　the　gallop　local　people　felt　necessary　when　they　passed　124.

“For　a　baby　she　throws　a　powerful　spell,”　said　Denver.

“No　more　powerful　than　the　way　I　loved　her,”　Sethe　answered　and　there　it　was　again.　The　welcoming　cool　of　unchiseled　headstones;

the　one　she　selected　to　lean　against　on　tiptoe,　her　knees　wide　open　as　any　grave.　Pink　as　a　fingernail　it　was,　and　sprinkled　with　glittering　chips.　Ten　minutes,　he　said.　You　got　ten　minutes　Ill　do　it　for　free.

Ten　minutes　for　seven　letters.　With　another　ten　could　she　have　gotten　“Dearly”　too?　She　had　not　thought　to　ask　him　and　it　bothered　her　still　that　it　might　have　been　possible—that　for　twenty　minutes,　a　half　hour,　say,　she　could　have　had　the　whole　thing,　every　word　she　heard　the　preacher　say　at　the　funeral　(and　all　there　was　to　say,　surely)　engraved　on　her　babys　headstone:　Dearly　Beloved.　But　what　she　got,　settled　for,　was　the　one　word　that　mattered.　She　thought　it　would　be　enough,　ruttingrutting:　苟合。

among　the　headstones　with　the　engraver,　his　young　son　looking　on,　the　anger　in　his　face　so　old;　the　appetite　in　it　quite　new.　That　should　certainly　be　enough.　Enough　to　answer　one　more　preacher,　one　more　abolitionist　and　a　town　full　of　disgust.

Counting　on　the　stillness　of　her　own　soul,　she　had　forgotten　the　other　one:　the　soul　of　her　baby　girl.　Who　would　have　thought　that　a　little　old　baby　could　harbor　so　much　rage?　Rutting　among　the　stones　under　the　eyes　of　the　engravers　son　was　not　enough.　Not　only　did　she　have　to　live　out　her　years　in　a　house　palsied　by　the　babys　fury　at　having　its　throat　cut,　but　those　ten　minutes　she　spent　pressed　up　against　dawncolored　stone　studded　with　star　chips,　her　knees　wide　open　as　the　grave,　were　longer　than　life,　more　alive,　more　pulsating　than　the　baby　blood　that　soaked　her　fingers　like　oil.

“We　could　move,”　she　suggested　once　to　her　motherinlaw.

“Whatd　be　the　point?”　asked　Baby　Suggs.　“Not　a　house　in　the　country　aint　packed　to　its　rafters　with　some　dead　Negros　grief.　We　lucky　this　ghost　is　a　baby.　My　husbands　spirit　was　to　come　back　in　here?　or　yours?　Dont　talk　to　me.　You　lucky.　You　got　three　left.　Three　pulling　at　your　skirts　and　just　one　raising　hell　from　the　other　side.　Be　thankful,　why　dont　you?　I　had　eight.　Every　one　of　them　gone　away　from　me.　Four　taken,　four　chased,　and　all,　I　expect,　worrying　somebodys　house　into　evil.”　Baby　Suggs　rubbed　her　eyebrows.　“My　firstborn.　All　I　can　remember　of　her　is　how　she　loved　the　burned　bottom　of　bread.　Can　you　beat　that?　Eight　children　and　thats　all　I　remember.”

“Thats　all　you　let　yourself　remember,”　Sethe　had　told　her,　but　she　was　down　to　one　herself—one　alive,　that　is—the　boys　chased　off　by　the　dead　one,　and　her　memory　of　Buglar　was　fading　fast.　Howard　at　least　had　a　head　shape　nobody　could　forget.　As　for　the　rest,　she　worked　hard　to　remember　as　close　to　nothing　as　was　safe.　Unfortunately　her　brain　was　devious.　She　might　be　hurrying　across　a　field,　running　practically,　to　get　to　the　pump　quickly　and　rinse　the　chamomile　sap　from　her　legs.　Nothing　else　would　be　in　her　mind.　The　picture　of　the　men　coming　to　nurse　her　was　as　lifeless　as　the　nerves　in　her　back　where　the　skin　buckled　like　a　washboard.　Nor　was　there　the　faintest　scent　of　ink　or　the　cherry　gum　and　oak　bark　from　which　it　was　made.　Nothing.　Just　the　breeze　cooling　her　face　as　she　rushed　toward　water.　And　then　sopping　the　chamomile　away　with　pump　water　and　rags,　her　mind　fixed　on　getting　every　last　bit　of　sap　off—on　her　carelessness　in　taking　a　shortcut　across　the　field　just　to　save　a　half　mile,　and　not　noticing　how　high　the　weeds　had　grown　until　the　itching　was　all　the　way　to　her　knees.　Then　something.　The　plash　of　water,　the　sight　of　her　shoes　and　stockings　awry　on　the　path　where　she　had　flung　them;　or　Here　Boy　lapping　in　the　puddle　near　her　feet,　and　suddenly　there　was　Sweet　HomeSweet　Home:　“甜蜜之家”，塞丝出逃之前所在的种植园的名字。

rolling,　rolling,　rolling　out　before　her　eyes,　and　although　there　was　not　a　leaf　on　that　farm　that　did　not　make　her　want　to　scream,　it　rolled　itself　out　before　her　in　shameless　beauty.　It　never　looked　as　terrible　as　it　was　and　it　made　her　wonder　if　hell　was　a　pretty　place　too.　Fire　and　brimstone　all　right,　but　hidden　in　lacy　groves.　Boys　hanging　from　the　most　beautiful　sycamores　in　the　world.　It　shamed　her—remembering　the　wonderful　soughing　trees　rather　than　the　boys.　Try　as　she　might　to　make　it　otherwise,　the　sycamores　beat　out　the　children　every　time　and　she　could　not　forgive　her　memory　for　that.

When　the　last　of　the　chamomile　was　gone,　she　went　around　to　the　front　of　the　house,　collecting　her　shoes　and　stockings　on　the　way.　As　if　to　punish　her　further　for　her　terrible　memory,　sitting　on　the　porch　not　forty　feet　away　was　Paul　D,　the　last　of　the　Sweet　Home　men.　And　although　she　she　said,　“Is　that　you?”

“Whats　left.”　He　stood　up　and　smiled.　“How　you　been,　girl,　besides　barefoot?”

When　she　laughed　it　came　out　loose　and　young.　“Messed　up　my　legs　back　yonder.　Chamomile.”

He　made　a　face　as　though　tasting　a　teaspoon　of　something　bitter.　“I　dont　want　to　even　hear　bout　it.　Always　did　hate　that　stuff.”

Sethe　balled　up　her　stockings　and　jammed　them　into　her　pocket.　“Come　on　in.”

“Porch　is　fine,　Sethe.　Cool　out　here.”　He　sat　back　down　and　looked　at　the　meadow　on　the　other　side　of　the　road,　knowing　the　eagerness　he　felt　would　be　in　his　eyes.

“Eighteen　years,”　she　said　softly.

“Eighteen,”　he　repeated.　“And　I　swear　I　been　walking　every　one　of　em.　Mind　if　I　join　you?”　He　nodded　toward　her　feet　and　began　unlacing　his　shoes.

“You　want　to　soak　them?　Let　me　get　you　a　basin　of　water.”　She　moved　closer　to　him　to　enter　the　house.

“No,　uh　uh.　Cant　baby　feet.　A　whole　lot　more　tramping　they　got　to　do　yet.”

“You　cant　leave　right　away,　Paul　D.　You　got　to　stay　awhile.”

“Well,　long　enough　to　see　Baby　Suggs,　anyway.　Where　is　she?”

“Dead.”

“Aw　no.　When?”

“Eight　years　now.　Almost　nine.”

“Was　it　hard?　I　hope　she　didnt　die　hard.”

Sethe　shook　her　head.　“Soft　as　cream.　Being　alive　was　the　hard　part.　Sorry　you　missed　her　though.　Is　that　what　you　came　by　for?”

“Thats　some　of　what　I　came　for.　The　rest　is　you.　But　if　all　the　truth　be　known,　I　go　anywhere　these　days.　Anywhere　they　let　me　sit　down.”

“You　looking　good.”

“Devils　confusion.　He　lets　me　look　good　long　as　I　feel　bad.”　He　looked　at　her　and　the　word　“bad”　took　on　another　meaning.

Sethe　smiled.　This　is　the　way　they　were—had　been.　All　of　the　Sweet　Home　men,　before　and　after　Halle,　treated　her　to　a　mild　brotherly　flirtation,　so　subtle　you　had　to　scratch　for　it.

Except　for　a　heap　more　hair　and　some　waiting　in　his　eyes,　he　looked　the　way　he　had　in　Kentucky.　Peachstone　skin;　straightbacked.　For　a　man　with　an　immobile　face　it　was　amazing　how　ready　it　was　to　smile,　or　blaze　or　be　sorry　with　you.　As　though　all　you　had　to　do　was　get　his　attention　and　right　away　he　produced　the　feeling　you　were　feeling.　With　less　than　a　blink,　his　face　seemed　to　change—underneath　it　lay　the　activity.

“I　wouldnt　have　to　ask　about　him,　would　I?　Youd　tell　me　if　there　was　anything　to　tell,　wouldnt　you?”　Sethe　looked　down　at　her　feet　and　saw　again　the　sycamores.

“Id　tell　you.　Sure　Id　tell　you.　I　dont　know　any　more　now　than　I　did　then.”　Except　for　the　churn,　he　thought,　and　you　dont　need　to　know　that.　“You　must　think　hes　still　alive.”

“No.　I　think　hes　dead.　Its　not　being　sure　that　keeps　him　alive.”

“What　did　Baby　Suggs　think?”

“Same,　but　to　listen　to　her,　all　her　children　is　dead.　Claimed　she　felt　each　one　go　the　very　day　and　hour.”

“When　she　say　Halle　went?”

“Eighteen　fiftyfive.　The　day　my　baby　was　born.”

“You　had　that　baby,　did　you?　Never　thought　youd　make　it.”

He　chuckled.　“Running　off　pregnant.”

“Had　to.　Couldnt　be　no　waiting.”　She　lowered　her　head　and　thought,　as　he　did,　how　unlikely　it　was　that　she　had　made　it.　And　if　it　hadnt　been　for　that　girl　looking　for　velvet,　she　never　would　have.

“All　by　yourself　too.”　He　was　proud　of　her　and　annoyed　by　her.　Proud　she　had　done　it;　annoyed　that　she　had　not　needed　Halle　or　him　in　the　doing.

“Almost　by　myself.　Not　all　by　myself.　A　whitegirl　helped　me.”

“Then　she　helped　herself　too,　God　bless　her.”

“You　could　stay　the　night,　Paul　D.”

“You　dont　sound　too　steady　in　the　offer.”

Sethe　glanced　beyond　his　shoulder　toward　the　closed　door.　“Oh　its　truly　meant.　I　just　hope　youll　pardon　my　house.　Come　on　in.　Talk　to　Denver　while　I　cook　you　something.”

Paul　D　tied　his　shoes　together,　hung　them　over　his　shoulder　and　followed　her　through　the　door　straight　into　a　pool　of　red　and　undulating　light　that　locked　him　where　he　stood.

“You　got　company?”　he　whispered,　frowning.

“Off　and　on,”　said　Sethe.

“Good　God.”　He　backed　out　the　door　onto　the　porch.　“What　kind　of　evil　you　got　in　here?”

“Its　not　evil,　just　sad.　Come　on.　Just　step　through.”

He　looked　at　her　then,　closely.　Closer　than　he　had　when　she　first　rounded　the　house　on　wet　and　shining　legs,　holding　her　shoes　and　stockings　up　in　one　hand,　her　skirts　in　the　other.　Halles　girl—the　one　with　iron　eyes　and　backbone　to　match.　He　had　never　seen　her　hair　in　Kentucky.　And　though　her　face　was　eighteen　years　older　than　when　last　he　saw　her,　it　was　softer　now.　Because　of　the　hair.　A　face　too　still　for　comfort;　irises　the　same　color　as　her　skin,　which,　in　that　still　face,　used　to　make　him　think　of　a　mask　with　mercifully　punched　out　eyes.　Halles　woman.　Pregnant　every　year　including　the　year　she　sat　by　the　fire　telling　him　she　was　going　to　run.　Her　three　children　she　had　already　packed　into　a　wagonload　of　others　in　a　caravan　of　Negroes　crossing　the　river.　They　were　to　be　left　with　Halles　mother　near　Cincinnati.　Even　in　that　tiny　shack,　leaning　so　close　to　the　fire　you　could　smell　the　heat　in　her　dress,　her　eyes　did　not　pick　up　a　flicker　of　light.　They　were　like　two　wells　into　which　he　had　trouble　gazing.　Even　punched　out　they　needed　to　be　covered,　lidded,　marked　with　some　sign　to　warn　folks　of　what　that　emptiness　held.　So　he　looked　instead　at　the　fire　while　she　told　him,　because　her　husband　was　not　there　for　the　telling.　Mr.　Garner　was　dead　and　his　wife　had　a　lump　in　her　neck　the　size　of　a　sweet　potato　and　unable　to　speak　to　anyone.　She　leaned　as　close　to　the　fire　as　her　pregnant　belly　allowed　and　told　him,　Paul　D,　the　last　of　the　Sweet　Home　men.

There　had　been　six　of　them　who　belonged　to　the　farm,　Sethe　the　only　female.　Mrs.　Garner,　crying　like　a　baby,　had　sold　his　brother　to　pay　off　the　debts　that　surfaced　the　minute　she　was　widowed.　Then　schoolteacher　arrived　to　put　things　in　order.　But　what　he　did　broke　three　more　Sweet　Home　men　and　punched　the　glittering　iron　out　of　Sethes　eyes,　leaving　two　open　wells　that　did　not　reflect　firelight.

Now　the　iron　was　back　but　the　face,　softened　by　hair,　made　him　trust　her　enough　to　step　inside　her　door　smack　into　a　pool　of　pulsing　red　light.

She　was　right.　It　was　sad.　Walking　through　it,　a　wave　of　grief　soaked　him　so　thoroughly　he　wanted　to　cry.　It　seemed　a　long　way　to　the　normal　light　surrounding　the　table,　but　he　made　it—dryeyed　and　lucky.

“You　said　she　died　soft.　Soft　as　cream,”　he　reminded　her.

“Thats　not　Baby　Suggs,”　she　said.

“Who　then?”

“My　daughter.　The　one　I　sent　ahead　with　the　boys.”

“She　didnt　live?”

“No.　The　one　I　was　carrying　when　I　run　away　is　all　I　got　left.

Boys　gone　too.　Both　of　em　walked　off　just　before　Baby　Suggs　died.”

Paul　D　looked　at　the　spot　where　the　grief　had　soaked　him.　The　red　was　gone　but　a　kind　of　weeping　clung　to　the　air　where　it　had　been.

Probably　best,　he　thought.　If　a　Negro　got　legs　he　ought　to　use　them.　Sit　down　too　long,　somebody　will　figure　out　a　way　to　tie　them　up.　Still...if　her　boys　were　gone...

“No　man?　You　here　by　yourself?”

“Me　and　Denver,”　she　said.

“That　all　right　by　you?”

“Thats　all　right　by　me.”

She　saw　his　skepticism　and　went　on.　“I　cook　at　a　restaurant　in　town.　And　I　sew　a　little　on　the　sly.

Paul　D　smiled　then,　remembering　the　bedding　dress.　Sethe　was　thirteen　when　she　came　to　Sweet　Home　and　already　ironeyed.　She　was　a　timely　present　for　Mrs.　Garner　who　had　lost　Baby　Suggs　to　her　husbands　high　principles.　The　five　Sweet　Home　men　looked　at　the　new　girl　and　decided　to　let　her　be.　They　were　young　and　so　sick　with　the　absence　of　women　they　had　taken　to　calves.　Yet　they　let　the　ironeyed　girl　be,　so　she　could　choose　in　spite　of　the　fact　that　each　one　would　have　beaten　the　others　to　mush　to　have　her.　It　took　her　a　year　to　choose—a　long,　tough　year　of　thrashing　on　pallets　eaten　up　with　dreams　of　her.　A　year　of　yearning,　when　rape　seemed　the　solitary　gift　of　life.　The　restraint　they　had　exercised　possible　only　because　they　were　Sweet　Home　men—the　ones　Mr.　Garner　bragged　about　while　other　farmers　shook　their　heads　in　warning　at　the　phrase.

“Yall　got　boys,”　he　told　them.　“Young　boys,　old　boys,　picky　boys,　stroppin　boys.　Now　at　Sweet　Home,　my　niggers　is　men　every　one　of　em.　Bought　em　thataway,　raised　em　thataway.　Men　every　one.”

“Beg　to　differ,　Garner.　Aint　no　nigger　men.”

“Not　if　you　scared,　they　aint.”　Garners　smile　was　wide.　“But　if　you　a　man　yourself,　youll　want　your　niggers　to　be　men　too.”

“I　wouldnt　have　no　nigger　men　round　my　wife.”

It　was　the　reaction　Garner　loved　and　waited　for.　“Neither　would　I,”　he　said.　“Neither　would　I,”　and　there　was　always　a　pause　before　the　neighbor,　or　stranger,　or　peddler,　or　brotherinlaw　or　whoever　it　was　got　the　meaning.　Then　a　fierce　argument,　sometimes　a　fight,　and　Garner　came　home　bruised　and　pleased,　having　demonstrated　one　more　time　what　a　real　Kentuckian　was:　one　tough　enough　and　smart　enough　to　make　and　call　his　own　niggers　men.

And　so　they　were:　Paul　D　Garner,　Paul　F　Garner,　Paul　A　Garner,　Halle　Suggs　and　Sixo,　the　wild　man.　All　in　their　twenties,　minus　women,　fucking　cows,　dreaming　of　rape,　thrashing　on　pallets,　rubbing　their　thighs　and　waiting　for　the　new　girl—the　one　who　took　Baby　Suggs　place　after　Halle　bought　her　with　five　years　of　Sundays.　Maybe　that　was　why　she　chose　him.　A　twentyyearold　man　so　in　love　with　his　mother　he　gave　up　five　years　of　Sabbaths　just　to　see　her　sit　down　for　a　change　was　a　serious　recommendation.

She　waited　a　year.　And　the　Sweet　Home　men　abused　cows　while　they　waited　with　her.　She　chose　Halle　and　for　their　first　bedding　she　sewed　herself　a　dress　on　the　sly.

“Wont　you　stay　on　awhile?　Cant　nobody　catch　up　on　eighteen　years　in　a　day.”

Out　of　the　dimness　of　the　room　in　which　they　sat,　a　white　staircase　climbed　toward　the　blueandwhite　wallpaper　of　the　second　floor.　Paul　D　could　see　just　the　beginning　of　the　paper;　discreet　flecks　of　yellow　sprinkled　among　a　blizzard　of　snowdrops　all　backed　by　blue.　The　luminous　white　of　the　railing　and　steps　kept　him　glancing　toward　it.　Every　sense　he　had　told　him　the　air　above　the　stairwell　was　charmed　and　very　thin.　But　the　girl　who　walked　down　out　of　that　air　was　round　and　brown　with　the　face　of　an　alert　doll.

Paul　D　looked　at　the　girl　and　then　at　Sethe　who　smiled　saying,　“Here　she　is　my　Denver.　This　is　Paul　D,　honey,　from　Sweet　Home.”

“Good　morning,　Mr.　D.”

“Garner,　baby.　Paul　D　Garner.”

“Yes　sir.”

“Glad　to　get　a　look　at　you.　Last　time　I　saw　your　mama,　you　were　pushing　out　the　front　of　her　dress.”

“Still　is,”　Sethe　smiled,　“provided　she　can　get　in　it.”

Denver　stood　on　the　bottom　step　and　was　suddenly　hot　and　shy.　It　had　been　a　long　time　since　anybody　(goodwilled　whitewoman,　preacher,　speaker　or　newspaperman)　sat　at　their　table,　their　sympathetic　voices　called　liar　by　the　revulsion　in　their　eyes.　For　twelve　years,　long　before　Grandma　Baby　died,　there　had　been　no　visitors　of　any　sort　and　certainly　no　friends.　No　colored　people.　Certainly　no　hazelnut　man　with　too　long　hair　and　no　notebook,　no　charcoal,　no　oranges,　no　questions.　Someone　her　mother　wanted　to　talk　to　and　would　even　consider　talking　to　while　barefoot.　Looking,　in　fact　acting,　like　a　girl　instead　of　the　quiet,　queenly　woman　Denver　had　known　all　her　life.　The　one　who　never　looked　away,　who　when　a　man　got　stomped　to　death　by　a　mare　right　in　front　of　Sawyers　restaurant　did　not　look　away;　and　when　a　sow　began　eating　her　own　litter　did　not　look　away　then　either.　And　when　the　babys　spirit　picked　up　Here　Boy　and　slammed　him　into　the　wall　hard　enough　to　break　two　of　his　legs　and　dislocate　his　eye,　so　hard　he　went　into　convulsions　and　chewed　up　his　tongue,　still　her　mother　had　not　looked　away.　She　had　taken　a　hammer,　knocked　the　dog　unconscious,　wiped　away　the　blood　and　saliva,　pushed　his　eye　back　in　his　head　and　set　his　leg　bones.　He　recovered,　mute　and　offbalance,　more　because　of　his　untrustworthy　eye　than　his　bent　legs,　and　winter,　summer,　drizzle　or　dry,　nothing　could　persuade　him　to　enter　the　house　again.

Now　here　was　this　woman　with　the　presence　of　mind　to　repair　a　dog　gone　savage　with　pain　rocking　her　crossed　ankles　and　looking　away　from　her　own　daughters　body.　As　though　the　size　of　it　was　more　than　vision　could　bear.　And　neither　she　nor　he　had　on　shoes.　Hot,　shy,　now　Denver　was　lonely.　All　that　leaving:　first　her　brothers,　then　her　grandmother—serious　losses　since　there　were　no　children　willing　to　circle　her　in　a　game　or　hang　by　their　knees　from　her　porch　railing.　None　of　that　had　mattered　as　long　as　her　mother　did　not　look　away　as　she　was　doing　now,　making　Denver　long,　downright　long,　for　a　sign　of　spite　from　the　baby　ghost.

“Shes　a　finelooking　young　lady,”　said　Paul　D.　“Finelooking.　Got　her　daddys　sweet　face.”

“You　know　my　father?”

“Knew　him.　Knew　him　well.”

“Did　he,　Maam?”　Denver　fought　an　urge　to　realign　her　affection.

“Of　course　he　knew　your　daddy.　I　told　you,　hes　from　Sweet　Home.”

Denver　sat　down　on　the　bottom　step.　There　was　nowhere　else　gracefully　to　go.　They　were　a　twosome,　saying　“Your　daddy”　and　“Sweet　Home”　in　a　way　that　made　it　clear　both　belonged　to　them　and　not　to　her.　That　her　own　fathers　absence　was　not　hers.　Once　the　absence　had　belonged　to　Grandma　Baby—a　son,　deeply　mourned　because　he　was　the　one　who　had　bought　her　out　of　there.　Then　it　was　her　mothers　absent　husband.　Now　it　was　this　hazelnut　strangers　absent　friend.　Only　those　who　knew　him　(“knew　him　well”)　could　claim　his　absence　for　themselves.　Just　as　only　those　who　lived　in　Sweet　Home　could　remember　it,　whisper　it　and　glance　sideways　at　one　another　while　they　did.　Again　she　wished　for　the　baby　ghost—its　anger　thrilling　her　now　where　it　used　to　wear　her　out.　Wear　her　out.

“We　have　a　ghost　in　here,”　she　said,　and　it　worked.　They　were　not　a　twosome　anymore.　Her　mother　left　off　swinging　her　feet　and　being　girlish.　Memory　of　Sweet　Home　dropped　away　from　the　eyes　of　the　man　she　was　being　girlish　for.　He　looked　quickly　up　the　lightningwhite　stairs　behind　her.

“So　I　hear,”　he　said.　“But　sad,　your　mama　said.　Not　evil.”

“No　sir,”　said　Denver,　“not　evil.　But　not　sad　either.”

“What　then?”

“Rebuked.　Lonely　and　rebuked.”

“Is　that　right?”　Paul　D　turned　to　Sethe.

“I　dont　know　about　lonely,”　said　Denvers　mother.　“Mad,　maybe,　but　I　dont　see　how　it　could　be　lonely　spending　every　minute　with　us　like　it　does.”

“Must　be　something　you　got　it　wants.”

Sethe　shrugged.　“Its　just　a　baby.”

“My　sister,”　said　Denver.　“She　died　in　this　house.”

Paul　D　scratched　the　hair　under　his　jaw.　“Reminds　me　of　that　headless　bride　back　behind　Sweet　Home.　Remember　that,　Sethe?　Used　to　roam　them　woods　regular.”

“How　could　I　forget?　Worrisome...”

“How　come　everybody　run　off　from　Sweet　Home　cant　stop　talking　about　it?　Look　like　if　it　was　so　sweet　you　would　have　stayed.”

“Girl,　who　you　talking　to?”

Paul　D　laughed.　“True,　true.　Shes　right,　Sethe.　It　wasnt　sweet　and　it　sure　wasnt　home.”　He　shook　his　head.

“But　its　where　we　were,”　said　Sethe.　“All　together.　Comes　back　whether　we　want　it　to　or　not.”　She　shivered　a　little.　A　light　ripple　of　skin　on　her　arm,　which　she　caressed　back　into　sleep.　“Denver,”　she　said,　“start　up　that　stove.　Cant　have　a　friend　stop　by　and　dont　feed　him.”

“Dont　go　to　any　trouble　on　my　account,”　Paul　D　said.

“Bread　aint　trouble.　The　rest　I　brought　back　from　where　I　work.　Least　I　can　do,　cooking　from　dawn　to　noon,　is　bring　dinner　home.　You　got　any　objections　to　pike?”

“If　he　dont　object　to　me　I　dont　object　to　him.”

At　it　again,　thought　Denver.　Her　back　to　them,　she　jostled　the　kindlin　and　almost　lost　the　fire.　“Why　dont　you　spend　the　night,　Mr.　Garner?　You　and　Maam　can　talk　about　Sweet　Home　all　night　long.”

Sethe　took　two　swift　steps　to　the　stove,　but　before　she　could　yank　Denvers　collar,　the　girl　leaned　forward　and　began　to　cry.

“What　is　the　matter　with　you?　I　never　knew　you　to　behave　this　way.”

“Leave　her　be,”　said　Paul　D.　“Im　a　stranger　to　her.”

“Thats　just　it.　She　got　no　cause　to　act　up　with　a　stranger.　Oh　baby,　what　is　it?　Did　something　happen?”

But　Denver　was　shaking　now　and　sobbing　so　she　could　not　speak.　The　tears　she　had　not　shed　for　nine　years　wetting　her　far　too　womanly　breasts.

“I　cant　no　more.　I　cant　no　more.”

“Cant　what?　What　cant　you?”

“I　cant　live　here.　I　dont　know　where　to　go　or　what　to　do,　but　I　cant　live　here.　Nobody　speaks　to　us.　Nobody　comes　by.　Boys　dont　like　me.　Girls　dont　either.”

“Honey,　honey.”

“Whats　she　talking　bout　nobody　speaks　to　you?”　asked　Paul　D.

“Its　the　house.　People　dont—”

“Its　not!　Its　not　the　house.　Its　us!　And　its　you!”

“Denver!”

“Leave　off,　Sethe.　Its　hard　for　a　young　girl　living　in　a　haunted　house.　That　cant　be　easy.”

“Its　easier　than　some　other　things.”

“Think,　Sethe.　Im　a　grown　man　with　nothing　new　left　to　see　or　do　and　Im　telling　you　it　aint　easy.　Maybe　you　all　ought　to　move.　Who　owns　this　house?”

Over　Denvers　shoulder　Sethe　shot　Paul　D　a　look　of　snow.　“What　you　care?”

“They　wont　let　you　leave?”

“No.”

“Sethe.”

“No　moving.　No　leaving.　Its　all　right　the　way　it　is.”

“You　going　to　tell　me　its　all　right　with　this　child　half　out　of　her　mind?”

Something　in　the　house　braced,　and　in　the　listening　quiet　that　followed　Sethe　spoke.

“I　got　a　tree　on　my　back　and　a　haint　in　my　house,　and　nothing　in　between　but　the　daughter　I　am　holding　in　my　arms.　No　more　running—from　nothing.　I　will　never　run　from　another　thing　on　this　earth.　I　took　one　journey　and　I　paid　for　the　ticket,　but　let　me　tell　you　something,　Paul　D　Garner:　it　cost　too　much!　Do　you　hear　me?　It　cost　too　much.　Now　sit　down　and　eat　with　us　or　leave　us　be.”

Paul　D　fished　in　his　vest　for　a　little　pouch　of　tobacco—concentrating　on　its　contents　and　the　knot　of　its　string　while　Sethe　led　Denver　into　the　keeping　room　that　opened　off　the　large　room　he　was　sitting　in.　He　had　no　smoking　papers,　so　he　fiddled　with　the　pouch　and　listened　through　the　open　door　to　Sethe　quieting　her　daughter.　When　she　came　back　she　avoided　his　look　and　went　straight　to　a　small　table　next　to　the　stove.　Her　back　was　to　him　and　he　could　see　all　the　hair　he　wanted　without　the　distraction　of　her　face.

“What　tree　on　your　back?”

“Huh.”　Sethe　put　a　bowl　on　the　table　and　reached　under　it　for　flour.

“What　tree　on　your　back?　Is　something　growing　on　your　back?　I　dont　see　nothing　growing　on　your　back.”

“Its　there　all　the　same.”

“Who　told　you　that?”

“Whitegirl.　Thats　what　she　called　it.　Ive　never　seen　it　and　never　will.　But　thats　what　she　said　it　looked　like.　A　chokecherry　tree.　Trunk,　branches,　and　even　leaves.　Tiny　little　chokecherry　leaves.　But　that　was　eighteen　years　ago.　Could　have　cherries　too　now　for　all　I　know.”

Sethe　took　a　little　spit　from　the　tip　of　her　tongue　with　her　forefinger.　Quickly,　lightly　she　touched　the　stove.　Then　she　trailed　her　fingers　through　the　flour,　parting,　separating　small　hills　and　ridges　of　it,　looking　for　mites.　Finding　none,　she　poured　soda　and　salt　into　the　crease　of　her　folded　hand　and　tossed　both　into　the　flour.　Then　she　reached　into　a　can　and　scooped　half　a　handful　of　lard.　Deftly　she　squeezed　the　flour　through　it,　then　with　her　left　hand　sprinkling　water,　she　formed　the　dough.

“I　had　milk,”　she　said.　“I　was　pregnant　with　Denver　but　I　had　milk　for　my　baby　girl.　I　hadnt　stopped　nursing　her　when　I　sent　her　on　ahead　with　Howard　and　Buglar.”

Now　she　rolled　the　dough　out　with　a　wooden　pin.　“Anybody　could　smell　me　long　before　he　saw　me.　And　when　he　saw　me　hed　see　the　drops　of　it　on　the　front　of　my　dress.　Nothing　I　could　do　about　that.　All　I　knew　was　I　had　to　get　my　milk　to　my　baby　girl.　Nobody　was　going　to　nurse　her　like　me.　Nobody　was　going　to　get　it　to　her　fast　enough,　or　take　it　away　when　she　had　enough　and　didnt　know　it.　Nobody　knew　that　she　couldnt　pass　her　air　if　you　held　her　up　on　your　shoulder,　only　if　she　was　lying　on　my　knees.　Nobody　knew　that　but　me　and　nobody　had　her　milk　but　me.　I　told　that　to　the　women　in　the　wagon.　Told　them　to　put　sugar　water　in　cloth　to　suck　from　so　when　I　got　there　in　a　few　days　she　wouldnt　have　forgot　me.　The　milk　would　be　there　and　I　would　be　there　with　it.”

“Men　dont　know　nothing　much,”　said　Paul　D,　tucking　his　pouch　back　into　his　vest　pocket,　“but　they　do　know　a　suckling　cant　be　away　from　its　mother　for　long.”

“Then　they　know　what　its　like　to　send　your　children　off　when　your　breasts　are　full.”

“We　was　talking　bout　a　tree,　Sethe.”

“After　I　left　you,　those　boys　came　in　there　and　took　my　milk.　Thats　what　they　came　in　there　for.　Held　me　down　and　took　it.　I　told　Mrs.　Garner　on　em.　She　had　that　lump　and　couldnt　speak　but　her　eyes　rolled　out　tears.　Them　boys　found　out　I　told　on　em.　Schoolteacher　made　one　open　up　my　back,　and　when　it　closed　it　made　a　tree.　It　grows　there　still.”

“They　used　cowhide　on　you?”

“And　they　took　my　milk.”

“They　beat　you　and　you　was　pregnant?”

“And　they　took　my　milk!”

The　fat　white　circles　of　dough　lined　the　pan　in　rows.　Once　more　Sethe　touched　a　wet　forefinger　to　the　stove.　She　opened　the　oven　door　and　slid　the　pan　of　biscuits　in.　As　she　raised　up　from　the　heat　she　felt　Paul　D　behind　her　and　his　hands　under　her　breasts.　She　straightened　up　and　knew,　but　could　not　feel,　that　his　cheek　was　pressing　into　the　branches　of　her　chokecherry　tree.

Not　even　trying,　he　had　become　the　kind　of　man　who　could　walk　into　a　house　and　make　the　women　cry.　Because　with　him,　in　his　presence,　they　could.　There　was　something　blessed　in　his　manner.　Women　saw　him　and　wanted　to　weep—to　tell　him　that　their　chest　hurt　and　their　knees　did　too.　Strong　women　and　wise　saw　him　and　told　him　things　they　only　told　each　other:　that　way　past　the　Change　of　Life,　desire　in　them　had　suddenly　become　enormous,　greedy,　more　savage　than　when　they　were　fifteen,　and　that　it　embarrassed　them　and　made　them　sad;　that　secretly　they　longed　to　die—to　be　quit　of　it—that　sleep　was　more　precious　to　them　than　any　waking　day.　Young　girls　sidled　up　to　him　to　confess　or　describe　how　welldressed　the　visitations　were　that　had　followed　them　straight　from　their　dreams.　Therefore,　although　he　did　not　understand　why　this　was　so,　he　was　not　surprised　when　Denver　dripped　tears　into　the　stovefire.　Nor,　fifteen　minutes　later,　after　telling　him　about　her　stolen　milk,　her　mother　wept　as　well.　Behind　her,　bending　down,　his　body　an　arc　of　kindness,　he　held　her　breasts　in　the　palms　of　his　hands.　He　rubbed　his　cheek　on　her　back　and　learned　that　way　her　sorrow,　the　roots　of　it;　its　wide　trunk　and　intricate　branches.　Raising　his　fingers　to　the　hooks　of　her　dress,　he　knew　without　seeing　them　or　hearing　any　sigh　that　the　tears　were　coming　fast.　And　when　the　top　of　her　dress　was　around　her　hips　and　he　saw　the　sculpture　her　back　had　become,　like　the　decorative　work　of　an　ironsmith　too　passionate　for　display,　he　could　think　but　not　say,　“Aw,　Lord,　girl.”　And　he　would　tolerate　no　peace　until　he　had　touched　every　ridge　and　leaf　of　it　with　his　mouth,　none　of　which　Sethe　could　feel　because　her　back　skin　had　been　dead　for　years.　What　she　knew　was　that　the　responsibility　for　her　breasts,　at　last,　was　in　somebody　elses　hands.

Would　there　be　a　little　space,　she　wondered,　a　little　time,　some　way　to　hold　off　eventfulness,　to　push　busyness　into　the　corners　of　the　room　and　just　stand　there　a　minute　or　two,　naked　from　shoulder　blade　to　waist,　relieved　of　the　weight　of　her　breasts,　smelling　the　stolen　milk　again　and　the　pleasure　of　baking　bread?　Maybe　this　one　time　she　could　stop　dead　still　in　the　middle　of　a　cooking　meal—not　even　leave　the　stove—and　feel　the　hurt　her　back　ought　to.　Trust　things　and　remember　things　because　the　last　of　the　Sweet　Home　men　was　there　to　catch　her　if　she　sank?

The　stove　didnt　shudder　as　it　adjusted　to　its　heat.　Denver　wasnt　stirring　in　the　next　room.　The　pulse　of　red　light　hadnt　come　back　and　Paul　D　had　not　trembled　since　1856　and　then　for　eightythree　days　in　a　row.　Locked　up　and　chained　down,　his　hands　shook　so　bad　he　couldnt　smoke　or　even　scratch　properly.　Now　he　was　trembling　again　but　in　the　legs　this　time.　It　took　him　a　while　to　realize　that　his　legs　were　not　shaking　because　of　worry,　but　because　the　floorboards　were　and　the　grinding,　shoving　floor　was　only　part　of　it.　The　house　itself　was　pitching.　Sethe　slid　to　the　floor　and　struggled　to　get　back　into　her　dress.　While　down　on　all　fours,　as　though　she　were　holding　her　house　down　on　the　ground,　Denver　burst　from　the　keeping　room,　terror　in　her　eyes,　a　vague　smile　on　her　lips.

“God　damn　it!　Hush　up!”　Paul　D　was　shouting,　falling,　reaching　for　anchor.　“Leave　the　place　alone!　Get　the　hell　out!”　A　table　rushed　toward　him　and　he　grabbed　its　leg.　Somehow　he　managed　to　stand　at　an　angle　and,　holding　the　table　by　two　legs,　he　bashed　it　about,　wrecking　everything,　screaming　back　at　the　screaming　house.　“You　want　to　fight,　come　on!　God　damn　it!　She　got　enough　without　you.　She　got　enough!”

The　quaking　slowed　to　an　occasional　lurch,　but　Paul　D　did　not　stop　whipping　the　table　around　until　everything　was　rock　quiet.　Sweating　and　breathing　hard,　he　leaned　against　the　wall　in　the　space　the　sideboard　left.　Sethe　was　still　crouched　next　to　the　stove,　clutching　her　salvaged　shoes　to　her　chest.　The　three　of　them,　Sethe,　Denver,　and　Paul　D,　breathed　to　the　same　beat,　like　one　tired　person.　Another　breathing　was　just　as　tired.

It　was　gone.　Denver　wandered　through　the　silence　to　the　stove.　She　ashed　over　the　fire　and　pulled　the　pan　of　biscuits　from　the　oven.　The　jelly　cupboard　was　on　its　back,　its　contents　lying　in　a　heap　in　the　corner　of　the　bottom　shelf.　She　took　out　a　jar,　and,　looking　around　for　a　plate,　found　half　of　one　by　the　door.　These　things　she　carried　out　to　the　porch　steps,　where　she　sat　down.

Questions　for　Discussion

1.　Mr.　Garner　calls　his　slaves　“men”　while　other　farmers　call　them　“boys”.　Though　treated　with　kindness,　do　you　think　theres　a　real　difference　between　Mr.　Garners　slaves　and　other　blacks　under　slavery?　Why?

2.　What　does　the　“chokecherry　tree”　on　Sethes　back　refer　to?　What　is　it　symbolic　of?

3.　Sethe　lives　in　a　house　numbered　124.　What　does　the　address　imply?

4.　In　Chapter　1,　the　story　is　told　from　the　perspective　of　Sethe　in　the　form　of　stream　of　consciousness.　Despite　her　efforts　to　repress　her　past,　it　surfaces　time　and　again　against　her　will.　What　does　the　juxtaposition　of　past　with　present　serve　to　do?

5.　Erasure

作者简介

当代非裔美国作家帕西瓦尔·埃弗雷特（Percival　Everett)(1956—)出生于乔治亚州的戈登，在南卡罗来纳的哥伦比亚长大；他1977年毕业于迈阿密大学，获得学士学位，1982年毕业于布朗大学，获得硕士学位。他做过多种工作，如爵士乐师、农场工人等；1985年以来，他在美国多所大学教授创意写作等课程，目前任南加州大学杰出教授。

在创作方面，埃弗雷特是个多面手，喜欢实验性写作，欣赏对话、互文与解构策略，不仅出版小说、诗歌，还创作绘画，已经获得多项荣誉，逐步迈入当代非裔美国经典作家的行列，以《抹除》为代表的多部作品进入美国中学、大学的必读书目，影响越来越大。

从处女作《萨德》(1983)开始，他就十分关注生活中的荒诞，以及如何从荒诞的生活中活出意义这一主题，之后有多部相同主题的作品问世；1990年起，《他的黑皮肤》(1990)开始改写古希腊神话，并以《上帝的国度》(1994)进军美国“西部”文化，破解美国西部“神话”及其种族意涵。21世纪以来，他更加关注美国社会与文化中无处不在的种族歧视及其对黑人的心理伤害，代表作《抹除》(2001)极尽讽刺调侃之能事，重新呈现人们习以为常且高度固化的黑人家庭、普通黑人民众(特别是黑人女性)、黑人知识分子、黑人文化工业等，不仅意在颠覆美国黑人经典《土生子》中黑白对立的种族关系，更以夸张的手法嘲弄美国文化工业的驯服机制。

作为杰出的后现代派作家，埃弗雷特注重主题的拓展及文体与技法方面的创新，之后陆续发表《我非西德尼·波迪尔》(2009)、《假设》(2011)、《非裔美国人民的历史》(2004)、《如此悲伤》(2017)等，不仅延续了前期作品中对“身份追寻”“异化的影响”以及暴力与喜剧的“奇怪”混合等主题，而且予以深化，突出上述主题在美国特定历史时期的再现。他不仅与非裔美国文学传统作家与作品形成主题鲜明的对话，而且为美国文学中十分强调的追寻自由、公正，凸显个人主义与个体尊严等主题添加非裔美国视角，极大地丰富了美国文学主题与表现形式。

作品简介与赏析

《抹除》的主人公埃里森在大学做助理教授，喜欢实验性创作，对自己的作品不够畅销，读者不太多等问题，本来有足够的心理预期，但是当他看到别人用类型化的黑人、用社会广为接受的偏见为基础创作出来的黑人隔都小说成为畅销书，成为人们了解、认识黑人个体、家庭、社区，乃至于黑人文化的“经典”之作，而自己最近完成的小说又多次被退稿时，他再也按捺不住，决定以调侃的方式，聚焦当代黑人内城生活，以现实主义的方式，再现当代美国“内城”“真实的”黑人(特别是黑人男性)的生活。

埃里森化名“斯塔格·雷”创作了名为《我的帕雬洛基》的新作——后来直接改名为《操》，以非裔美国经典作家赖特的《土生子》为故事原型，以当代美国黑人女作家萨菲尔的小说《进取》(1997)为调侃对象，塑造了为富有的黑人老板开车，扶黑人老板女儿回房间的黑人青年詹金斯这一形象——他不识字，整天怨天尤人，力比多四溢而且极度暴力。他没有像《土生子》中的黑人主人公别格一样，杀死自己白人老板的女儿玛丽，而是利用自己黑人老板女儿的醉酒，直接与其发生性关系；此外，他与多名黑人女性有染，与四位不同女性生下四个孩子。更为搞笑的是，面对抓捕，他的第一反应不是羞愧，而是，“瞧，我上电视了。”

更为重要的是，这部以破碎英语写成的调侃之作《我的帕雬洛基》(《操》)居然获得类似美国国家图书奖评委会的高度肯定，专家们几乎一致认为，这部不可多得的现实主义杰作，精彩地再现了“真实的”当代黑人生活，好莱坞愿意预付高价，获得这部作品的电影改编权。特别反讽的是，这本戏仿之作的作者埃里森本人就是当时评委会成员之一，而且始终坚持认为，这部作品非常垃圾，全都是类型化的偏见，没有任何真实性可言，是胡编乱造的典型。他想让其他评委认识到，这部作品极具攻击性，“写得很糟”，非常“种族主义”，但是评委会的其他专家对他的这些论述全都不以为然，认为他应该为自己的黑人族人获得此项殊荣感到由衷的高兴，这时候泼冷水，纯粹是妒忌心作祟。

我们可以想象，作为勤勉的实验小说家，此时的埃里森恐怕是悲喜交集。喜的是，自己的严肃之作之前因“不够真实”，或者说“不够黑”而屡遭退稿，无人问津，现在成功突然不期而至；悲的是，自己视为荒诞，予以调侃的“虚假的”东西居然被视为“真实”，成为黑人族群生活的代表，他该如何面对文学，如何思考想象与真实。埃弗雷特以这种文本戏仿的方式进行种族想象，揭示美国文化工业的偏狭与荒诞及其对非裔美国族裔及其文化的扭曲。

Chapter　1

My　journal　is　a　private　affair,　but　as　I　cannot　know　the　time　of　my　coming　death,　and　since　I　am　not　disposed,　however　unfortunately,　to　the　serious　consideration　of　selftermination,　I　am　afraid　that　others　will　see　these　pages.　Since　however　I　will　be　dead,　it　should　not　much　matter　to　me　who　sees　what　or　when.　My　name　is　Thelonious　Ellison.　And　I　am　a　writer　of　fiction.　This　admission　pains　me　only　at　the　thought　of　my　story　being　found　and　read,　as　I　have　always　been　severely　put　off　by　any　story　which　had　as　its　main　character　a　writer.　So,　I　will　claim　to　be　something　else,　if　not　instead,　then　in　addition,　and　that　shall　be　a　son,　a　brother,　a　fisherman,　an　art　lover,　a　woodworker.　If　for　no　other　reason,　I　choose　this　last,　callousbuilding　occupation　because　of　the　shame　it　caused　my　mother,　who　for　years　called　my　pickup　truck　a　station　wagon.　I　am　Thelonious　Ellison.　Call　me　Monk.

I　have　dark　brown　skin,　curly　hair,　a　broad　nose,　some　of　my　ancestors　were　slaves　and　I　have　been　detained　by　pasty　white　policemen　in　New　Hampshire,　Arizona　and　Georgia　and　so　the　society　in　which　I　live　tells　me　I　am　black;　that　is　my　race.　Though　I　am　fairly　athletic,　I　am　no　good　at　basketball.　I　listen　to　Mahler,　Aretha　Franklin,　Charlie　Parker　and　Ry　Cooder　on　vinyl　records　and　compact　discs.　I　graduated　summa　cum　laude　from　Harvard,　hating　every　minute　of　it.　I　am　good　at　math.　I　cannot　dance.　I　did　not　grow　up　in　any　inner　city　or　the　rural　south.　My　family　owned　a　bungalow　near　Annapolis.　My　grandfather　was　a　doctor.　My　father　was　a　doctor.　My　brother　and　sister　were　doctors.

完全不同于人们视为当然的黑人家庭及黑人男性形象。

While　in　college　I　was　a　member　of　the　Black　Panther　Party,　defunct　as　it　was,　mainly　because　I　felt　I　had　to　prove　I　was　black　enough.　Some　people　in　the　society　in　which　I　live,　described　as　being　black,　tell　me　I　am　not　black　enough.

not　black　enough:　所谓“不够黑”即并非人们熟知的传统的黑人形象。

Some　people　whom　the　society　calls　white　tell　me　that　same　thing.　I　have　heard　this　mainly　about　my　novels,　from　editors　who　have　rejected　me　and　reviewers　whom　I　have　apparently　confused　and,　on　a　couple　of　occasions,　on　a　basketball　court　when　upon　missing　a　shot　I　muttered　Egads.　From　a　reviewer:

The　novel　is　finely　crafted,　with　fully　developed　characters,　rich　language　and　subtle　play　with　the　plot,　but　one　is　lost　to　understand　what　this　reworking　of　Aeschyluss　The　Persians　has　to　do　with　the　African　American　experience.

One　night　at　a　party　in　New　York,　one　of　the　tedious　affairs　where　people　who　write　mingle　with　people　who　want　to　write　and　with　people　who　can　help　either　group　begin　or　continue　to　write,　a　tall,　thin,　rather　ugly　book　agent　told　me　that　I　could　sell　many　books　if　Id　forget　about　writing　retellings　of　Euripides　and　parodies　of　French　poststructuralists　and　settle　down　to　write　the　true,　gritty　real　stories　of　black　life.　I　told　him　that　I　was　living　a　black　life,　far　blacker　than　he　could　ever　know,　that　I　had　lived　one,　that　I　would　be　living　one.　He　left　me　to　chat　with　an　ontherise　performance　artist/novelist　who　had　recently　posed　for　seventeen　straight　hours　in　front　of　the　governors　mansion　as　a　lawn　jockey.　He　familiarly　flipped　one　of　her　braided　extensions　and　tossed　a　thumb　back　in　my　direction.

The　hard,　gritty　truth　of　the　matter　is　that　I　hardly　ever　think　about　race.　Those　times　when　I　did　think　about　it　a　lot　I　did　so　because　of　my　guilt　for　not　thinking　about　it.　I　dont　believe　in　race.　I　believe　there　are　people　who　will　shoot　me　or　hang　me　or　cheat　me　and　try　to　stop　me　because　they　do　believe　in　race,　because　of　my　brown　skin,　curly　hair,　wide　nose　and　slave　ancestors.　But　thats　just　the　way　it　is.

Saws　cut　wood.　They　either　rip　with　the　grain　or　cut　across　it.　A　ripsaw　will　slice　smoothly　along　the　grain,　but　chew　up　the　wood　if　it　goes　against　the　grain.　It　is　all　in　the　geometry　of　the　teeth,　the　shape,　size　and　set　of　them,　how　they　lean　away　from　the　blade.　Crosscut　teeth　are　typically　smaller　than　rip　teeth.　The　large　teeth　of　ripsaws　shave　material　away　quickly　and　there　are　deep　gaps　between　them　which　allow　shavings　to　fall　away,　keeping　the　saw　from　binding.　Crosscut　teeth　make　a　wider　path,　are　raked　back　and　beveled　to　points.　The　points　allow　the　crosscut　saw　to　score　and　cleave　the　grain　cleanly.

I　arrived　in　Washington　to　give　a　paper,　for　which　I　had　only　moderate　affection,　at　a　conference,　a　meeting　of　the　Nouveau　Roman　Society.　I　decided　to　attend　out　of　no　great　affinity　for　the　organization　or　its　members　or　its　mission,　but　because　my　mother　and　sister　still　lived　in　D.　C.　and　it　had　been　three　years　since　my　last　visit.

My　mother　had　wanted　to　meet　me　at　the　airport,　but　I　refused　to　give　her　my　flight　information.　For　that　matter,　I　also　did　not　tell　her　at　which　hotel　Id　be　staying.　My　sister　did　not　offer　to　pick　me　up.　Lisa　probably　didnt　hate　me,　her　younger　brother,　but　it　became　fairly　clear　rather　early　in　our　lives,　and　still,　that　she　had　little　use　for　me.　I　was　too　flighty　for　her,　lived　in　a　swirl　of　abstracts,　removed　from　the　real　world.　While　she　had　struggled　through　medical　school,　I　had　somehow,　apparently,　breezed　through　college　“without　cracking　a　book.”　A　falsehood,　but　a　belief　to　which　she　held　fast.　While　she　was　risking　her　life　daily　by　crossing　picket　lines　to　offer　poor　women　health　care　which　included　abortions　if　they　wanted,　I　was　fishing,　sawing　wood,　or　writing　dense,　obscure　novels　or　teaching　a　bunch　of　green　California　intellects　about　Russian　formalism.　But　if　she　was　cool　to　me,　she　was　frozen　to　my　brother,　the　high　rolling　plastic　surgeon　in　Scottsdale,　Arizona.　Bill　had　a　wife　and　two　kids,　but　we　all　knew　he　was　gay.　Lisa　didnt　dislike　Bill　because　of　his　sexuality,　but　because　he　practiced　medicine　for　no　reason　other　than　the　accumulation　of　great　wealth.

I　fancied　occasionally　that　my　brother　and　sister　were　proud　of　me,　for　my　books,　even　if　they　found　them　unreadable,　boring,　mere　curiosities.　As　my　brother　pointed　out　once　while　my　parents　were　extolling　my　greatness　to　some　friends,　“You　could　rub　your　shit　on　a　shingle　and　theyd　act　like　that.”　I　knew　this　before　hed　said　it,　but　still　it　was　rather　deflating.　He　then　added,　“Not　that　they　dont　have　a　right　to　be　proud.”　What　went　unsaid,　but　clearly　implied,　was　that　they　had　a　right　but　not　a　reason　to　be　proud　of　me.　I　must　have　cared　some　then,　because　I　was　angered　by　his　words.　By　now　however,　I　appreciated　Bill　and　what　he　had　said,　though　I　hadnt　seen　him　in　four　years.

The　conference　was　at　the　Mayflower　Hotel,　but　as　I　disliked　meetings　and　had　little　interest　in　the　participants　of　such　affairs,　I　took　a　room　at　a　little　B　&　B　off　Dupont　Circle　called　the　Tabbard　Inn.　The　most　attractive　feature　of　the　place　to　me　was　the　absence　of　a　phone　in　the　room.　I　checked　in,　unpacked　and　showered.　I　then　called　my　sister　at　her　clinic　from　the　phone　in　the　lobby.

“So,　youre　here,”　Lisa　said.

I　didnt　point　out　to　her　how　much　better　So,　you　made　it　might　have　sounded,　but　said,　“Yep.”

“Have　you　called　Mother　yet?”

“No.　I　figured　shed　be　taking　her　afternoon　siesta　about　now.”

Lisa　grunted　what　sounded　like　an　agreement.　“So,　shall　I　pick　you　up　and　we　can　swing　by　and　get　the　old　lady　for　dinner?”

“Okay.　Im　at　the　Tabbard　Inn.”

“I　know　it.　Be　there　in　an　hour.”　She　hung　up　before　I　could　say　Goodbye　or　Ill　be　ready　or　Dont　bother,　just　go　to　hell.　But　I　wouldnt　have　said　that　to　Lisa.　I　admired　her　far　too　much　and　in　many　ways　I　wished　I　were　more　like　her.　Shed　dedicated　her　life　to　helping　people,　but　it　was　never　clear　to　me　that　she　liked　them　all　that　much.　That　idea　of　service,　she　got　from　my　father,　who,　however　wealthy　his　practice　made　him,　never　collected　fees　from　half　his　patients.

My　fathers　funeral　had　been　a　simple,　yet　huge,　somewhat　organic　event　in　Northwest　Washington.　The　street　outside　the　Episcopal　church　my　parents　never　attended　was　filled　with　people,　nearly　all　of　them　tearyeyed　and　claiming　to　have　been　delivered　into　this　world　by　the　great　Dr.　Ellison,　this　in　spite　of　most　of　them　being　clearly　too　young　to　have　been　born　while　he　was　still　practicing.　I　as　yet　have　been　unable　to　come　to　an　understanding　or　create　some　meaning　for　the　spectacle.

Lisa　arrived　exactly　one　hour　later.　We　hugged　stiffly,　as　was　our　wont,　and　walked　to　the　street.　I　got　into　her　luxury　coupe,　sank　into　the　leather　and　said,　“Nice　car.”

“Whats　that　supposed　to　mean?”　she　asked.

“Comfortable　car,”　I　said.　“Plush,　well　appointed,　not　shitty,　nicer　than　my　car.　What　do　you　think　it　means?”

She　turned　the　key.　“I　hope　you　are　ready.”

I　looked　at　her,　watched　as　she　slipped　the　automatic　transmission　into　drive.

“Mothers　a　little　weird　these　days,”　she　said.

“She　sounds　okay　on　the　phone,”　I　said,　knowing　full　well　it　was　a　stupid　thing　to　say,　but　still　my　bit　in　all　this　was　to　allow　segue　from　minor　complaint　to　reports　of　coming　doom.

“You　think　youd　be　able　to　tell　anything　during　those　five　minute　checkins　you　call　conversations?”

I　had　in　fact　called　them　just　that,　but　I　would　no　longer.

“She　forgets　things,　forgets　that　youve　told　her　things　just　minutes　later.”

“She　an　old　woman.”

“Thats　exactly　what　Im　telling　you.”　Lisa　slammed　the　heel　of　her　palm　against　the　horn,　then　lowered　her　windows.　She　yelled　at　the　driver　in　front　of　us　who　had　stopped　in　a　manner　to　her　disliking,　“Eat　shit　and　die,　you　colon　polyp!”

“You　should　be　careful,”　I　said.　“That　guy　could　be　a　nut　or　something.”

“Fuck　him,”　she　said.　“Four　months　ago　Mother　paid　all　her　bills　twice.　All　of　them.　Guess　who　writes　the　checks　now.”　she　turned　her　head　to　look　at　me,　awaiting　a　response.

“You　do.”

“Damn　right,　I　do.　Youre　out　in　California　and　Pretty　Boy　Floyd　is　butchering　people　in　Fartsdale　and　Im　the　only　one　here.”

“What　about　Lorraine?”

“Lorraine　is　still　around.　Where　else　is　she　going　to　be?　Shes　still　stealing　little　things　here　and　there.　Do　you　think　she　complained　when　she　got　paid　twice?　Im　being　run　ragged.”

“Im　sorry,　Lisa.　It　really　isnt　a　fair　setup.”　I　didnt　know　what　to　say　short　of　offering　to　move　back　to　D.C.　and　in　with　my　mother.

“She　cant　even　remember　that　Im　divorced.　She　can　recall　every　nauseating　detail　about　Barry,　but　she　cant　remember　that　he　ran　off　with　his　secretary.　Youll　see.　First　thing　out　of　her　mouth　will　be,　‘Are　you　and　Barry　pregnant　yet?’　Christ.”

“Is　there　anything　you　want　me　to　take　care　of　in　the　house?”　I　asked.

“Yeah,　right.　You　come　home,　fix　a　radiator　and　shell　remember　that　for　six　years.　‘Monksie　fixed　that　squeaky　door.　Why　cant　you　fix　anything?　Youd　think　with　all　that　education　you　could　fix　something.’　Dont　touch　anything　in　that　house.”　Lisa　didnt　reach　for　a　pack　of　cigarettes,　dont　make　motions　like　she　was　reaching　for　one　or　lighting　one,　but　thats　exactly　what　she　was　doing.　In　her　mind,　she　was　holding　a　Bic　lighter　to　a　Marlboro　and　blowing　out　a　cloud　of　smoke.　She　looked　at　me　again.　“So,　how　are　you　doing,　little　brother?”

“Okay,　I　guess.”

“What　are　you　doing　in　town?”

“Im　giving　a　paper　at　the　Nouveau　Roman　Society　meeting.”　Her　silence　seemed　to　request　elaboration.　“Im　working　on　a　novel,　I　guess　youd　call　it　a　novel,　which　treats　this　critical　text　by　Roland　Barthes,　S/Z　exactly　as　it　treats　its　socalled　subject　text　which　is　Balzacs　Sarrasine.”

Lisa　grunted　something　friendly　enough　sounding.　“You　know,　I　just　cant　read　that　stuff　you　write.”

“Sorry.”

“Its　my　fault,　Im　sure.”

“How　is　your　practice?”

Lisa　shook　her　head,　“I　hate　this　country.　These　antiabortionist　creeps　are　out　front　every　day,　with　their　signs　and　their　big　potato　heads.　Theyre　scary.　I　suppose　you　heard　about　that　mess　in　Maryland.”

I　had　in　fact　read　about　the　sniper　who　shot　the　nurse　through　the　clinic　window:　I　nodded.

Lisa　was　tapping　the　steering　wheel　rapid　fire　with　her　index　fingers.　As　always,　my　sister　and　her　problems　seemed　so　much　larger　than　me　and　mine.　And　I　could　offer　her　nothing　in　the　way　of　solutions,　advice　or　even　commiseration.　Even　in　her　car,　in　spite　of　her　small　size　and　soft　features,　she　towered　over　me.

“You　know　why　I　like　you,　Monk,”　she　said　after　a　long　break.　“I　like　you　because　youre　smart.　You　understand　stuff　I　could　never　get　and　you　dont　even　think　about　it.　I　mean,　youre　just　one　of　those　people.”　There　was　a　note　of　resentment　in　her　compliment.　“I　mean,　Bill　is　a　jerk,　probably　a　good　butcher,　but　a　butcher　nonetheless.　He　doesnt　care　about　anything　but　being　a　good　butcher　and　making　butcher　money.　But　you,　you　dont　have　to　think　about　this　crap,　but　you　do.”　She　put　out　her　imaginary　cigarette.　“I　just　wish　youd　write　something　I　could　read.”

“Ill　see　what　I　can　do.”

My　mother　had　just　awakened　from　her　nap　when　we　arrived　at　her　house　on　Underwood,　but　as　always　she　was　dressed　as　if　to　go　out.　She　wore　blush　in　the　old　way,　showing　clearly　on　her　light　cheeks,　but　her　age　let　her　pull　it　off.　She　seemed　shorter　than　ever　and　she　hugged　me　somewhat　less　stiffly　than　my　sister　had　and　said,　“My　little　Monksie　is　home.”

I　lifted　her　briefly　from　the　floor,　she　always　liked　that,　and　kissed　her　cheek.　I　observed　the　expectant　expression　on　my　sisters　face　as　the　old　woman　turned　to　her.

“So,　Lisa,　are　you　and　Barry　pregnant　yet?”

“Barry　is,”　Lisa　said.　She　then　spoke　into　our　mothers　puzzled　face.　“Barry　and　I　are　divorced,　Mother.　The　idiot　ran　off　with　another　woman.”

“Im　so　sorry,　dear.”　She　patted　Lisas　arm.　“Thats　just　life,　honey.　Dont　worry.　Youll　get　through　it.　As　your　father　used　to　say,　‘One　way　or　another.’”

“Thank　you,　Mother.”

“Were　taking　you　out　to　dinner,　madam,”　I　said.　“What　do　you　think　of　that?”

“I　think　its　lovely,　just　lovely.　Let　me　freshen　up　and　grab　my　bag.”

Lisa　and　I　wandered　around　the　living　room　while　she　was　gone.　I　went　to　the　mantel　and　looked　at　the　photographs　that　had　remained　the　same　for　fifteen　years,　my　father　posed　gallantly　in　his　uniform　from　the　war　in　Korea,　my　mother　looking　more　like　Dorothy　Dandridge　than　my　mother,　and　the　children,　looking　sweeter　and　cleaner　than　we　ever　were.　I　looked　down　into　the　fireplace.　“Hey,　Lisa,　there　are　ashes　in　the　fireplace.”

“What?”

“Look.　Ashes.”　I　pointed.

The　fireplace　in　the　house　had　never　been　used.　Our　mother　was　so　afraid　of　fire　that　shed　insisted　on　electric　stoves　and　electric　baseboard　heat　throughout　the　house.　Mother　came　back　with　her　bag　and　her　face　powdered.

“How　did　these　ashes　get　here?”　Lisa　asked,　sidling　up　to　the　subject　in　her　way.

“When　you　burn　things,　you　make　ashes,”　Mother　said.　“You　should　know　that,　with　your　education.”

“What　was　burned?”

“I　promised　your　father　Id　burn　some　of　his　papers　when　he　died.　Well,　he　died.”

“Father　died　seven　years　ago,”　Lisa　said.

“I　know　that,　dear.　I　just　finally　got　around　to　it.　You　know　how　I　hate　fire.”　Her　point　was　a　reasonable　one.

“What　kind　of　papers?”　Lisa　asked.

“Thats　none　of　your　business,”　Mother　said.　“Why　do　you　think　your　father　asked　me　to　burn　them?　Now,　lets　go　to　dinner.”

At　the　door,　Mother　fumbled　with　her　key　in　the　lock,　complained　that　the　mechanism　had　become　sticky　lately.　I　offered　to　help.　“Here,”　I　said.　“If　you　turn　the　key　this　way　and　then　back,　it　turns　easily.”

“Monksie　fixed　my　lock,”　she　said.

Lisa　groaned　and　stepped　down　ahead　of　us　to　her　car.

Mother　spoke　softly　to　me,　“I　think　theres　a　problem　with　Lisa　and　Barry.”

“Yes,　Mother.”

“Are　you　married　yet?”　she　asked.　I　held　her　arm　as　she　walked　down　the　porch　steps.

“Not　yet.”

“Youd　better　get　started.　You　dont　want　to　be　fifty　with　little　kids.　Theyll　run　your　tail　into　the　ground.”

My　father　had　been　considerably　older　than　my　mother.　In　June,　when　school　ended,　we　would　drive　to　the　house　in　Highland　Beach,　Maryland,　and　open　it　for　the　summer.　Wed　open　all　the　windows,　sweep,　clear　cobwebs　and　chase　away　stray　cats.　Then　for　the　rest　of　the　summer　we　would　all　remain　at　the　beach　and　Father　would　join　us　on　weekends.　But　I　remember　how　the　first　cleaning　always　wore　him　out　and　when　it　came　time　to　take　a　break　before　dinner　and　play　softball　or　croquet,　he　would　resign　to　a　seat　on　the　porch　and　watch.　He　would　cheer　Mother　on　when　she　took　the　bat,　giving　her　pointers,　then　sitting　back　as　if　worn　out　by　thinking　about　it.　He　had　more　energy　in　the　mornings　and　for　some　reason　he　and　I　took　early　strolls　together.　We　walked　to　the　beach,　out　onto　the　pier,　then　back,　past　the　Douglass　house　and　over　to　the　tidal　creek　where　wed　sit　and　watch　the　crabs　scurrying　with　the　tide.　Sometimes　wed　take　a　bucket　and　a　net　and　hed　coach　me　while　I　snagged　a　couple　dozen　crabs　for　lunch.

Once　he　fell　to　his　butt　in　the　sand　and　said,　“Thelonious,　youre　a　good　boy.”

I　looked　back　at　him　from　the　ankledeep　water.

“Youre　not　like　your　brother　and　sister.　Of　course,　theyre　not　like　each　other　either.　But　theyre　more　alike　than　theyre　willing　to　admit.　Anyway,　youre　different.”

“Is　that　good,　Father?”　I　asked.

“Yes,”　he　said,　as　if　figuring　out　the　answer　right　then.　He　pointed　to　the　water.　“Theres　a　nice　fat　one.　Come　at　him　from　farther　away.”

I　followed　his　instructions　and　scooped　up　the　crab.

“Good　boy.　You　have　a　special　mind.　The　way　you　see　things.　If　I　had　the　patience　to　figure　out　what　you　were　saying　sometimes,　I　know　youd　make　me　a　smarter　man.”

I　dont　know　what　he　was　telling　me,　but　I　understood　the　flattering　tone　and　appreciated　it.

“And　youre　so　relaxed.　Hang　on　to　that　trait,　son.　That　might　serve　you　better　than　anything　else　in　life.”

“Yes,　Father.”

“It　will　also　prove　handy　for　upsetting　your　siblings.”　Then　he　leaned　back　and　proceeded　to　have　a　heart　attack.

I　ran　to　him.　He　grabbed　my　arm　and　said,　“Now,　stay　relaxed　and　go　get　help.”

That　turned　out　to　be　the　first　of　four　heart　attacks　he　would　suffer　just　out　and　shooting　himself　one　unseasonably　warm　February　evening　while　Mother　was　off　meeting　with　her　bridge　club.　His　suicide　apparently　came　as　no　surprise　to　my　mother,　as　she　called　each　of　us,　in　order　of　age,　and　said　the　same　thing,　“You　must　come　home　for　your　fathers　funeral.”

Dinner　was　typical,　nothing　more　or　less.　My　mother　said　things　that　made　my　sister　roll　her　eyes　while　she　smoked　an　entire　pack　of　imaginary　cigarettes.　Mother　told　me　about　telling　all　her　bridge　buddies　about　my　books,　asking　as　she　always　did　if　there　wasnt　a　better　word　for　fuck　than　fuck.　Then　my　sister　dropped　me　at　my　hotel　and　perfunctorily　committed　herself　to　lunch　with　me　the　next　day.

I　was　scheduled　to　present　my　paper　at　nine　the　next　morning,　so　my　intention　was　to　get　to　bed　early　and　maybe　sleep　through　it.　However,　when　I　entered　my　room　I　found　a　note　that　had　been　slipped　under　the　door　that　told　me　to　return　a　call　to　Linda　Mallory　at　the　Mayflower.　I　went　to　the　lobby　for　the　telephone.

“I　was　hoping　you　would　come　to　the　conference.”　Linda　said.　“The　secretary　in　your　department　told　me　where　youd　be　staying.”

“How　are　you,　Linda?”

“Ive　been　better.　You　know,　Lars　and　I　broke　up.”

“I　didnt　know　you　were　together.　I　suppose　asking　who　Lars　is　at　this　juncture　is　pointless.”

“Are　you　tired?　I　mean,　its　early　yet　and　we　are　still　on　California　clock,　right?”

“Is　that　Bay　area　talk?　California　clock?”　I　looked　at　my　watch.　8:20.　“My　papers　at　nine　in　the　morning.”

“But　its　only　eight　oclock,”　she　said.　“Thats　five　for　us.　You　cant　expect　me　to　believe　youre　going　to　bed　at　five.　I　can　be　over　in　fifteen.”

“No,　Ill　come　there,”　I　said,　fearing　that　if　I　declined　completely,　she　would　show　up　anyway.　“Ill　meet　you　in　the　bar.”

“Theres　one　of　those　little　bars　in　my　room.”

“In　the　bar　at　eightfortyfive.”　I　hung　up.

Linda　Mallory　and　I　had　slept　together　three　times,　two　of　those　times　we　had　sex.　Twice　in　Berkeley　when　I　was　doing　some　readings　and　once　in　Los　Angeles　when　she　was　down　doing　the　same.　She　was　a　tall,　knockkneed,　rather　shapelesshoweverthin　woman　with　a　weak　chin　and　a　sharp　wit,　a　sharp　wit　when　men　and　sex　werent　involved　at　any　rate.　She　zeroed　in　on　male　attention　like　a　Rottweiler　on　a　porkchop　and　it　became　all　she　could　see.　In　fact,　before　her　ears　perked　to　male　attention　she　could　be　called　attractive,　dark　eyes　and　thick　hair,　lean　and　with　an　easy　smile.　She　liked　to　fuck,　she　said,　but　I　believed　she　liked　saying　it　more　than　doing　it.　She　could　be　pushy.　And　she　was　completely　without　literary　talent,　which　was　both　irritating　and,　in　a　weird　way,　refreshing.　Linda　had　published　one　volume　of　predictably　strange　and　stereotypically　innovative　short　fictions　(as　she　liked　to　call　them).　Shed　fallen　into　a　circle　of　innovative　writers　who　had　survived　the　sixties　by　publishing　each　others　stories　in　their　periodicals　and　each　others　books　collectively,　thus　amassing　publications,　so　achieving　tenure　at　their　various　universities,　and　establishing　a　semblance　of　credibility　in　the　socalled　real　world.　Sadly,　these　people　made　up　a　good　portion　of　the　membership　of　the　Nouveau　Roman　Society.　They　all　hated　me.　For　a　couple　of　reasons:　One　was　that　I　had　published　and　had　moderate　success　with　a　realistic　novel　some　years　earlier,　and　two,　I　made　no　secret,　in　print　or　radio　interviews,　what　I　thought　of　their　work.　Finally,　however,　I　was　hated　because　the　French,　whom　they　so　adored,　seemed　to　hold　my　work　in　high　regard.　To　me,　a　mere　strange　footnote　to　my　obscure　and　very　quiet　literary　career.　To　them,　a　slap　in　the　face　perhaps.

Linda　was　already　in　the　bar　when　I　arrived.　She　wrapped　me　up　in　a　hug　and　I　remembered　how　much　like　a　bicycle　she　had　felt　in　bed.

“So,”　she　said,　in　that　way　people　use　the　word　to　introduce　beating　around　the　bush.　“We　had　to　come　three　thousand　miles　to　see　each　other　when　we　live　in　the　same　state.”

“Funny　how　things　work　out.”

We　sat　and　I　ordered　a　scotch.　Linda　asked　for　another　Gibson.　She　played　with　the　onion　in　her　glass,　stabbing　it　with　the　red　plastic　sword.

“Are　you　on　the　program?”　I　asked.　I　hadnt　seen　her　name,　but　then　I　hadnt　looked.

“Im　on　a　panel　with　Davis　Gimbel,　Willis　Lloyd　and　Lewis　Rosenthal.”

“Whats　the　panel?”　I　asked.

“‘The　Place　of　Burroughs　in　American　Fiction.’”

I　groaned.　“Sounds　pleasant　enough.”

“I　saw　the　tide　of　your　paper.　I　dont　get　it.”　She　ate　the　onion　off　her　sword　just　as　our　drinks　arrived.　“Whats　it　about?”

“Youll　hear　it.　Im　sick　of　the　damn　thing.　Its　not　going　to　make　me　any　friends,　Ill　tell　you　that.”　I　looked　around　the　bar　and　saw　no　familiar　faces.　“I　can　just　feel　the　creepiness　here.”

“Why　did　you　come　then?”　she　complained.

“Because　this　way　my　trip　is　paid　for.”　I　swallowed　some　scotch　and　was　sorry　I　hadnt　requested　a　water　back.　“Id　rather　admit　to　that　than　say　I　came　here　because　I　care　about　the　proceedings　of　the　NRS.”

“You　have　a　point.”　Linda　ate　her　second　onion.　“Would　you　like　to　go　up　to　my　room?”

“Smooth,”　I　said.　“What　if　we　dont　have　sex　and　say　we　did?”　After　an　awkward　spell,　I　said,　“So,　hows　Berkeley?”

“Its　fine.　Im　up　for　tenure　this　year.”

“How　does　it　look?”　I　asked,　knowing　full　well　it　couldnt　look　good　for　her.

“Your　familys　here,”　she　said.

“My　mother　and　sister.”　I　finished　my　scotch　and　became　painfully　aware　that　I　had　nothing　to　say　to　Linda.　I　didnt　know　enough　about　her　personal　life　to　ask　questions　and　I　didnt　want　to　bring　up　her　recent　breakup,　so　I　stared　into　my　glass.

The　waitress　came　over　and　asked　if　I　wanted　another　drink.　I　said　no　and　gave　her　enough　for　the　two　Gibsons　and　my　scotch.　Linda　watched　my　hands.

“Id　better　get　some　rest,”　I　said.　“Ill　see　you　tomorrow.”

“Probably.”

Questions　for　Discussion

1.　Why　was　“I”　described　as　not　black　enough　by　both　black　and　white　people?

2.　“I”　dont　believe　in　race,　and　those　who　do　believe　in　race　will　“shoot　me　or　hang　me　or　cheat　me　and　try　to　stop　me”　because　of　“my”　brown　skin,　curly　hair,　wide　nose　and　slave　ancestors,　please　comment　on　it.

3.　Monk　introduces　his　family　members　briefly,　do　you　find　any　differences　between　his　family　and　those　of　others?

6.　The　Known　World

作家简介

与20世纪很多著名非裔美国作家非常类似的是，爱德华·琼斯(1951—)也出身贫寒，不识字的母亲是家中的经济支柱。但是幸运的是，他接受了高等教育，1979年在马萨诸塞耶稣会学校圣十字学院获得英语专业学士学位，1981年在弗吉尼亚大学获得艺术硕士学位；其后20年间，他白天为一家金融杂志工作，晚上进行小说创作，经过多年的不懈努力，终于开始收获成功的果实，成为知名作家。

酷爱读书的琼斯特别喜欢沃特斯的《他的眼睛望着麻雀》和赖特的《土生子》，觉得书中的人物非常熟悉，好像在对自己说话，而且他对黑人也能创作如此美好的东西感到非常震惊；读完埃里森的小说《看不见的人》之后，他看到作者的照片，再次坚定黑人也能创作美好作品的信念。此外，对他的创作产生影响的黑人作家还有小说家佩里、邓巴和布鲁克斯，以及美国白人作家福克纳、俄国作家契诃夫，但是对他的短篇小说创作产生无可替代影响的是英国作家乔伊斯的《都柏林人》。

他的第一部短篇小说集《迷失在都市》(1992)收录14篇短篇小说，获得海明威笔会奖，并进入美国国家图书奖的决赛名单，对一个文坛“新手”来说，这份荣誉非常难得。书中收录的这些故事都以20世纪60年代和70年代华盛顿特区穷苦社区为背景，主要讲述人们在这个冷酷、残忍的世界中的挣扎以及精神方面的坚守与收获。琼斯非常高妙地捕捉到了这个“迷失都市”的脉搏，描绘人们如何面对灾祸不断的世界，以及如何维系家庭与社区的脆弱联系。

2003年，他的第一部长篇小说《已知世界》获得普利策文学奖。批评家认为，这部作品非常与众不同、迷人、有力，可与福克纳、莫里森及马尔克斯的作品相媲美。琼斯在访谈中指出，自己想通过这部作品，揭示使人们挺过艰难岁月的精神力量，他认为是家庭的力量让奴隶们得以挺住。更为重要的是，他认为，人们一直面临这样的难题：家庭的分崩离析及其难以承受的后果，家庭意味着人们具有超越自身的爱，是人们得以幸存的关键。

琼斯对待写作非常认真，惜墨如金，对当下非裔美国文学的商业化写作不以为然，他明确表示，自己不会写“无知”“绝望”与“脆弱”或者写人们去夜店、去做蠢事。他想创作出能够表达人们坚韧、顽强的东西，如爱、荣誉、智识，以及非裔美国人民作为一个民族的强大力量。他的杰作《已知世界》很好地体现了这一理念。

作品简介与赏析

《已知世界》是琼斯的第一部长篇小说，故事背景设在1855年弗吉尼亚州的曼彻斯特县，围绕前黑人奴隶亨利·汤森德展开，讲述他赢得自由后，获得50英亩土地，摇身一变，成为拥有33位奴隶的黑人奴隶主的故事。

熟悉美国南方奴隶制的读者，他们脑海中经常会萦绕着三类人：一是残暴的白人奴隶主，二是受苦受难的黑人奴隶，三是被奴隶主欺凌、侮辱的女黑奴。而21世纪初出版的《已知世界》完全颠覆了人们对奴隶制的普遍认知。这部作品描绘了获得自由的黑人成为奴隶主的故事，而且他这个黑人奴隶主所做的事情与人们熟悉的白人奴隶主并没有本质上的区别；另外一位肤色白皙，获得自由的前奴隶法纳·尔斯泰，也成为与亨利类似的黑人女奴隶主，与一位男奴保持着性关系。人们不禁会问：琼斯此举是否旨在讨好白人社会，减少他们良心上的内疚，还是想借此探讨奴隶制的体制性罪恶——重要的不是作为个体的奴隶主(无论他们是白人还是黑人)有多么邪恶，而是奴隶制所具有的体制性的邪恶，使善良之辈也可能成为暴虐之徒。

虽然本书的重要主题之一是奴隶制，但作者并非只关注肤色，而是非常重视权力的作用，特别是权力的腐蚀作用及其矛盾之处。虽然大部分奴隶制的牺牲品都是黑人，但琼斯也在作品中融入一些小的涉及白人奴隶的故事；尽管黑人奴隶主亨利是书中的重要角色，但是在人物刻画方面，作者对白人警长约翰·斯基潘顿更加关注，把他描绘成当时权力结构中性格最复杂的人物。这位警长非常体面，不愿意拥有奴隶，当有人送给他一个黑人小女孩作为结婚礼物时，他把她当成自己的女儿一样抚养，体现出他人性中非常美好的方面；但是作为警长，职责使然，他也不得不做一些无情杀害自由奴隶的事情。他牢房墙上挂着的名为“已知世界”的旧地图，可以很好地代表他的状况。这幅过时的地图，就像他当差的这个县的社会舆论，既偏颇又片面，只能为他了解这个真实的世界提供非常有限的知识。与之相对应的是艾莉丝·奈特的挂毯，涵盖过去、现在与未来，而非局限于某时某刻，预示着整部作品的基调。

这部广受赞誉的小说没有满足于提供一个善恶分明的故事，而是坚持追问：个体的脆弱与坚强如何体现，奴隶制体制性的罪恶如何得以维系等，为新世纪的美国读者反思历史，勇敢面对历史的复杂性提供了新的思路。

Chapter　1

Liaison.　The　Warmth　of　Family.　Stormy　Weather.

The　evening　his　master　died　he　worked　again　well　after　he　ended　the　day　for　the　other　adults,　his　own　wife　among　them,　and　sent　them　back　with　hunger　and　tiredness　to　their　cabins.　The　young　ones,　his　son　among　them,　had　been　sent　out　of　the　fields　an　hour　or　so　before　the　adults,　to　prepare　the　late　supper　and,　if　there　was　time　enough,　to　play　in　the　few　minutes　of　sun　that　were　left.　When　he,Moses,　finally　freed　himself　of　the　ancient　and　brittle　harness　that　connected　him　to　the　oldest　mule　his　master　owned,　all　that　was　left　of　the　sun　was　a　fiveinchlong　memory　of　red　orange　laid　out　in　still　waves　across　the　horizon　between　two　mountains　on　the　left　and　one　on　the　right.　He　had　been　in　the　fields　for　all　of　fourteen　hours.　He　paused　before　leaving　the　fields　as　the　evening　quiet　wrapped　itself　about　him.　The　mule　quivered,　wanting　home　and　rest.　Moses　closed　his　eyes　and　bent　down　and　took　a　pinch　of　the　soil　and　ate　it　with　no　more　thought　than　if　it　were　a　spot　of　cornbread.　He　worked　the　dirt　around　in　his　mouth　and　swallowed,　leaning　his　head　back　and　opening　his　eyes　in　time　to　see　the　strip　of　sun　fade　to　dark　blue　and　then　to　nothing.　He　was　the　only　man　in　the　realm,　slave　or　free,　who　ate　dirt,　but　while　the　bondage　women,　particularly　the　pregnant　ones,　ate　it　for　some　incomprehensible　need,　for　that　something　that　ash　cakes　and　apples　and　fatback　did　not　give　their　bodies,　he　ate　it　not　only　to　discover　the　strengths　and　weaknesses　of　the　field,　but　because　the　eating　of　it　tied　him　to　the　only　thing　in　his　small　world　that　meant　almost　as　much　as　his　own　life.

This　was　July,　and　July　dirt　tasted　even　more　like　sweetened　metal　than　the　dirt　of　June　or　May.　Something　in　the　growing　crops　unleashed　a　metallic　life　that　only　began　to　dissipate　in　midAugust,　and　by　harvest　time　that　life　would　be　gone　altogether,　replaced　by　a　sour　moldiness　he　associated　with　the　coming　of　fall　and　winter,　the　end　of　a　relationship　he　had　begun　with　the　first　taste　of　dirt　back　in　March,　before　the　first　hard　spring　rain.　Now,　with　the　sun　gone　and　no　moon　and　the　darkness　having　taken　a　nice　hold　of　him,　he　walked　to　the　end　of　the　row,　holding　the　mule　by　the　tail.　In　the　clearing　he　dropped　the　tail　and　moved　around　the　mule　toward　the　barn.

The　mule　followed　him,　and　after　he　had　prepared　the　animal　for　the　night　and　came　out,Moses　smelled　the　coming　of　rain.　He　breathed　deeply,　feeling　it　surge　through　him.　Believing　he　was　alone,　he　smiled.　He　knelt　down　to　be　closer　to　the　earth　and　breathed　deeply　some　more.　Finally,　when　the　effect　began　to　dwindle,　he　stood　and　turned　away,　for　the　third　time　that　week,　from　the　path　that　led　to　the　narrow　lane　of　the　quarters　with　its　people　and　his　own　cabin,　his　woman　and　his　boy.　His　wife　knew　enough　now　not　to　wait　for　him　to　come　and　eat　with　them.　On　a　night　with　the　moon　he　could　see　some　of　the　smoke　rising　from　the　world　that　was　the　lane—home　and　food　and　rest　and　what　passed　in　many　cabins　for　the　life　of　family.　He　turned　his　head　slightly　to　the　right　and　made　out　what　he　thought　was　the　sound　of　playing　children,　but　when　he　turned　his　head　back,　he　could　hear　far　more　clearly　the　last　bird　of　the　day　as　it　eveningchirped　in　the　small　forest　far　off　to　the　left.

He　went　straight　ahead,　to　the　farthest　edge　of　the　cornfields　to　a　patch　of　woods　that　had　yielded　nothing　of　value　since　the　day　his　master　bought　it　from　a　white　man　who　had　gone　broke　and　returned　to　Ireland.　“I　did　well　over　there,”　that　man　lied　to　his　people　back　in　Ireland,　his　dying　wife　standing　hunched　over　beside　him,“but　I　longed　for　all　of　you　and　for　the　wealth　of　my　homeland.”　The　patch　of　woods　of　no　more　than　three　acres　did　yield　some　soft,　blue　grass　that　no　animal　would　touch　and　many　trees　that　no　one　could　identify.　Just　before　Moses　stepped　into　the　woods,　the　rain　began,　and　as　he　walked　on　the　rain　became　heavier.　Well　into　the　forest　the　rain　came　in　torrents　through　the　trees　and　the　mighty　summer　leaves,　and　after　a　bit　Moses　stopped　and　held　out　his　hands　and　collected　water　that　he　washed　over　his　face.　Then　he　undressed　down　to　his　nakedness　and　lay　down.　To　keep　the　rain　out　of　his　nose,　he　rolled　up　his　shirt　and　placed　it　under　his　head　so　that　it　tilted　just　enough　for　the　rain　to　flow　down　about　his　face.　When　he　was　an　old　man　and　rheumatism　chained　up　his　body,　he　would　look　back　and　blame　the　chains　on　evenings　such　as　these,　and　on　nights　when　he　lost　himself　completely　and　fell　asleep　and　didnt　come　to　until　morning,　covered　with　dew.　The　ground　was　almost　soaked.　The　leaves　seemed　to　soften　the　hard　rain　as　it　fell　and　it　hit　his　body　and　face　with　no　more　power　than　the　gentle　tapping　of　fingers.　He　opened　his　mouth;　it　was　rare　for　him　and　the　rain　to　meet　up　like　this.　His　eyes　had　remained　open,　and　after　taking　in　all　that　he　could　without　turning　his　head,　he　took　up　his　thing　and　did　it.　When　he　was　done,　after　a　few　strokes,　he　closed　his　eyes,　turned　on　his　side　and　dozed.　After　a　half　hour　or　so　the　rain　stopped　abruptly　and　plunged　everything　into　silence,　and　that　silence　woke　him.　He　came　to　his　feet　with　the　usual　reluctance.　All　about　his　body　was　mud　and　leaves　and　debris　for　the　rain　had　sent　a　wind　through　the　woods.　He　wiped　himself　with　his　pants　and　remembered　that　the　last　time　he　had　been　there　in　the　rain,　the　rain　had　lasted　long　enough　to　wash　him　clean.　He　had　been　seized　then　by　an　even　greater　happiness　and　had　laughed　and　twirled　himself　around　and　around　in　what　someone　watching　him　might　have　called　a　dance.　He　did　not　know　it,　but　Alice,　a　woman　people　said　had　lost　her　mind,　was　watching　him　now,　only　the　first　time　in　her　six　months　of　wandering　about　in　the　night　that　she　had　come　upon　him.　Had　he　known　she　was　there,　he　would　not　have　thought　she　had　sense　enough　to　know　what　was　going　on,　given　how　hard,　the　story　went,　the　mule　had　kicked　her　on　the　plantation　in　a　faraway　county　whose　name　only　she　remembered.　In　her　saner　moments,　which　were　very　rare　since　the　day　Mosess　master　bought　her,　Alice　could　describe　everything　about　the　Sunday　the　mule　kicked　her　in　the　head　and　sent　all　common　sense　flying　out　of　her.　No　one　questioned　her　because　her　story　was　so　vivid,　so　sad—another　slave　without　freedom　and　now　she　had　a　mind　so　addled　she　wandered　in　the　night　like　a　cow　without　a　bell.　No　one　knew　enough　about　the　place　she　had　come　from　to　know　that　her　former　master　was　terrified　of　mules　and　would　not　have　them　on　his　place,　had　even　banished　pictures　and　books　about　mules　from　his　little　world.

Moses　walked　out　of　the　forest　and　into　still　more　darkness　toward　the　quarters,　needing　no　moon　to　light　his　way.　He　was　thirtyfive　years　old　and　for　every　moment　of　those　years　he　had　been　someones　slave,　a　white　mans　slave　and　then　another　white　mans　slave　and　now,　for　nearly　ten　years,　the　overseer　slave　for　a　black　master.

Caldonia　Townsend,　his　masters　wife,　had　for　the　last　six　days　and　nights　only　been　catnapping,　as　her　husband　made　his　hard　way　toward　death.　The　white　peoples　doctor　had　come　the　morning　of　the　first　day,　as　a　favor　to　Caldonias　mother,　who　believed　in　the　magic　of　white　people,　but　that　doctor　had　only　pronounced　that　Mosess　master,　Henry　Townsend,　was　going　through　a　bad　spell　and　would　recover　soon.　The　ailments　of　white　people　and　black　people　were　different,　and　a　man　who　specialized　in　one　was　not　expected　to　know　much　about　the　other,　and　that　was　something　he　believed　Caldonia　should　know　without　him　telling　her.　If　her　husband　was　dying,　the　doctor　didnt　know　anything　about　it.　And　he　left　in　the　heat　of　the　day,　having　pocketed　75　cents　from　Caldonia,　60　cents　for　looking　at　Henry　and　15　cents　for　the　wear　and　tear　on　himself　and　his　buggy　and　his　oneeyed　horse.

Henry　Townsend—a　black　man　of　thirtyone　years　with　thirtythree　slaves　and　more　than　fifty　acres　of　land　that　sat　him　high　above　many　others,　white　and　black　and　Indian,　in　Manchester　County,　Virginia—sat　up　in　bed　for　most　of　his　dying　days,　eating　a　watery　porridge　and　looking　out　his　window　at　land　his　wife,　Caldonia,　kept　telling　him　he　would　walk　and　ride　over　again.　But　she　was　young　and　naively　vigorous　and　had　known　but　one　death　in　her　life,　that　of　her　father,　who　had　been　secretly　poisoned　by　his　own　wife.　On　the　fourth　day　on　his　way　to　death,　Henry　found　sitting　up　difficult　and　lay　down.　He　spent　that　night　trying　to　reassure　his　wife.　“Nothin　hurts,”　he　said　more　than　once　that　day,　a　day　in　July　1855.　“Nothin　hurts.”

“Would　you　tell　me　if　it　did?”　Caldonia　said.　It　was　near　about　three　in　the　morning,　two　hours　or　so　after　she　had　dismissed　for　the　evening　Loretta,　her　personal　maid,　the　one　who　had　come　with　her　marriage　to　Henry.

“I　aint　took　on　the　habit　of　not　tellin　you　the　truth,”　Henry　said　that　fourth　evening.　“I　cant　start　now.”　He　had　received　some　education　when　he　was　twenty　and　twentyone,　educated　just　enough　to　appreciate　a　wife　like　Caldonia,　a　colored　woman　born　free　and　who　had　been　educated　all　her　days.　Finding　a　wife　had　been　near　the　end　of　a　list　of　things　he　planned　to　do　with　his　life.　“Why　dont　you　go　on　to　bed,　darlin?”　Henry　said.　“I　can　feel　sleep　comin　on　and　you　shouldnt　wait　for　it　to　get　here.”　He　was　in　what　the　slaves　who　worked　in　the　house　called　the　“sick　and　gettin　well　room,”　where　he　had　taken　himself　that　first　sick　day　to　give　Caldonia　some　peace　at　night.　“Im　fine　right　here,”　she　said.　The　night　had　gotten　cooler　and　he　was　in　fresh　nightclothes,　having　sweated　through　the　ones　they　had　put　him　in　at　about　nine　oclock.　“Should　I　read　to　you?”　Caldonia　asked,　covered　in　a　lace　shawl　Henry　had　seen　in　Richmond.　He　had　paid　a　white　boy　to　go　into　the　white　mans　shop　to　purchase　it　for　him,　because　the　shop　would　have　no　black　customers.　“A　bit　of　Milton?　Or　the　Bible?”　She　was　curled　up　in　a　large　horsehair　chair　that　had　been　pulled　up　to　his　bed.　On　each　side　of　the　bed　were　small　tables　just　large　enough　for　a　book　and　a　candelabrum　that　held　three　candles　as　thick　as　a　womans　wrist.　The　candelabrum　on　the　right　side　was　dark,　and　the　one　on　the　left　had　only　one　burning　candle.　There　was　no　fire　in　the　hearth.

“I　been　so　weary　of　Milton,”　Henry　said.　“And　the　Bible　suits　me　better　in　the　day,　when　theres　sun　and　I　can　see　what　all　God　gave　me.”　Two　days　before　he　had　told　his　parents　to　go　home,　that　he　was　doing　better,　and　he　had　indeed　felt　some　improvement,　but　on　the　next　day,　after　his　folks　were　back　at　their　place,　Henry　took　a　turn　back　to　bad.　He　and　his　father　had　not　been　close　for　more　than　ten　years,　but　his　father　was　a　man　strong　enough　to　put　aside　disappointment　in　his　son　when　he　knew　his　flesh　and　blood　was　sick.　In　fact,　the　only　time　his　father　had　come　to　see　Henry　on　the　plantation　was　when　the　son　had　been　doing　poorly.　Some　seven　times　in　the　course　of　ten　years　or　so.　When　Henrys　mother　visited　alone,　whether　he　was　ill　or　well,　she　stayed　in　the　house,　two　rooms　down　from　her　son　and　Caldonia.　The　day　Henry　sent　them　home,　his　parents　had　come　upstairs　and　kissed　his　smiling　face　goodbye,　his　mother　on　the　lips　and　his　father　on　the　forehead,　the　way　it　had　been　done　since　Henry　was　a　boy.　His　parents　as　a　couple　had　never　slept　in　the　home　he　and　Moses　the　slave　had　built,　choosing　to　stay　in　whatever　cabin　was　available　down　in　the　quarters.　And　they　would　do　it　that　way　when　they　came　to　bury　their　only　child.

“Shall　I　sing?”　Caldonia　said,　and　reached　over　and　touched　his　hand　resting　at　the　side　of　the　bed.　“Shall　I　sing　till　the　birds　wake　up?”　She　had　been　educated　by　a　freed　black　woman　who　herself　had　been　educated　in　Washington,　D.C.,　and　Richmond.　That　woman,　Fern　Elston,　had　returned　to　her　own　plantation　after　visiting　the　Townsends　three　days　ago　to　continue　making　part　of　her　living　in　Manchester　County　teaching　the　freed　black　children　whose　parents　could　afford　her.　Caldonia　said,　“You　think　youve　heard　all　my　songs,　Henry　Townsend,　but　you　havent.　You　really　havent.”　Fern　Elston　had　married　a　man　who　was　supposed　to　be　a　farmer,　but　he　lived　to　gamble,　and　as　Fern　told　herself　in　those　moments　when　she　was　able　to　put　love　aside　and　see　her　husband　for　what　he　was,　he　seemed　to　be　driving　them　the　long　way　around　to　the　poorhouse.　Fern　and　her　husband　had　twelve　slaves　to　their　names.　In　1855　in　Manchester　County,　Virginia,　there　were　thirtyfour　free　black　families,　with　a　mother　and　father　and　one　child　or　more,　and　eight　of　those　free　families　owned　slaves,　and　all　eight　knew　one　anothers　business.　When　the　War　between　the　States　came,　the　number　of　slaveowning　blacks　in　Manchester　would　be　down　to　five,　and　one　of　those　included　an　extremely　morose　man　who,　according　to　the　U.S.　census　of　1860,　legally　owned　his　own　wife　and　five　children　and　three　grandchildren.　The　census　of　1860　said　there　were　2,670　slaves　in　Manchester　County,　but　the　census　taker,　a　U.S.　marshal　who　feared　God,　had　argued　with　his　wife　the　day　he　sent　his　report　to　Washington,　D.C.,　and　all　his　arithmetic　was　wrong　because　he　had　failed　to　carry　a　one.

Henry　said,　“No.　Best　save　the　singin　for　some　other　time,　darlin.”　What　he　wanted　was　to　love　her,　to　get　up　from　the　sickbed　and　walk　under　his　own　power　and　take　his　wife　to　the　bed　they　had　been　happy　in　all　their　married　days.　When　he　died,　late　the　evening　of　the　seventh　day,　Fern　Elston　would　be　with　Caldonia　in　his　death　room.　“I　always　thought　you　did　right　in　marrying　him,”　Fern　would　say,　in　the　first　stages　of　grief　for　Henry,　a　former　student.　After　the　War　between　the　States,　Fern　would　tell　a　pamphlet　writer,　a　white　immigrant　from　Canada,　that　Henry　had　been　the　brightest　of　her　students,　someone　she　would　have　taught　for　free.　Loretta,　Caldonias　maid,　would　be　there　as　well　when　Henry　died,　but　she　would　be　silent.　She　merely　closed　her　masters　eyes　after　a　time　and　covered　his　face　with　a　quilt,　a　Christmas　present　from　three　slave　women　who　had　made　it　in　fourteen　days.

Moses　the　overseer　walked　the　lane　of　the　quarters　down　to　his　cabin,　the　one　nearest　the　house　where　his　master　and　mistress　lived.　Next　to　Mosess　cabin,　Elias　sat　on　a　damp　tree　stump　before　his　own　cabin,　whittling　a　piece　of　pinewood　that　would　be　the　body　of　a　doll　he　was　making　for　his　daughter.　It　was　the　first　thing　he　had　ever　given　her.　He　had　a　lamp　hanging　from　a　nail　beside　his　door　but　the　light　had　been　failing　and　he　was　as　close　to　working　blind　as　a　body　could　get.　But　his　daughter　and　his　two　sons,　one　only　thirteen　months　old,　were　heaven　and　earth　to　him　and　somehow　the　knife　cut　into　the　pinewood　in　just　the　right　way　and　began　what　would　be　the　dolls　right　eye.

Moses,　a　few　feet　before　passing　Elias,　said,　“You　gotta　meet　that　mule　in　the　mornin.”

“I　know,”　Elias　said.　Moses　had　not　stopped　walking.　“I　aint　hurtin　a　soul　here.”

Elias　said.　“Just　fixin　on　some　wood.”　Now　Moses　stopped　and　said,　“I　aint　carin　if　you　fixin　Gods　throne.　I　said　you　gotta　meet　that　mule　in　the　mornin.　That　mule　sleepin　right　now,　so　maybe　you　should　follow　after　him.”　Elias　said　nothing　and　he　did　not　move.　Moses　said,　“I　aint　but　two　minutes　off　you,　fella,　and　you　seem　to　wanna　keep　forgettin　that.”　Moses　had　found　Elias　a　great　bother　in　the　mind　from　the　day　Henry　Townsend　drove　up　with　Elias　from　the　slave　market,　a　oneday　affair　held　out　in　the　open　twice　a　year　at　the　eastern　edge　of　the　town　of　Manchester,　in　the　spring　and　in　the　fall　after　harvest.　The　very　day　Elias　was　bought　by　Henry　some　white　people　had　talked　about　building　a　permanent　structure　for　the　slave　market—that　was　the　year　it　rained　every　spring　day　the　market　was　held,　and　many　white　people　caught　colds　as　a　result.　One　woman　died　of　pneumonia.　But　God　was　generous　with　his　blessings　the　following　fall　and　each　day　was　perfect　for　buying　and　selling　slaves,　and　not　a　soul　said　anything　about　constructing　a　permanent　place,　so　fine　was　the　roof　God　himself　had　provided　for　the　market.

Now　Moses　said　to　Elias,　“If　you　aint　waitin　for　me　here　when　the　sun　come　up,　not　even　Massa　Henry　will　save　you.”Moses　continued　on　to　his　cabin.　Moses　was　the　first　slave　Henry　Townsend　had　bought:　$325　and　a　bill　of　sale　from　William　Robbins,　a　white　man.　It　took　Moses　more　than　two　weeks　to　come　to　understand　that　someone　wasnt　fiddling　with　him　and　that　indeed　a　black　man,　two　shades　darker　than　himself,　owned　him　and　any　shadow　he　made.　Sleeping　in　a　cabin　beside　Henry　in　the　first　weeks　after　the　sale,　Moses　had　thought　that　it　was　already　a　strange　world　that　made　him　a　slave　to　a　white　man,　but　God　had　indeed　set　it　twirling　and　twisting　every　which　way　when　he　put　black　people　to　owning　their　own　kind.　Was　God　even　up　there　attending　to　business　anymore?

With　one　foot　Elias　swept　the　shavings　from　his　other　foot　and　started　whittling　again.　The　right　leg　of　the　doll　was　giving　him　trouble:　He　wanted　the　figure　to　be　running　but　he　had　not　been　able　to　get　the　knee　to　bend　just　right.　Someone　seeing　it　might　think　it　was　just　a　doll　standing　still,　and　he　didnt　want　that.　He　was　afraid　that　if　the　knee　did　not　bend　soon　he　would　have　to　start　again　with　a　new　piece　of　wood.　Finding　a　good　piece　would　be　hard.　But　then　the　right　leg　of　his　own　wife,　Celeste,　did　not　bend　the　way　it　should　either,　so　maybe　in　the　long　run　it　might　not　matter　with　the　doll.　Celeste　had　been　limping　from　the　first　step　she　took　into　the　world.

Moses　went　into　his　cabin　and　met　the　darkness　and　a　dead　hearth.　Outside,　the　light　of　Eliass　lamp　leaned　this　way　and　that　and　then　it　dimmed　even　more.　Elias　had　never　believed　in　a　sane　God　and　so　had　never　questioned　a　world　where　colored　people　could　be　the　owners　of　slaves,　and　if　at　that　moment,　in　the　near　dark,　he　had　sprouted　wings,　he　would　not　have　questioned　that　either.　He　would　simply　have　gone　on　making　the　doll.　Inside　Eliass　cabin　his　crippled　wife　and　three　children　slept　and　the　hearth　had　enough　embers　to　last　the　night,　which　promised　to　be　cold　again.　Elias　left　the　dolls　right　leg　alone　and　returned　to　the　head,　which　he　already　thought　was　as　perfect　as　anything　he　had　seen　made　by　a　man.　He　had　gotten　better　since　carving　the　first　comb　for　Celeste.　He　wanted　to　attach　corn　silk　to　the　dolls　head　but　the　kind　of　dark　silk　he　wanted　would　not　be　ready　until　early　fall.　Immature　silk　would　have　to　do.

Moses　was　not　hungry　and　so　did　not　complain　to　his　wife　or　the　boy　about　the　darkness.　He　lay　down　on　the　straw　pallet　beside　his　wife,　Priscilla.　Their　son　was　on　the　other　side　of　her,　snoring.　Priscilla　watched　her　husband　as　he　slowly　drifted　into　sleep,　and　once　he　was　asleep,　she　took　hold　of　his　hand　and　put　it　to　her　face　and　smelled　all　of　the　outside　world　that　he　had　brought　in　with　him　and　then　she　tried　to　find　sleep　herself.

That　last　day,　the　day　Henry　Townsend　died,　Fern　Elston　returned　early　in　a　buggy　driven　by　a　sixtyfiveyearold　slave　her　husband　had　inherited　from　his　father.

Fern　and　Caldonia　spent　a　few　hours　in　the　parlor,　drinking　a　milkandhoney　brew　Caldonias　mother　was　fond　of　making.　Upstairs　during　that　time,　Zeddie,　the　cook,　and　then　Loretta,　Caldonias　maid,　sat　with　Henry.　About　seven　in　the　evening,　Caldonia　told　Fern　she　had　best　go　on　to　bed,　but　Fern　had　not　been　sleeping　well　and　she　told　Caldonia　they　might　as　well　sit　together　with　Henry.　Fern　had　been　a　teacher　not　only　to　Caldonia　but　to　her　twin　brother　as　well.　There　were　not　that　many　free　educated　women　in　Manchester　County　to　pass　her　time　with　and　so　Fern　had　made　a　friend　of　a　woman　who,　as　a　girl,　had　found　too　much　to　giggle　about　in　the　words　of　William　Shakespeare.

The　two　women　went　up　about　eight　and　Caldonia　told　Loretta　she　would　call　her　if　she　needed　her　and　Loretta　nodded　and　went　out　and　down　to　her　small　room　at　the　end　of　the　hall.　The　three,　Fern　and　Henry　and　Caldonia,　started　in　talking　about　the　Virginia　heat　and　the　way　it　wore　away　a　body.　Henry　had　seen　North　Carolina　once　and　thought　Virginias　heat　could　not　compare.　That　last　evening　was　fairly　cold　again.　Henry　had　not　had　to　change　the　nightclothes　he　had　put　on　at　six.　About　nine　he　fell　asleep　and　woke　not　long　after.　His　wife　and　Fern　were　discussing　a　Thomas　Gray　poem.　He　thought　he　knew　the　one　they　were　talking　about　but　as　he　formed　some　words　to　join　the　conversation,　death　stepped　into　the　room　and　came　to　him:　Henry　walked　up　the　steps　and　into　the　tiniest　of　houses,　knowing　with　each　step　that　he　did　not　own　it,　that　he　was　only　renting.　He　was　ever　so　disappointed;　he　heard　footsteps　behind　him　and　death　told　him　it　was　Caldonia,　coming　to　register　her　own　disappointment.　Whoever　was　renting　the　house　to　him　had　promised　a　thousand　rooms,　but　as　he　traveled　through　the　house　he　found　less　than　four　rooms,　and　all　the　rooms　were　identical　and　his　head　touched　their　ceilings.　“This　will　not　do,”　Henry　kept　saying　to　himself,　and　he　turned　to　share　that　thought　with　his　wife,　to　say,　“Wife,　wife,　look　what　they　done　done,”　and　God　told　him　right　then,　“Not　a　wife,　Henry,　but　a　widow.”

It　was　several　minutes　before　Caldonia　and　Fern　knew　Henry　was　no　more　and　they　went　on　talking　about　a　widowed　white　woman　with　two　slaves　to　her　name　on　a　farm　in　some　distant　part　of　Virginia,　in　a　place　near　Montross　where　her　nearest　white　neighbors　were　miles　and　miles　away.　The　news　of　the　young　woman,　Elizabeth　Marson,　was　more　than　one　year　old　but　it　was　only　now　reaching　the　people　of　Manchester　County,　so　the　women　in　the　room　with　dead　Henry　spoke　as　if　it　had　all　happened　to　Elizabeth　just　that　morning.　After　the　white　womans　husband

died,　her　slaves,　Mirtha　and　Destiny,　had　taken　over　and　kept　the　woman　prisoner　for　months,　working　her　ragged　with　only　a　few　hours　rest　each　day　until　her　hair　turned　white　and　her　pores　sweated　blood.　Caldonia　said　she　understood　that　Mirtha　and　Destiny　had　been　sold　to　try　to　compensate　Elizabeth,　to　settle　her　away　from　that　farm　with　its　memories,　but　Fern　said　she　understood　that　the　slave　women　had　been　killed　by　the　law.　When　Elizabeth　was　finally　rescued,　she　did　not　remember　that　she　was　supposed　to　be　the　owner,　and　it　was　a　long　time　before　she　could　be　taught　that　again.　Caldonia,　noticing　her　husbands　stillness,　went　to　him.　She　gave　a　cry　as　she　shook　him.　Loretta　came　in　silently　and　took　a　hand　mirror　from　atop　the　dresser.　It　seemed　to　Caldonia　as　she　watched　Loretta　place　the　mirror　under　Henrys　nose　that　he　had　only　stepped　away　and　that　if　she　called　loudly　enough　to　him,　put　her　mouth　quite　close　to　his　ear,　and　called　loud　enough　for　any　slave　in　the　quarters　to　hear,　he　might　turn　back　and　be　her　husband　again.　She　took　Henrys　hand　in　both　of　hers　and　put　it　to　her　cheek.　It　was　warm,　she　noticed,　thinking　there　might　yet　be　enough　life　in　it　for　him　to　reconsider.　Caldonia　was　twentyeight　years　old　and　she　was　childless.

Alice,　the　woman　without　a　mind　who　had　watched　Moses　be　with　himself　in　the　woods,　had　been　Henry　and　Caldonias　property　for　some　six　months　the　night　he　died.　From　the　first　week,　Alice　had　started　going　about　the　land　in　the　night,　singing　and　talking　to　herself　and　doing　things　that　sometimes　made　the　hair　on　the　backs　of　the　slave　patrollers　necks　stand　up.　She　spit　at　and　slapped　their　horses　for　saying　untrue　things　about　her　to　her　neighbors,　especially　to　Eliass　youngest,　“a　little　bitty　boy”　she　told　the　patrollers　she　planned　to　marry　after　the　harvest.　She　grabbed　the　patrollers　crotches　and　begged　them　to　dance　away　with　her　because　her　intended　was　forever　pretending　he　didnt　know　who　she　was.　She　called　the　white　men　by　madeup　names　and　gave　them　the　day　and　time　God　would　take　them　to　heaven,　would　drag　each　and　every　member　of　their　families　across　the　sky　and　toss　them　into　hell　with　no　more　thought　than　a　woman　dropping　strawberries　into　a　cup　of　cream.

In　those　first　days　after　Henry　bought　Alice,　the　patrollers　would　haul　her　back　to　Henrys　plantation,　waking　him　and　Caldonia　as　one　of　them　rode　up　on　the　porch　and　pounded　on　the　black　mans　front　door　with　the　butt　of　a　pistol.　“Your　property　out　here　loose　and　you　just　sleepin　like　everythings　fine　and　dandy,”　they　shouted　to　him,　a　giggling　Alice　sprawled　before　them　in　the　dirt　after　they　had　run　her　back.　“Come　down　here　and　find　out　about　your　property.”　Henry　would　come　down　and　explain　again　that　no　one,　not　even　his　overseer,　had　been　able　to　keep　her　from　roaming.　Moses　had　suggested　tying　her　down　at　night,　but　Caldonia　would　not　have　it.　Alice　was　nothing　to　worry　about,　Henry　said　to　the　patrollers,　coming　down　the　steps　in　his　nightclothes　and　helping　Alice　up　from　the　ground.　She　just　had　half　a　mind,　he　said,　but　other　than　that　she　was　a　good　worker,　never　saying　to　the　two　or　three　white　patrollers　who　owned　no　slaves　that　a　woman　of　half　a　mind　had　been　so　much　cheaper　to　buy　than　one　with　a　whole　mind:　$228　and　two　bushels　of　apples　not　good　enough　to　eat　and　only　soso　enough　for　a　cider　that　was　bound　to　set　someones　teeth　on　edge.　The　patrollers　would　soon　ride　away.　“This　is　what　happens,”　they　said　among　themselves　back　on　the　road,　“when　you　give　niggers　the　same　rights　as　a　white　man.”

Toward　the　middle　of　her　third　week　as　Henry　and　Caldonias　property,　the　patrollers　got　used　to　seeing　Alice　wander　about　and　she　became　just　another　fixture　in　the　patrollers　night,　worthy　of　no　more　attention　than　a　hooting　owl　or　a　rabbit　hopping　across　the　road.　Sometimes,　when　the　patrollers　had　tired　of　their　own　banter　or　when　they　anticipated　getting　their　pay　from　Sheriff　John　Skiffington,　they　would　sit　their　horses　and　make　fun　of　her　as　she　sang　darky　songs　in　the　road.　This　show　was　best　when　the　moon　was　at　its　brightest,　shining　down　on　them　andeasing　their　fear　of　the　night　and　of　a　mad　slave　woman　and　lighting　up　Alice　as　she　danced　to　the　songs.　The　moon　gave　more　life　to　her　shadow,　and　the　shadow　would　bounce　about　with　her　from　one　side　of　the　road　to　other,　calming　the　horses　and　quieting　the　crickets.　But　when　they　suffered　ill　humor,　or　the　rain　poured　down　and　wetted　them　and　their　threadbare　clothes,　and　their　horses　were　skittish　and　the　skin　down　to　their　feet　itched,　then　they　heaped　curse　words　upon　her.　Over　time,　over　those　six　months　after　Henry　bought　Alice,　the　patrollers　heard　from　other　white　people　that　a　crazy　Negro　slave　in　the　night　was　akin　to　a　twoheaded　chicken,　or　a　crowing　hen.　Bad　luck.　Very　bad　luck,　so　it　was　best　to　try　to　keep　the　cussing　to　themselves.

The　rainy　evening　her　master　Henry　died　Alice　again　stepped　out　of　the　cabin　she　shared　with　Delphie　and　Delphies　daughter,　Cassandra.　Delphie　was　nearing　fortyfour　years　old　and　believed　that　God　had　greater　dangers　in　store　for　everybody　than　a　colored　woman　gone　insane,　which　was　what　she　told　her　daughter,　who　was　at　first　afraid　of　Alice.　Alice　came　out　that　evening　and　saw　Elias　standing　at　his　door　with　the　whittling　knife　and　the　pinewood　in　his　hands,　waiting　for　the　rain　to　end.　“Come　on　with　me,”　she　sang　to　Elias.　“You　just　come　on　with　me　now.　Come　on,　boy.”　Elias　ignored　her.

After　she　came　back　from　watching　Moses　in　the　patch　of　woods,　Alice　went　back　down　the　lane　and　out　to　the　road.　The　muddy　road　gave　her　a　hard　way　but　she　kept　on.　Once　on　the　road,　she　veered　away　from　Henrys　place　and　began　to　chant,　even　more　loudly　than　when　she　was　on　her　masters　land.

Lifting　the　front　of　her　frock　for　the　moon　and　all　to　see,　she　shimmied　in　the　road　and　chanted　with　all　her　might:

I　met　a　dead　man　layin　in　Massa　lane

Ask　that　dead　man　what　his　name

He　raised　he　bony　head　and　took　off　his　hat

He　told　me　this,　he　told　me　that.

Augustus　Townsend,　Henrys　father,　finally　bought　himself　out　of　slavery　when　he　was　twentytwo.　He　was　a　carpenter,　a　woodcarver　whose　work　people　said　could　bring　sinners　to　tears.　His　master,　William　Robbins,　a　white　man　with　113　slaves　to　his　name,　had　long　permitted　Augustus　to　hire　himself　out,　and　Robbins　kept　part　of　what　he　earned.　The　rest　Augustus　used　to　pay　for　himself.　Once　free,　he　continued　to　hire　himself　out.　He　could　make　a　fourposter　bed　of　oak　in　three　weeks,　chairs　he　could　do　in　two　days,　chiffoniers　in　seventeen　days,　give　or　take　the　time　it　took　to　get　the　mirrors.　He　built　a　shack—and　later　a　proper　house—on　land　he　rented　and　then　bought　from　a　poor　white　man　who　needed　money　more　than　he　needed　land.　The　land　was　at　the　western　end　of　Manchester　County,　a　fairly　large　slip　of　land　where　the　county,　as　if　tired　of　pushing　west,　dipped　abruptly　to　the　south,　toward　Amherst　County.　Moses,　“world　stupid”　as　Elias　was　to　call　him,　would　get　lost　there　in　about　two　months,　thinking　that　he　was　headed　north.　Augustus　Townsend　liked　it　because　it　was　at　the　farthest　end　of　the　county　and　the　nearest　white　man　with　slaves　was　a　half　a　mile　away.

Augustus　made　the　last　payment　for　his　wife,　Mildred,　when　she　was　twentysix　and　he　was　twentyfive,　some　three　years　after　he　bought　his　own　freedom.　An　1806　act　of　the　Virginia　House　of　Delegates　required　that　former　slaves　leave　the　Commonwealth　within　twelve　months　of　getting　their　freedom;　freed　Negroes　might　give　slaves　too　many　“unnatural　notions,”　a　delegate　from　Northampton　County　had　noted　before　the　act　was　passed,　and,　added　another　delegate　from　Gloucester,　freed　Negroes　lacked　“the　natural　controls”　put　on　a　slave.　The　delegates　decreed　that　any　freed　person　who　had　not　left　Virginia　after　one　year　could　be　brought　back　into　slavery.　That　happened　to　thirteen　people　the　year　of　Augustuss　petition—five　men,　seven　women,　and　one　child,　a　girl　named　Lucinda,　whose　parents　died　before　the　family　could　get　out　of　Virginia.　Based　primarily　on　his　skills,　Augustus　had　managed　to　get　William　Robbins　and　a　number　of　other　white　citizens　to　petition　the　state　assembly　to　permit　him　to　stay.　“Our　County—Indeed,　our　beloved　Commonwealth—would　be　all　the　poorer　without　the　talents　of　Augustus　Townsend,”　the　petition　read　in　part.　His　and　two　other　petitions　for　former　slaves　were　the　only　ones　out　of　twentythree　granted　that　year;　a　Norfolk　City　woman　who　made　elaborate　cakes　and　pies　for　parties　and　a　Richmond　barber,　both　with　more　white　customers　than　black,　were　also　permitted　to　stay　in　Virginia　after　freedom.　Augustus　did　not　seek　a　petition　for　Mildred　his　wife　when　he　bought　her　freedom　because　the　law　allowed　freed　slaves　to　stay　on　in　the　state　in　cases　where　they　lived　as　someones　property,　and　relatives　and　friends　often　took　advantage　of　the　law　to　keep　loved　ones　close　by.　Augustus　would　also　not　seek　a　petition　for　Henry,　his　son,　and　over　time,　because　of　how　well　William　Robbins,　their　former　owner,　treated　Henry,　people　in　Manchester　County　just　failed　to　remember　that　Henry,　in　fact,　was　listed　forever　in　the　records　of　Manchester　as　his　fathers　property.

Henry　was　nine　when　his　mother,　Mildred,　came　to　freedom.　That　day　she　left,　a　mild　day　two　weeks　after　harvest,　she　walked　holding　her　sons　hand　down　to　the　road　where　Augustus　and　his　wagon　and　two　mules　were　waiting.　Rita,　Mildreds　cabin　mate,　was　holding　the　boys　other　hand.

At　the　wagon,　Mildred　sank　to　her　knees　and　held　on　to　Henry,　who,　at　last　realizing　that　he　was　to　be　separated　from　her,　began　crying.　Augustus　knelt　beside　his　wife　and　promised　Henry　that　they　would　be　back　for　him.　“Before　you　can　turn　around　good,”　he　said,　“you　be　comin　home　with　us.”　Augustus　repeated　himself,　and　the　boy　tried　to　make　sense　of　the　word　home.　He　knew　the　word,　knew　the　cabin　with　him　and　his　mother　and　Rita　that　the　word　represented.　He　could　no　longer　remember　when　his　father　was　a　part　of　that　home.　Augustus　kept　talking　and　Henry　pulled　at　Mildred,　wanting　her　to　go　back　onto　William　Robbinss　land,　back　to　the　cabin　where　the　fireplace　smoked　when　it　was　first　lit.　“Please,”　the　boy　said,　“please,　les　go　back.”

Along　about　then　William　Robbins　came　slowly　out　to　the　road,　heading　into　the　town　of　Manchester　on　his　prized　bay,　Sir　Guilderham.　Patting　the　horses　black　mane,　he　asked　Henry　why　was　he　crying　and　the　boy　said,　“For　nothin,　Massa.”　Augustus　stood　up　and　took　off　his　hat.　Mildred　continued　holding　on　to　her　son.　The　boy　knew　his　master　only　from　a　distance;　this　was　the　closest　they　had　been　in　a　very　long　time.　Robbins　sat　high　on　his　horse,　a　mountain　separating　the　boy　from　the　fullness　of　the　sun.　“Well　dont　do　it　anymore,”　Robbins　said.　He　nodded　at　Augustus.　“Counting　off　the　days,　are　you,　Augustus?”　He　looked　to　Rita.　“You　see　things　go　right,”　Robbins　said.　He　meant　for　her　not　to　let　the　boy　go　too　many　steps　beyond　his　property.　He　would　have　called　Rita　by　name　but　she　had　not　distinguished　herself　enough　in　his　life　for　him　to　remember　the　name　he　had　given　her　at　birth.　It　was　enough　that　the　name　was　written　somewhere　in　his　large　book　of　births　and　deaths,　the　comings　and　goings　of　slaves.　“Noticeable　mole　on　left　cheek,”　he　had　written　five　days　after　Ritas　birth.　“Eyes　grey.”　Years　later,　after　Rita　disappeared,　Robbins　would　put　those　facts　on　the　poster　offering　a　reward　for　her　return,　along　with　her　age.

Robbins　gave　a　last　look　at　Henry,　whose　name　he　also　did　not　know,　and　set　off　at　a　gallop,　his　horses　black　tail　flipping　first　one　pretty　way　and　then　another,　as　if　the　tail　were　separate　and　so　had　a　life　all　its　own.　Henry　stopped　crying.　In　the　end,　Augustus　had　to　pull　his　wife　from　the　child.　He　turned　Henry　over　to　Rita,　who　had　been　friends　with　Mildred　all　her　life.　He　lifted　his　wife　up　onto　the　wagon　that　sagged　and　creaked　with　her　weight.　The　wagon　and　the　mules　were　not　as　high　as　Robbinss　horse.　Before　he　got　up,　Augustus　told　his　son　that　he　would　see　him　on　Sunday,　the　day　Robbins　was　now　allowing　for　visits.　Then　Augustus　said,“Ill　be　back　for　you,”　meaning　the　day　he　would　ultimately　free　the　boy.　But　it　took　far　longer　to　buy　Henrys　freedom　than　his　father　had　thought;　Robbins　would　come　to　know　what　a　smart　boy　Henry　was.　The　cost　of　intelligence　was　not　fixed　and　because　it　was　fluid,　it　was　whatever　the　market　would　bear　and　all　of　that　burden　would　fall　upon　Mildred　and　Augustus.

Mildred　fixed　Henry　as　many　of　the　things　she　knew　he　would　enjoy　to　take　with　them　on　Sundays.　Before　freedom　she　had　known　only　slave　food,　plenty　of　fatback　and　ash　cakes　and　the　occasional　mouthful　of　rape　or　kale.　But　freedom　and　the　money　from　their　labors　spread　a　better　table　before　them.　Still,　she　could　not　enjoy　even　one　good　morsel　in　her　new　place　when　she　thought　of　what　Henry　had　to　eat.　So　she　prepared　him　a　little　feast　before　each　visit.　Little　meat　pies,　cakes　that　he　could　share　with　his　friends　through　the　week,　the　odd　rabbit　caught　by　Augustus,　which　she　salted　to　last　for　days.　The　mother　and　the　father　would　ride　over　in　the　wagon　pulled　by　the　mules　and　call　onto　Robbinss　land　for　their　boy,　enticing　him　with　what　they　had　brought.　They　would　wait　in　the　road　until　Henry　on　his　stick　legs　came　up　from　the　quarters　and　out　to　the　lane,　Robbinss　mansion　giant　and　eternal　behind　him.

He　was　growing　quickly,　eager　to　show　them　the　little　things　he　had　carved.　The　horses　in　full　stride,　the　mules　loaded　down,　the　bull　with　his　head　turned　just　so　to　look　behind　him.　The　three　would　settle　on　a　quilt　on　a　piece　of　nomansland　across　from　Robbinss　plantation.　Behind　them　and　way　off　to　the　left,　there　was　a　creek　that　had　never　seen　a　fish,　but　slaves　fished　in　it　nevertheless,　practicing　for　the　day　when　there　would　be　better　water.　When　the　three　had　eaten,　Mildred　would　sit　between　them　as　Augustus　and　Henry　fished.　She　always　wanted　to　know　how　he　was　treated　and　his　answer　was　almost　always　the　same—that　Massa　Robbins　and　his　overseer　were　treating　him　well,　that　Rita　was　always　good　to　him.

The　fall　that　year,　1834,　just　dropped　away　one　day　and　suddenly　it　was　winter.　Mildred　and　Augustus　came　every　Sunday　even　when　it　turned　cold　and　then　even　colder　than　that.　They　built　a　fire　on　nomansland　and　ate　with　few　words.　Robbins　had　told　them　not　to　take　the　boy　beyond　where　his　overseer　could　see　them　from　the　entrance　to　his　property.　The　winter　visits　were　short　ones　because　the　boy　often　complained　of　the　cold.　Sometimes　Henry　did　not　show　up,　even　if　the　cold　was　bearable　for　a　visit　of　a　few　minutes.　Mildred　and　Augustus　would　wait　hour　after　hour,　huddled　in　the　wagon　under　quilts　and　blankets,　or　walking　hopefully　up　and　down　the　road,　for　Robbins　had　forbidden　them　to　come　onto　his　land　except　when　Augustus　was　making　a　payment　on　the　second　and　fourth　Tuesdays　of　the　month.　They　would　hope　some　slave　would　venture　out,　going　to　or　from　the　mansion,　so　they　could　holler　to　him　or　her　to　go　get　their　boy　Henry.　But　even　when　they　managed　to　see　someone　and　tell　them　about　Henry,　they　would　wait　in　vain　for　the　boy　to　show　up.

“I　just　forgot,”　Henry　would　say　the　next　time　they　saw　him.　Augustus　had　often　been　chastised　as　a　boy　but　though　Henry　was　his　son,　he　was　not　yet　his　property　and　so　beyond　his　reach.

“Try　harder　to　remember,　son.　To　know　the　right　way,”　Augustus　said,　only　to　have　Henry　do　right　the　next　Sunday　or　two　and　then　not　show　up　the　one　after　that.

Then,　in　midFebruary,　after　they　had　waited　two　hours　beyond　when　he　was　supposed　to　appear　on　the　road,　Augustus　grabbed　the　boy　when　he　shuffled　up　and　shook　him,　then　he　pushed　him　to　the　ground.　Henry　covered　his　face　and　began　to　cry.　“Augustus!”　Mildred　shouted　and　helped　her　son　up.　“Everythings　good,”　she　said　to　him　as　she　cradled　him　in　her　arms.　“Everythings　good.”

Augustus　turned　and　walked　across　the　road　to　the　wagon.　The　wagon　had　a　thick　burlap　covering,　something　he　had　come　up　with　not　long　after　the　first　cold　visit.　The　mother　and　her　child　soon　followed　him　across　the　road　and　the　three　settled　into　the　wagon　under　the　covering　and　around　the　stones　Augustus　and　Mildred　had　boiled.　They　were　quite　large　stones,　which　they　would　boil　for　many　hours　at　home　on　Sunday　mornings　before　setting　out　to　see　Henry.　Then,　just　before　they　left　home,　the　stones　were　wrapped　in　blankets　and　placed　in　the　center　of　the　wagon.　When　the　stones　stopped　giving　warmth　and　the　boy　began　complaining　of　the　cold,　they　knew　it　was　time　to　go.

That　Sunday　Augustus　pushed　Henry,　the　three　of　them　ate,　once　again,　in　silence.　The　next　Sunday　Robbins　was　waiting.　“I　heard　you　did　something　to　my　boy,　to　my　property,”　he　said　before　Augustus　and　Mildred　were　down　from　the　wagon.

“No,　Mr.　Robbins.　I　did　nothin,”　Augustus　said,　having　forgotten　the　push.

“We　wouldnt,”　Mildred　said.　“We　wouldnt　hurt　him　for　the　world.　He　our　son.”

Robbins　looked　at　her　as　if　she　had　told　him　the　day　was　Wednesday.　“I　wont　have　you　touching　my　boy,　my　property.”　His　horse,　Sir　Guilderham,　was　idling　two　or　so　paces　behind　his　master.　And　just　as　the　horse　began　to　wander　away,　Robbins　turned　and　picked　up　the　reins,　mounted.　“No　more　visits　for　a　month,”　he　said,　picking　one　piece　of　lint　from　the　horses　ear.

“Please,　Mr.　Robbins,”　Mildred　said.　Freedom　had　allowed　her　not　to　call　him　“Master”　anymore.　“We　come　all　this　way.”

“I　dont　care,”Robbins　said.　“Itll　take　all　of　a　month　for　him　to　heal　from　what　you　did,　Augustus.”

Robbins　set　off.　Henry　had　not　told　his　parents　that　he　had　become　Robbinss　groom.　An　older　boy,　Toby,　had　been　the　groom　but　Henry　had　bribed　the　boy　with　Mildreds　food　and　the　boy　had　commenced　telling　the　overseer　that　he　was　not　up　to　the　task　of　grooming.　“Henry　be　better,”　Toby　said　to　the　overseer　so　many　times　that　it　became　a　truth　in　the　white　mans　head.　Now　all　the　food　Mildred　brought　for　her　son　each　Sunday　had　already　been　promised　to　Toby.

“We　wouldnt　hurt　him　to　save　the　world,”　Mildred　said　to　Robbinss　back.　She　began　crying　because　she　saw　a　month　of　days　spread　out　before　her　and　they　added　up　to　more　than　a　thousand.　Augustus　held　her　and　kissed　her　bonneted　head　and　then　helped　her　up　on　to　the　wagon.　The　journey　home　to　southwest　Manchester　County　always　took　about　an　hour　or　so,　depending　upon　the　bitterness　or　kindness　of　the　weather.

Henry　was　indeed　better　as　a　groom,　far　more　eager　than　Toby　had　been,　not　at　all　afraid　to　rise　long　before　the　sun　to　do　his　duties.　He　was　always　waiting　for　Robbins　when　he　returned　from　town,　from　Philomena,　a　black　woman,　and　the　two　children　he　had　with　her.　Henry　would,　in　those　early　days　when　he　was　trying　to　prove　himself　to　Robbins,　stand　in　front　of　the　mansion　and　watch　as　Robbins　and　Sir　Guilderham　emerged　from　the　winter　fog　of　the　road,　the　boys　heart　beating　faster　and　faster　as　the　man　and　the　horse　became　larger　and　larger.　“Mornin,　Massa,”　he　would　say　and　raise　both　hands　to　take　the　reins.　“Good　morning,　Henry.　Are　you　well?”　“Yes,　Massa.”　“Then　stay　that　way.”　“Yes,　Massa,　I　plan　to.”

Robbins　would　go　into　his　mansion,　to　face　a　white　wife　who　had　not　yet　resigned　herself　to　having　lost　her　place　in　his　heart　to　Philomena.　The　wife　knew　about　the　first　child　her　husband　had　with　Philomena,　about　Dora,　but　she　would　not　know　about　the　second,　Louis,　until　the　boy　was　three　years　old.　This　was　in　the　days　before　Robbinss　wife　turned　beastly　sour　and　began　to　spend　most　of　her　time　in　a　part　of　the　mansion　her　daughter　had　named　the　East　when　the　daughter　was　very　young　and　didnt　know　what　she　was　doing.　When　the　wife　did　turn　beastly　sour,　she　took　it　out　on　the　people　nearest　her　that　she　could　not　love.　It　got　to　be,　the　slaves　said,　as　if　she　hated　the　very　ground　they　had　to　walk　on.

Henry　would　take　Sir　Guilderham　to　the　stable,　the　one　reserved　for　the　animals　Robbins　thought　the　most　of,　and　rub　him　down　until　the　animal　was　at　peace　and　the　sweat　was　gone,　until　he　began　to　close　his　eyes　and　wanted　to　be　left　alone.　Then　Henry　made　sure　the　horse　had　enough　hay　and　water.　Sometimes,　if　he　thought　he　could　escape　the　other　tasks　of　the　day,　he　would　stand　on　a　stool　and　comb　the　mane　until　his　hands　tired.　If　the　horse　recognized　the　boy　from　all　the　work　he　did,　it　never　showed.

Henry　waited　eagerly　at　one　end　of　the　road　Robbins　took　at　least　three　times　a　week,　and　at　the　other　end　of　the　road,　at　the　very　edge　of　the　town　of　Manchester,　the　county　seat,　was　another　boy,　Louis,　who　was　eight　in　1840　when　Henry　was　sixteen　and　an　accomplished　groom.　Louis,　the　son,　was　also　Robbinss　slave,　which　was　how　the　U.S.　census　that　year　listed　him.　The　census　noted　that　the　house　on　Shenandoah　Road　where　the　boy　lived　in　Manchester　was　headed　by　Philomena,　his　mother,　and　that　the　boy　had　a　sister,　Dora,　three　years　his　senior.　The　census　did　not　say　that　the　children　were　Robbinss　flesh　and　blood　and　that　he　traveled　into　Manchester　because　he　loved　their　mother　far　more　than　anything　he　could　name　and　that,　in　his　quieter　moments,　after　the　storms　in　his　head,　he　feared　that　he　was　losing　his　mind　because　of　that　love.　Robbinss　grandfather,　who　had　stowed　away　as　a　boy　on　the　HMS　Claxtons　maiden　voyage　to　America,　would　not　have　not　approved—not　of　Robbinss　having　lost　himself　to　a　black　but　of　having　lost　himself　at　all.　Having　given　away　so　much　to　love,　the　grandfather　would　have　told　his　grandson,　where　would　Robbins　get　the　fortitude　to　make　his　way　back　to　Bristol,　England,　back　to　their　home?

The　1840　U.S.　census　contained　an　enormous　amount　of　facts,　far　more　than　the　one　done　by　the　alcoholic　state　delegate　in　1830,　and　all　of　the　1840　facts　pointed　to　the　one　big　fact　that　Manchester　was　then　the　largest　county　in　Virginia,　a　place　of　2,191　slaves,　142　free　Negroes,　939　whites,　and　136　Indians,　most　of　them　Cherokee　but　with　a　sprinkling　of　Choctaw.　A　wellliked　and　fastidious　tanner,　who　doubled　as　the　U.S.　marshal　and　who　had　lost　three　fingers　to　frostbite,　carried　out　the　1840　census　in　seven　and　a　half　summer　weeks.　It　should　have　taken　him　less　time　but　he　had　plenty　of　trouble,　starting　with　people　like　Harvey　Travis　who　wanted　to　make　sure　his　own　children　were　counted　as　white,　though　all　the　world　knew　his　wife　was　a　fullblooded　Cherokee.　Travis　even　called　his　children　niggers　and　filthy　halfbreeds　when　they　and　that　world　got　to　be　too　much　for　him.　The　census　taker/tanner/U.S.　marshal　told　Travis　he　would　count　the　children　as　white　but　he　actually　wrote　in　his　report　to　the　federal　government　in　Washington,D.C.,　that　they　were　slaves,　the　property　of　their　father,　which,　in　the　eyes　of　the　law,　they　truly　were;　the　census　taker　had　never　seen　the　children　before　the　day　he　rode　out　to　Traviss　place　on　one　of　two　mules　the　American　government　had　bought　for　him　so　he　could　do　his　census　job.　He　thought　the　children　were　too　dark　for　him　and　the　federal　government　to　consider　them　as　anything　else　but　black.　He　told　his　government　the　children　were　slaves　and　he　let　it　go　at　that,　not　saying　anything　about　their　white　blood　or　their　Indian　blood.　The　census　taker　had　a　great　belief　that　his　government　could　read　between　the　lines.　And　though　he　came　away　with　suspicions　about　Traviss　wife　being　a　full　Indian,　he　gave　Travis　the　benefit　of　the　doubt　and　listed　her　as　“American　Indian/Full　Cherokee.”　The　census　taker　also　had　trouble　trying　to　calculate　how　many　square　miles　the　county　was,　and　in　the　end　he　sent　in　figures　that　were　far　short　of　the　mark.　The　mountains,　he　told　a　confidant,　threw　him　off　because　he　was　unable　to　take　the　measure　of　the　land　with　the　damn　mountains　in　the　way.　Even　with　the　mountains　taken　out　of　all　the　arithmetic,　Manchester　was　still　half　as　large　as　the　next　biggest　county　in　the　Commonwealth.

The　boy　Louis,　by　1840,　could　not　be　contained　on　the　days　when　he　thought　Robbins　was　coming　to　see　them.　He　bounced　around　the　house　Robbins　had　had　built　when　Philomena　was　pregnant　with　Dora　and　he　did　not　want　her　to　be　on　the　plantation　near　a　wife　who　early　on　had　suspected　she　was　losing　her　husband　of　ten　years.　The　boy　would　run　up　the　stairs　and　look　out　the　secondfloor　windows　that　faced　the　road,　but　when　he　saw　no　sign　of　the　dust　from　Sir　Guilderham,　he　would　run　back　down　and　look　out　the　parlor　window.　“I　must　be　not　lookin　in　the　right　place　for　him,”　he　would　say　to　whoever　was　in　the　room　before　flying　back　up　the　stairs.　The　teacher　Fern　Elston　had　already　reprimanded　Louis　about　leaving　out　the　gs　on　all　his　ing　words.

There　was　no　one　else　in　the　county　who　could　have　gotten　away　with　putting　a　Negro　and　her　two　children　in　a　house　on　the　same　block　with　white　people.　On　one　page　of　the　census　report　to　the　federal　government　in　Washington,　D.C.,　the　census　taker　put　a　check　by　William　Robbinss　name　and　footnoted　on　page　113　that　he　was　the　countys　wealthiest　man.　He　was　a　distant　cousin　of　Robbinss　and　was　quite　proud　that　his　kin　had　done　so　well　in　America.

Dora　and　Louis　never　called　Robbins　“Father.”　They　addressed　him　as　“Mr.　William,”　and　when　he　was　not　around　he　was　referred　to　as　“him.”　Louis　liked　for　Robbins　to　set　him　on　his　knee　and　raise　his　knee　up　and　down　rapidly.　“My　horsey　Mr.　William”　was　what　he　sometimes　called　him.　Robbins　called　him　“my　little　prince.　My　little　princely　prince.”

The　boy　had　what　people　in　that　part　of　Virginia　termed　a　traveling　eye.　As　he　looked　directly　at　someone,　his　left　eye　would　often　follow　some　extraneous　moving　object　that　might　be　just　to　the　side—a　spot　of　dust　in　the　near　distance　or　a　bird　on　the　wing　in　the　far　distance.　Follow　it　as　the　object　or　body　moved　a　few　feet.　Then　the　eye　would　return　to　the　person　in　front　of　the　boy.　The　right　eye,　and　his　mind,　never　left　the　person　Louis　was　talking　to.　Robbins　was　aware　that　a　traveling　eye　in　a　boy　he　would　have　had　with　his　white　wife　would　have　meant　some　kind　of　failing　in　the　white　boy,　that　he　had　a　questionable　future　and　could　receive　only　so　much　fatherly　love.　But　in　the　child　whose　mother　was　black　and　who　had　Robbinss　heart,　the　traveling　eye　served　only　to　endear　him　even　more　to　his　father.　It　was　a　cruel　thing　God　had　done　to　his　son,　he　told　himself　many　a　time　on　the　road　back　home.

Louis,　over　time,　would　learn　how　not　to　let　the　eye　become　his　destiny,　for　people　in　that　part　of　Virginia　thought　a　traveling　eye　a　sign　of　an　inattentive　and　dishonest　man.　By　the　time　he　became　friends　with　Caldonia　and　Calvin,　her　brother,　at　Fern　Elstons　tiny　academy　for　free　Negro　children　just　behind　her　parlor,　Louis　would　be　able　to　tell　the　moment　when　the　eye　was　wandering　off　just　by　the　look　on　a　persons　face.　He　would　blink　and　the　eye　would　come　back.　This　meant　looking　full　and　long　into　someones　eyes,　and　people　came　to　see　that　as　a　sign　of　a　man　who　cared　about　what　was　being　said.　He　became　an　honest　man　in　many　peoples　eyes,　honest　enough　for　Caldonia　Townsend　to　say　yes　when　he　asked　her　to　marry　him.　“I　never　thought　I　was　worthy　of　you,”　he　said,　thinking　of　the　dead　Henry,　when　he　asked　her　to　marry　him.　She　said,　“We　are　all　worthy　of　one　another.”

Robbins　was　fortyone　when　Henry　became　his　groom.　The　trips　into　town　were　not　easy.　It　would　have　been　best　if　he　had　traveled　by　buggy,　but　he　was　not　a　man　for　that.　Sir　Guilderham　was　expensive　and　grand　horseflesh,　meant　to　be　paraded　before　the　world.　In　1840,　when　there　were　still　many　more　payments　to　be　made　for　Henrys　freedom,　Robbins　had　been　thinking　for　a　long　time　that　he　was　losing　his　mind.　On　the　way　to　town　or　on　the　way　back,　he　would　suffer　what　he　called　small　storms,　thunder　and　lightning,　in　the　brain.　The　lightning　would　streak　from　the　front　of　his　head　and　explode　with　thunder　at　the　base　of　his　skull.　Then　there　was　a　kind　of　calming　rain　throughout　his　head　that　he　associated　with　the　return　of　normalcy.　He　lost　whole　bits　of　time　with　some　storms.　Sir　Guilderham　sometimes　sensed　the　coming　of　the　storms,　and　when　it　did,　the　horse　would　slow　and　then　stop　altogether　until　the　storm　had　passed.　If　the　horse　sensed　nothing,　a　storm　would　hit　Robbins,　and　he　would　emerge　from　the　storm　miles　closer　to　his　destination,　with　no　memory　of　how　he　got　there.

He　saw　the　storms　as　the　price　to　be　paid　for　Philomena　and　their　children.　In　1841,　awaking　from　a　storm,　he　found　a　white　man　on　the　road　back　to　the　plantation　asking　if　he　was　ill.　Robbinss　nose　was　bleeding　and　the　man　was　pointing　to　the　nose　and　the　blood.　Robbins　rubbed　his　nose　with　the　sleeve　of　his　coat.　The　blood　stopped.　“Lemme　see　you　home,”　the　man　said.　Robbins　pointed　up　the　road　to　where　he　lived　and　they　rode　side　by　side,　the　man　telling　him　who　he　was　and　what　he　did　and　Robbins　not　caring　but　just　grateful　for　the　company.

Robbins　felt　compelled　to　repay　the　kindness　when　two　slaves　caught　the　mans　eye　the　second　day　he　stayed　with　Robbins.　The　Bible　said　guests　should　be　treated　like　royalty　lest　a　host　entertain　angels　unaware.　The　man　had　stepped　out　onto　the　verandah　to　smoke　one　of　Robbinss　cigars　and　saw　Toby,　the　former　groom,　and　his　sister.　Mildreds　food　had　done　things　for　the　boy　and　his　sister,　marvelous　things　to　their　bones　that　Robbinss　poor　food　could　never　have　done.　The　man　came　inside　and　offered　$233　for　the　pair,　claiming　that　was　all　he　had.

The　three,　the　two　children　and　the　man　who　could　have　been　an　angel,　had　been　gone　four　days　when　Robbins　realized　what　a　bad　sale　he　had　made,　even　if　he　took　something　off　the　price　to　express　his　gratitude　to　an　angel.　He　soon　got　it　into　his　head　that　the　man　had　actually　been　a　kind　of　abolitionist,　no　more　than　a　thief,　the　devil　in　disguise.　The　idea　of　the　slave　patrols　began　with　that　bitter　sale,　with　the　idea　that　the　storms　made　him　vulnerable　and　that　abolitionists　could　insinuate　themselves　and　cheat　him　out　of　all　that　he　and　his　father　and　his　fathers　father　had　worked　for.　But　the　idea　would　take　root　and　grow　with　the　disappearance　of　Rita,　the　woman　who　became　a　kind　of　mother　to　Henry　after　Augustus　Townsend　bought　his　wife　Mildred　to　freedom.　Before　the　angel/man　on　the　road　and　Ritas　disappearance,　Manchester　County,　Virginia,　had　not　had　much　problem　with　the　disappearance　of　slaves　since　1837.　In　that　year,　a　man　named　Jesse　and　four　other　slaves　took　off　one　night　and　were　found　two　days　later　by　a　posse　headed　by　Sheriff　Gilly　Patterson.　The　escape　and　the　chase　had　put　such　bile　in　Jesses　master　that　he　shot　Jesse　in　the　swamp　where　the　posse　found　him.　He　had　the　four　other　escapees　hobbled　that　night—sharp　and　swift　knives　back　and　forth　through　their　Achilles　tendons—right　after　he　cut　off　Jesses　head　as　a　warning　to　his　other　fourteen　slaves　and　stuck　it　on　a　post　made　from　an　appletree　branch　in　front　of　the　cabin　Jesse　had　shared　with　three　other　men.　The　law　ruled　that　Jesses　murder　was　justifiable　homicide—though　the　escaped　slaves　were　headed　in　a　different　direction　from　a　white　widow　and　her　two　teenage　daughters,　the　five　men　were　less　than　a　mile　from　those　women　when　they　were　caught.　No　white　person　wanted　to　imagine　what　would　have　happened　if　those　five　slaves　had　doubled　back,　heading　south　and　away　from　freedom,　and　got　to　the　place　with　the　widow　and　the　girls.　Jesse　got　what　was　coming　to　him,　Sheriff　Patterson　theorized　as　he　thought　of　the　widow　and　her　daughters.　He　did　not　put　it　in　those　words　in　a　report　he　made　to　the　circuit　judge,　a　man　known　for　opposing　the　abuse　of　slaves.　But　Sheriff　Patterson　did　write　that　Jesses　master　was　punished　enough　having　to　live　with　the　knowledge　that　he　had　done　away　with　property　that　was　easily　worth　$500　in　a　sellers　market.

In　truth,　the　man　William　Robbins　met　on　the　road　was　not　an　abolitionist　or　an　angel,　and　Toby　and　his　sister　never　saw　the　north.　The　man　on　the　road　sold　the　children　for　$527　to　a　man　who　chewed　his　food　with　his　mouth　open.　He　met　the　openmouthed　man　in　a　very　fancy　Petersburg　bar　that　closed　down　at　night　to　become　a　brothel,　and　that　openmouthed　man　sold　the　children　to　a　rice　planter　from　South　Carolina　for　$619.　The　childrens　mother　wasnt　good　for　doing　her　job　very　much　after　that,　after　her　children　were　sold,　even　with　the　overseer　flaying　the　skin　on　her　back　with　whippings　meant　to　make　her　do　what　was　right　and　proper.　The　mother　wasted　away　to　skin　and　bones.　Robbins　sold　her　to　a　man　in　Tennessee　for　$257　and　a　threeyearold　mule,　a　profitless　sale,　considering　all　the　potential　the　mother　had　if　she　had　pulled　herself　together　and　considering　what　Robbins　had　already　spent　for　her　upkeep,　food　and　clothes　and　a　leakproof　roof　over　her　head　and　whatnot.　In　his　big　book　about　the　comings　and　goings　of　slaves,　Robbins　put　a　line　through　the　name　of　the　childrens　mother,　something　he　always　did　with　people　who　died　before　old　age　or　who　were　sold　for　no　profit.

Robbins　usually　spent　the　night　at　Philomenas,　braving　all　her　talk　about　wanting　to　go　and　live　in　Richmond.　He　would　set　out　for　his　plantation　just　after　dawn,　weather　permitting.　There　was　almost　always　a　storm　in　his　head　on　the　way　back.　He　would　have　preferred　to　suffer　one　going　into　town,　so　as　to　enjoy　Philomena　and　their　children　knowing　the　worst　was　behind　him.　No　matter　what　weather　God　gave　Manchester　County,　Henry　would　be　waiting.　That　first　winter　after　seeing　the　boy　shivering　in　the　rags　he　tied　around　his　feet,　Robbins　had　his　slave　shoemaker　make　the　boy　something　good　for　his　feet.　He　told　the　servants　who　ran　his　mansion　that　Henry　was　to　eat　in　the　kitchen　with　them　and　forever　be　clothed　the　right　way　just　the　same　as　they　were　clothed.　Robbins　came　to　depend　on　seeing　the　boy　waving　from　his　place　in　front　of　the　mansion,　came　to　know　that　the　sight　of　Henry　meant　the　storm　was　over　and　that　he　was　safe　from　bad　men　disguised　as　angels,　came　to　develop　a　kind　of　love　for　the　boy,　and　that　love,　built　up　morning　after　morning,　was　another　reason　to　up　the　selling　price　Mildred　and　Augustus　Townsend　would　have　to　pay　for　their　boy.

2003

Questions　for　Discussion

1.　What　is　the　“known　world”　and　the　unknown　world　in　the　novel?

2.　How　to　understand　the　statement　that　“It　was　already　a　strange　world　that　made　him　a　slave　to　a　white　man,　but　God　had　indeed　set　it　twirling　and　twisting　every　which　way　when　he　put　black　people　to　owning　their　own　kind.　Was　God　even　up　there　attending　to　business　anymore?”

3.　Is　Master　Robbins　twisted　in　mind　about　family,　love,　and　honesty?　And　how　can　he　handle　it?

Unit　FourAfrican　American　Autobiography

Unit　Four

African　American　Autobiography

非裔美国自传简介

非裔美国文学源于奴隶叙事，非裔美国自传更是奴隶叙事的自然发展与演变。反对奴役、争取自由、自我书写与自我塑造及反思等成为奴隶叙事以及非裔美国自传的主旋律。本教材选取19世纪具有代表性的奴隶叙事与20世纪的非裔美国自传，尝试比较全面地介绍这一文类。

艾奎亚诺的奴隶叙事不仅叙述了作为奴隶的艾奎亚诺在美洲特别是北美的旅程，更加注重描写他获得自由后的各种英勇行为，堪称第一阶段奴隶叙事的代表；道格拉斯的《自述》在内容与形式两个方面都成为奴隶叙事的典范：在内容方面突出反抗奴役，争取自由的主题，在形式方面，确定了由南方逃往北方追求自由新生活的路线，成为非裔美国文学中的母题；而雅各布斯的《女奴生平》则以关注黑人女奴的悲惨境遇，特别是奴隶主的性压迫与性剥削而独树一帜。安德鲁斯的研究表明，从1760年至1865年，大约有70部以书或小册子出版的奴隶叙事，1865—1930年，至少有50部奴隶叙事著作；福斯特则认为，这些创作或口述的长短不一的奴隶叙事作品估计有6000部。这些奴隶叙事的代表性文本不仅书写自我，更加注重外在社会因素对自我形成的影响，其通过书写自我从而创造自我的文化范式，成为非裔美国文学的显著特征，并持续反映在内战以后的非裔美国自传中。

20世纪上半叶，最具代表性的非裔美国自传包括布克·华盛顿的《从奴役中奋起》(1901)、皮肯斯的《打破束缚》(1923)、杜波伊斯的《破晓时分》(1940)、休斯的《大海》(1940)、赫斯顿的《道路上的尘迹》(1942)以及赖特的《黑孩子》(1945)等，其中奴隶叙事的影响清晰可见，特别是在结构方面。20世纪下半叶阅读最广泛的三部自传分别是《马尔科姆·艾克斯自传》(1965)、安吉洛的《我知道笼中鸟为何歌唱》(1970)以及德莱尼的《我们有话要说：德莱尼姐妹的前100年》(1993)。另外，反映民权运动时期黑人自我与文化的重要自传包括克里夫的《冰上的灵魂》(1967)、穆迪的《成长于密西西比》(1968)、金夫人的《我与马丁·路德·金在一起的日子》(1969)、威尔斯的《为正义而战》(1970)、帕克斯的《帕克斯：我的故事》(1992)以及比尔斯的《勇士不哭》(1994)等；20世纪80—90年代，非裔美国作家、批评家、社会活动家所贡献的自传作品主要有怀德曼的《兄弟与看护人》(1984)、盖茨的《有色人民》(1994)、麦考尔的《让我真想吼》(1994)、奥巴马的《我父辈的梦想》(1995)以及鲍威尔的《我的美国之路》(1995)等，此外，体育明星与电影明星等也有大量自传面世，他们的“成功故事”让“美国梦”的光芒更加耀眼。

非裔美国自传全方位地记录了殖民地时期以来的美国黑人生活，传记家以美国理想为参照，反思非裔美国民族遭受的剥削、压迫与不公正对待，他们尝试精确描绘非裔美国族裔，渴望通过书写自我，发明自我，进而反思主流美国文化，作品具有极高的历史意义与文化价值。

1.　Interesting　Narrative　of　the　Life　of　Olaudah　Equiano

作家简介

奥拉达·艾奎亚诺（Olaudah　Equiano)(1745—1797)，又名古斯塔夫斯·瓦萨，是18世纪最著名的非洲人之一。作为一个大致位于现今尼日利亚内陆村落村长最小的儿子，他深受家人和村民们的疼爱，并将继承父业。不幸的是，他在11岁时与姐姐一起被奴隶贩子绑架，成为奴隶，并因此与姐姐永远分散。几个月后，他几经转手来到大西洋沿岸的海边，与其他黑奴一起被装上一艘贩奴船运送到美洲。经过生不如死的海上航行，包括在加勒比海岛屿上度过的数周，他最终抵达北美洲的英属弗吉尼亚殖民地。也就是在那里，他被卖给了英国皇家海军的迈克尔·帕斯卡尔中尉。作为帕斯卡尔的奴隶，他在皇家海军的舰船上待了六年。在此期间，他学会了识字、写作、算术以及航海等技能。1763年，他被卖给了一个爱尔兰商人。后来他又被带回加勒比海，被蒙塞拉特岛的商人罗伯特·金买下。不过，由于他识字并具有海上船员经历，他没有遭受更加严酷的奴役，而是在罗伯特的船上干活。他通过从事小额贸易和勤俭节约，终于攒够了足够的钱，于1766年从罗伯特手中赎回自己的自由。

获得自由后，艾奎亚诺大部分时间都居住在伦敦。18世纪80年代，有组织的废奴运动在伦敦兴起，他很快积极参与其中。早在1774年，他就已经与废奴运动的倡导者，英国学者和教会领袖格兰维尔·夏普建立联系。1785年，他开始写信给英国报纸、政坛要人和废奴运动倡导者。自传《奥拉达·艾奎亚诺生平奇事》(1789)就是他参与此项运动的产物，也是他唯一的一部正式出版的作品，十分畅销。这本自传集政论、游记和宗教皈依叙事于一体，详细记述了他为奴的艰难岁月和最终获得自由的漫长过程，引起广泛的社会关注。出版仅仅两周之后，英国国会就展开了是否要终止奴隶贸易的争论，而此前这桩从非洲向英国输送奴隶的罪恶贸易已经持续了近两个世纪。此后，他在英国和爱尔兰不遗余力地推广该书，成为知名公众人物。1791年，该书首次在美国发行。虽然英国国会直到艾奎亚诺过世十年后的1807年才最终宣布奴隶贸易为非法，但《奥拉达·艾奎亚诺生平奇事》依然是促成当时的政客们决心修改法律终止此项贸易的重要推动力量。作者通过亲身经历揭露奴隶贸易的黑暗与罪恶，并以自己获得自由的经历来激励其他黑人奴隶争取自由。因此，在当时的那场事关千百万黑人奴隶命运的辩论中，该书作为第一手的证词起到了十分重要的作用。

作品简介与赏析

在《奥拉达·艾奎亚诺生平奇事》中，作者以平实易懂的语言介绍了他原本在非洲安详与宁静的生活、他被绑架为奴之后的惨痛经历以及他如何通过个人的努力、优秀的品格以及上帝的眷顾而成为自由人的漫长旅程。虽然被多次转卖，他也曾多次产生自杀念头，却从未放弃自由的梦想。通过自强不息地学习知识，掌握技能，勤俭节约，他最终获得自由，并走上为其他奴隶争取自由的道路。这种百折不挠的精神令人感动，激励大量的黑人和白人积极投身废奴运动。作者的叙述既是殖民前的非洲生活景况的珍贵的第一手资料，也是当时罪恶奴隶贸易的直接见证，增进了人们对当时非洲奴隶历史的了解。

Sonya　Ramsey,　“Equiano,　the　African:　Biography　of　a　SelfMade　Man　by　Vincent　Carretta”,　The　North　Carolina　Historical　Review,　Vol.　83,　No.　2　(April　2006),　p.273.

尽管艾奎亚诺获得自由后的生活和工作地主要是在英国，但他却对非裔美国文学做出了重大贡献。他被公认为非裔美国文学在18世纪的先驱之一，开创了日后兴起的“奴隶叙事”(Slave　Narrative)的自传体风格，对之后的非裔美国文学产生了重要的影响，并持续至今。《美国黑人作家综合选集》(1972)将艾奎亚诺作为第一个美国黑人作家列入其中。可以说，该书与道格拉斯的《自述》(1845)和雅各布斯的《女奴生平》(1861)等一起构成非裔美国作家第一人称叙述的自传文学传统。与《独立宣言》和美国《宪法》一起，这些叙述指出了自由、民主和普遍人权的真正含义，而这些思想也被后来的非裔美国作家所继承。

不过，他的叙述并非无懈可击。随着该自传的流传，人们开始对作者的非洲身份和自传的真实性产生了怀疑。文森特·加瑞塔认为作者并非如书中所言出生于非洲，而是北美的英属南卡罗来纳殖民地，这意味着他生来就是奴隶。在加瑞塔看来，艾奎亚诺也许从未造访过非洲，该著的前面部分可能只是口述史中所采用的修辞手法，而不是他个人的真实历史。加瑞塔还举证认为，在出版该著之前，作者一直都声称自己出生在南卡。同时，他还提供了艾奎亚诺的基督教洗礼记录和教堂名册以供佐证。

Brycchan　Carey,　“Equiano,　Olaudah”,　in　Wilfred　Samuels,　et　al.,　eds.,　Encyclopedia　of　AfricanAmerican　Literature,　New　York:　Facts　On　File,　Inc.,　2007,　p.170.

尽管如此，加瑞塔仍然高度赞赏艾奎亚诺的成就，

The　JBHE　Foundation,　Inc.,　“Equiano,　the　African:　Biography　of　a　SelfMade　Man　by　Vincent　Carretta”,　The　Journal　of　Blacks　in　Higher　Education,　No.　49　(Autumn,　2005),　p.102.

许多读者仍然相信作品中的叙述,甚至这些争论和怀疑反过来也使作者和该作品受到人们更为广泛的关注。作者的出生地和早期的生活经历真相也许无从得知，但有一点是可以肯定的，那就是他的这本自传在殖民政治和非裔美国文学史上都产生了重大影响。

在19世纪中期欧美地区全面废除奴隶制后，艾奎亚诺逐渐被人遗忘。但20世纪60年代该书得以重印以来，依然被认为是非裔美国文学18世纪以来最重要的成果之一。如今，它已被译成多种语言，被全球各地的读者所研读。

选篇为该书第一章和第二章。作者回忆自己在非洲生活的方方面面，语言平实，娓娓道来，并将这种宁静、简朴、有序的非洲生活与欧洲所谓的“文明”生活进行对照，突出了非洲生活的优越性，以增加人们对非洲黑奴不幸遭遇的同情。

Sonya　Ramsey,　“Equiano,　the　African:　Biography　of　a　SelfMade　Man　by　Vincent　Carretta”,　The　North　Carolina　Historical　Review,　Vol.　83,　No.　2　(April　2006),　p.273.

虽然作者也讲述了当地存在的奴隶制度，但他强调指出当地的奴隶制度与美洲奴隶制度的不同，从而道出了美洲奴隶制度的惨无人道。总之，在他的笔下，这段田园牧歌式的童年生活是美好而值得怀念的。然而，这一切都在他11岁的某一天被无情地终止——他和姐姐被潜入村庄的奴隶贩子绑架带走，从此飘零异乡，沦落为奴。在前往西印度群岛的途中，他和其他黑人奴隶遭受了非人的对待，作者以这种方式控诉了奴隶贸易的罪恶。

1759年，他在伦敦接受洗礼，成为一名基督徒。因此，纵观全书，作者始终站在基督徒的立场上来回顾和审视自己的生活。他在第一章中试图证明非洲同胞也是犹太人亚伯拉罕的后裔，以事实说明他们与犹太人之间在风俗和习惯上的共同之处，而他们的黝黑皮肤只不过是因为长期生活在热带地区而已，因此不能因为肤色的不同而对他们怀有歧视，因为他们与其他白人一样都是上帝的子民。他们在欧洲人中间所表现出来的无知也只不过是没有学习和熟悉欧洲的“知识”而已。据此，作者在第一章结尾时呼吁欧洲白人要对黑人给予同情，要以兄弟之情对待他们；要在心中对上帝充满感激，因为“上帝使得居住在地球各个国家的人具有同样的血液。上帝的智慧是我们所不能及的，而我们的所作所为也不是上帝的所作所为”。同样，在第二章结尾处，作者指责那些贪婪残忍的奴隶贩子只是“名义上的基督徒”，因为他们没有遵守基督教“己所不欲，勿施于人”的训诫。由此可见，作者主张黑人和白人之间的平等和博爱的立场是十分鲜明的，这种强烈的种族平等意识对于一个18世纪曾经为奴者而言是难能可贵的。因为在当时，黑人无论在身体、智力还是情感和道德上，都被西方社会普遍认为低于白人。

当然，作者通过考证，认为非洲人和犹太人同属一个上帝的子民还具有其他含义：作者试图通过此举将黑人纳入白人主流文明之中，因为作为在白人社会和文化环境中成长起来的黑人作家，艾奎亚诺在内心深处认同白人文化，渴望成为白人社会的一员。与此同时，他也试图激励非洲同胞在奴役和压迫的苦难中通过信仰上帝来寻求精神寄托，他认为，正如《旧约》中的以色列人在埃及经受了漫长的奴役之后而最终获得自由一样，非洲的同胞也终将通过信仰上帝获得自己的自由。为此，作者在书中多次提及自己在经受奴役与欺凌的绝望时刻通过仰望上帝来寻求精神慰藉。而且他相信，作为上帝的子民，只要通过个人的诚实和努力的劳作，最终必将获得回报。作者讲述了自己如何通过个人的努力和优秀的品格获得了自由，诸如通过学习识字和计算等技能受到主人善待，为日后从事贸易打下良好基础；通过努力工作与节省开支攒够钱赎得自由，等等。但是需要当代读者警醒的是，他将这一切都看作是上帝的仁慈和眷顾，不能不说是白人文化深刻影响的结果。

总之，虽然这部作品名义上是一部自传，但它更是一部废奴主义文本，既具有服务于废奴运动的政治目的，也具有传播基督教的宗教目的，

Vincent　Carretta，　“Response　to　Paul　Lovejoys　‘Autobiography　and　Memory:　Gustavus　Vassa,　alias　Olaudah　Equiano,　the　African’”,　Slavery　and　Abolition,　Vol.　28,　No.　1(April　2007),　p.116.

因为在当时的废奴主义者看来，废奴运动应该与福音传播同步进行。可以说，艾奎亚诺的这部作品完全回应了这种时代需求。

Brycchan　Carey,　“Equiano,　Olaudah”,　in　Wilfred　Samuels,　et　al.,　eds.,　Encyclopedia　of　AfricanAmerican　Literature,　New　York:　Facts　On　File,　Inc.,　2007,　p.171.

Chapter　1

The　Authors　account　of　his　country,　and　their　manners　and　customs—Administration　of

justice—Embrenche—Marriage　ceremony,　and　public　entertainments—Mode　of　living—DressManufactures—Buildings—Commerce—Agriculture—War　and　Religion—Superstition　of　the　natives—Funeral　ceremonies　of　the　priests　or　magicians—Curious　mode　of　discovering　poison—Some　hints　concerning　the　origin　of　the　Authors　countrymen,　with　the　opinions　of　different　writers　on　that　subject.

I　BELIEVE　it　is　difficult　for　those　who　publish　their　own　memoirs　to　escape　the　imputation　of　vanity;　nor　is　this　the　only　disadvantage　under　which　they　labour;　it　is　also　their　misfortune,　that　whatever　is　uncommon　is　rarely,　if　ever,　believed;　and　what　is　obvious　we　are　apt　to　turn　from　with　disgust,　and　to　charge　the　writer　with　impertinence.　People　generally　think　those　memoirs　only　worthy　to　be　read　or　remembered　which　abound　in　great　or　striking　events;　those,　in　short,　which　in　a　high　degree　excite　either　admiration　or　pity:　all　others　they　consign　to　contempt　and　oblivion.　It　is,　therefore,　I　confess,　not　a　little　hazardous,　in　a　private　and　obscure　individual,　and　a　stranger　too,　thus　to　solicit　the　indulgent　attention　of　the　public;　especially　when　I　own　I　offer　here　the　history　of　neither　a　saint,　a　hero,　nor　a　tyrant.　I　believe　there　are　a　few　events　in　my　life　which　have　not　happened　to　many;　it　is　true　the　incidents　of　it　are　numerous;　and,　did　I　consider　myself　an　European,　I　might　say　my　sufferings　were　great;　but,　when　I　compare　my　lot　with　that　of　most　of　my　countrymen,　I　regard　myself　as　a　particular　favourite　of　Heaven,　and　acknowledge　the　mercies　of　Providence　in　every　occurrence　of　my　life.　If,　then,　the　following　narrative　does　not　appear　sufficiently　interesting　to　engage　general　attention,　let　my　motive　be　some　excuse　for　its　publication.　I　am　not　so　foolishly　vain　as　to　expect　from　it　either　immortality　or　literary　reputation.　If　it　affords　any　satisfaction　to　my　numerous　friends,　at　whose　request　it　has　been　written,　or　in　the　smallest　degree　promotes　the　interest　of　humanity,　the　ends　for　which　it　was　undertaken　will　be　fully　attained,　and　every　wish　of　my　heart　gratified.　Let　it　therefore　be　remembered　that,　in　wishing　to　avoid　censure,　I　do　not　aspire　to　praise.

That　part　of　Africa,　known　by　the　name　of　Guinea,　to　which　the　trade　for　slaves　is　carried　on,extends　along　the　coast　above　3,400　miles,　from　Senegal　to　Angola,　and　includes　a　variety　of　kingdoms.　Of　these　the　most　considerable　is　the　kingdom　of　Benin,　both　as　to　extent　and　wealth,　the　richness　and　cultivation　of　the　soil,　the　power　of　its　king,　and　the　number　and　warlike　disposition　of　the　inhabitants.　It　is　situated　nearly　under　the　line　and　extends　along　the　coast　about　170　miles,　but　runs　back　into　the　interior　part　of　Africa　to　a　distance　hitherto　I　believe　unexplored　by　any　traveller;　and　seems　only　terminated　at　length　by　the　empire　of　Abyssinia,　near　1,500　miles　from　its　beginning.　This　kingdom　is　divided　into　many　provinces　or　districts:　in　one　of　the　most　remote　and　fertile　of　which,　called　Eboe,　I　was　born,　in　the　year　1745,　in　a　charming　fruitful　vale,　named　Essaka.　The　distance　of　this　province　from　the　capital　of　Benin　and　the　sea　coast　must　be　very　considerable;　for　I　had　never　heard　of　white　men　or　Europeans,　nor　of　the　sea;　and　our　subjection　to　the　king　of　Benin　was　little　more　than　nominal;　for　every　transaction　of　the　government,　as　far　as　my　slender　observation　extended,　was　conducted　by　the　chiefs　or　elders　of　the　place.　The　manners　and　government　of　a　people　who　have　little　commerce　with　other　countries　are　generally　very　simple;　and　the　history　of　what　passes　in　one　family　or　village　may　serve　as　a　specimen　of　the　whole　nation.　My　father　was　one　of　those　elders　or　chiefs　I　have　spoken　of,　and　was　styled　Embrenche;　a　term,　as　I　remember,　importing　the　highest　distinction,　and　signifying　in　our　language　a　mark　of　grandeur.　This　mark　is　conferred　on　the　person　entitled　to　it,　by　cutting　the　skin　across　at　the　top　of　the　forehead,　and　drawing　it　down　to　the　eyebrows;　and,　while　it　is　in　this　situation,　applying　a　warm　hand,　and　rubbing　it　until　it　shrinks　up　into　a　thick　weal　across　the　lower　part　of　the　forehead.　Most　of　the　judges　and　senators　were　thus　marked;　my　father　had　long　borne　it:　I　had　seen　it　conferred　on　one　of　my　brothers,　and　I　was　also　destined　to　receive　it　by　my　parents.　Those　Embrenche,　or　chief　men,　decided　disputes　and　punished　crimes;　for　which　purpose　they　always　assembled　together.　The　proceedings　were　generally　short;　and　in　most　cases　the　law　of　retaliation　prevailed.　I　remember　a　man　was　brought　before　my　father,　and　the　other　judges,　for　kidnapping　a　boy;　and,　although　he　was　the　son　of　a　chief　or　senator,　he　was　condemned　to　make　recompense　by　a　man　or　woman　slave.　Adultery,　however,　was　sometimes　punished　with　slavery　or　death;　a　punishment　which　I　believe　is　inflicted　on　it　throughout　most　of　the　nations　of　Africa:　so　sacred　among　them　is　the　honour　of　the　marriage　bed,　and　so　jealous　are　they　of　the　fidelity　of　their　wives.　Of　this　I　recollect　an　instance.　A　woman　was　convicted　before　the　judges　of　adultery,　and　delivered　over,　as　the　custom　was,　to　her　husband　to　be　punished.　Accordingly　he　determined　to　put　her　to　death:　but　it　being　found,　just　before　her　execution,　that　she　had　an　infant　at　her　breast;　and　no　woman　being　prevailed　on　to　perform　the　part　of　a　nurse,　she　was　spared　on　account　of　the　child.　The　men,　however,　do　not　preserve　the　same　constancy　to　their　wives,　which　they　expect　from　them;　for　they　indulge　in　a　plurality,　though　seldom　in　more　than　two.　Their　mode　of　marriage　is　thus:　both　parties　are　usually　betrothed　when　young　by　their　parents　(though　I　have　known　the　males　to　betroth　themselves).　On　this　occasion　a　feast　is　prepared,　and　the　bride　and　bridegroom　stand　up　in　the　midst　of　all　their　friends,　who　are　assembled　for　the　purpose,　while　he　declares　she　is　thenceforth　to　be　looked　upon　as　his　wife,　and　that　no　other　person　is　to　pay　any　addresses　to　her.　This　is　also　immediately　proclaimed　in　the　vicinity,　on　which　the　bride　retires　from　the　assembly.　Some　time　after,　she　is　brought　home　to　her　husband,　and　then　another　feast　is　made,　to　which　the　relations　of　both　parties　are　invited:　her　parents　then　deliver　her　to　the　bridegroom,　accompanied　with　a　number　of　blessings,　and　at　the　same　time　they　tie　round　her　waist　a　cotton　string　of　the　thickness　of　a　goosequill,　which　none　but　married　women　are　permitted　to　wear:　she　is　now　considered　as　completely　his　wife;　and　at　this　time　the　dowry　is　given　to　the　new　married　pair,　which　generally　consists　of　portions　of　land,　slaves,　and　cattle,　household　goods,　and　implements　of　husbandry.　These　are　offered　by　the　friends　of　both　parties;　besides　which　the　parents　of　the　bridegroom　present　gifts　to　those　of　the　bride,　whose　property　she　is　looked　upon　before　marriage;　but　after　it　she　is　esteemed

the　sole　property　of　her　husband.　The　ceremony　being　now　ended　the　festival　begins,　which　is　celebrated　with　bonfires,　and　loud　acclamations　of　joy,　accompanied　with　music　and　dancing.

We　are　almost　a　nation　of　dancers,　musicians,　and　poets.　Thus　every　great　event,　such　as　a　triumphant　return　from　battle,　or　other　cause　of　public　rejoicing　is　celebrated　in　public　dances,　which　are　accompanied　with　songs　and　music　suited　to　the　occasion.　The　assembly　is　separated　into　four　divisions,　which　dance　either　apart　or　in　succession,　and　each　with　a　character　peculiar　to　itself.　The　first　division　contains　the　married　men,　who　in　their　dances　frequently　exhibit　feats　of　arms,　and　the　representation　of　a　battle.　To　these　succeed　the　married　women,　who　dance　in　the　second　division.　The　young　men　occupy　the　third;　and　the　maidens　the　fourth.　Each　represents　some　interesting　scene　of　real　life,　such　as　a　great　achievement,　domestic　employment,　a　pathetic　story,　or　some　rural　sport;　and　as　the　subject　is　generally　founded　on　some　recent　event,　it　is　therefore　ever　new.　This　gives　our　dances　a　spirit　and　variety　which　I　have　scarcely　seen　elsewhere.　We　have　many　musical　instruments,　particularly　drums　of　different　kinds,　a　piece　of　music　which　resembles　a　guitar,　and　another　much　like　a　stickado.　These　last　are　chiefly　used　by　betrothed　virgins,　who　play　on　them　on　all　grand　festivals.

As　our　manners　are　simple,　our　luxuries　are　few.　The　dress　of　both　sexes　is　nearly　the　same.　It　generally　consists　of　a　long　piece　of　calico,　or　muslin,　wrapped　loosely　round　the　body,　somewhat　in　the　form　of　a　highland　plaid.　This　is　usually　dyed　blue,　which　is　our　favourite　colour.　It　is　extracted　from　a　berry,　and　is　brighter　and　richer　than　any　I　have　seen　in　Europe.　Besides　this,　our　women　of　distinction　wear　golden　ornaments,　which　they　dispose　with　some　profusion　on　their　arms　and　legs.　When　our　women　are　not　employed　with　the　men　in　tillage,　their　usual　occupation　is　spinning　and　weaving　cotton,　which　they　afterwards　dye,　and　make　into　garments.　They　also　manufacture　earthen　vessels,　of　which　we　have　many　kinds.　Among　the　rest　tobacco　pipes,　made　after　the　same　fashion,　and　used　in　the　same　manner,　as　those　in　Turkey.

Our　manner　of　living　is　entirely　plain;　for　as　yet　the　natives　are　unacquainted　with　those　refinements　in　cookery　which　debauch　the　taste:　bullocks,　goats,　and　poultry　supply　the　greatest　part　of　their　food.　These　constitute　likewise　the　principal　wealth　of　the　country,　and　the　chief　articles　of　its　commerce.　The　flesh　is　usually　stewed　in　a　pan.　To　make　it　savory,　we　sometimes　use　also　pepper,　and　other　spices,　and　we　have　salt　made　of　wood　ashes.　Our　vegetables　are　mostly　plantains,　eadas,　yams,　beans,　and　Indian　corn.　The　head　of　the　family　usually　eats　alone;　his　wives　and　slaves　have　also　their　separate　tables.　Before　we　taste　food,　we　always　wash　our　hands:　indeed　our　cleanliness　on　all　occasions　is　extreme;　but　on　this　it　is　an　indispensable　ceremony.　After　washing,　libation　is　made,　by　pouring　out　a　small　portion　of　the　drink　on　the　floor,　and　tossing　a　small　quantity　of　the　food　in　a　certain　place,　for　the　spirits　of　departed　relations,　which　the　natives　suppose　to　preside　over　their　conduct,　and　guard　them　from　evil.　They　are　totally　unacquainted　with　strong　or　spiritous　liquours;　and　their　principal　beverage　is　palm　wine.　This　is　got　from　a　tree　of　that　name,　by　tapping　it　at　the　top,　and　fastening　a　large　gourd　to　it;　and　sometimes　one　tree　will　yield　three　or　four　gallons　in　a　night.　When　just　drawn　it　is　of　a　most　delicious　sweetness;　but　in　a　few　days　it　acquires　a　tartish　and　more　spirituous　flavour:　though　I　never　saw　anyone　intoxicated　by　it.　The　same　tree　also　produces　nuts　and　oil.　Our　principal　luxury　is　in　perfumes;　one　sort　of　these　is　an　odoriferous　wood　of　delicious　fragrance:　the　other　a　kind　of　earth;　a　small　portion　of　which　thrown　into　the　fire　diffuses　a　most　powerful　odour.　We　beat　this　wood　into　powder,　and　mix　it　with　palmoil;　with　which　both　men　and　women　perfume　themselves.

In　our　buildings　we　study　convenience　rather　than　ornament.　Each　master　of　a　family　has　a　large　square　piece　of　ground,　surrounded　with　a　moat　or　fence,　or　enclosed　with　a　wall　made　of　red　earth　tempered,　which,　when　dry,　is　as　hard　as　brick.　Within　this　are　his　houses　to　accommodate　his　family　and　slaves;　which,　if　numerous,　frequently　present　the　appearance　of　a　village.　In　the　middle　stands　the　principal　building,　appropriated　to　the　sole　use　of　the　master,　and　consisting　of　two　apartments;　in　one　of　which　he　sits　in　the　day　with　his　family,　the　other　is　left　apart　for　the　reception　of　his　friends.　He　has　besides　these　a　distinct　apartment　in　which　he　sleeps,　together　with　his　male　children.　On　each　side　are　the　apartments　of　his　wives,　who　have　also　their　separate　day　and　night　houses.　The　habitations　of　the　slaves　and　their　families　are　distributed　throughout　the　rest　of　the　enclosure.　These　houses　never　exceed　one　story　in　height:　they　are　always　built　of　wood,　or　stakes　driven　into　the　ground,　crossed　with　wattles,　and　neatly　plastered　within,　and　without.　The　roof　is　thatched　with　reeds.　Our　day　houses　are　left　open　at　the　sides;　but　those　in　which　we　sleep　are　always　covered,　and　plastered　in　the　inside,　with　a　composition　mixed　with　cowdung,　to　keep　off　the　different　insects　which　annoy　us　during　the　night.　The　walls　and　floors　also　of　these　are　generally　covered　with　mats.　Our　beds　consist　of　a　platform,　raised　three　or　four　feet　from　the　ground,　on　which　are　laid　skins,　and　different　parts　of　a　spongy　tree　called　plantain.　Our　covering　is　calico　or　muslin,　the　same　as　our　dress.　The　usual　seats　are　a　few　logs　of　wood;　but　we　have　benches,　which　are　generally　perfumed,　to　accommodate　strangers;　these　compose　the　greater　part　of　our　household　furniture.　Houses　so　constructed　and　furnished　require　but　little　skill　to　erect　them.　Every　man　is　a　sufficient　architect　for　the　purpose.　The　whole　neighbourhood　afford　their　unanimous　assistance　in　building　them,　and,　in　return,　receive　and　expect　no　other　recompense　than　a　feast.

As　we　live　in　a　country　where　nature　is　prodigal　of　her　favours,　our　wants　are　few　and　easily　supplied;　of　course　we　have　few　manufactures.　They　consist　for　the　most　part　of　calicoes,　earthen　ware,　ornaments,　and　instruments　of　war　and　husbandry.　But　these　make　no　part　of　our　commerce,　the　principal　articles　of　which,　as　I　have　observed,　are　provisions.　In　such　a　state　money　is　of　little　use;　however　we　have　some　small　pieces　of　coin,　if　I　may　call　them　such.　They　are　made　something　like　an　anchor;　but　I　do　not　remember　either　their　value　or　denomination.　We　have　also　markets,　at　which　I　have　been　frequently　with　my　mother.　These　are　sometimes　visited　by　stout,　mahoganycoloured　men　from　the　south　west　of　us:　we　call　them　OyeEboe,　which　term　signifies　red　men　living　at　a　distance.　They　generally　bring　us　firearms,　gunpowder,　hats,　beads,　and　dried　fish.　The　last　we　esteemed　a　great　rarity,　as　our　waters　were　only　brooks　and　springs.　These　articles　they　barter　with　us　for　odoriferous　woods　and　earth,　and　our　salt　of　woodashes.　They　always　carry　slaves　through　our　land;　but　the　strictest　account　is　exacted　of　their　manner　of　procuring　them　before　they　are　suffered　to　pass.　Sometimes　indeed　we　sold　slaves　to　them,　but　they　were　only　prisoners　of　war,　or　such　among　us　as　had　been　convicted　of　kidnapping,　or　adultery,　and　some　other　crimes　which　we　esteemed　heinous.　This　practice　of　kidnapping　induces　me　to　think,　that,　notwithstanding　all　our　strictness,　their　principal　business　among　us　was　to　trepan　our　people.　I　remember　too　they　carried　great　sacks　along　with　them,　which,　not　long　after,　I　had　an　opportunity　of　fatally　seeing　applied　to　that　infamous　purpose.

Our　land　is　uncommonly　rich　and　fruitful,　and　produces　all　kinds　of　vegetables　in　great　abundance.　We　have　plenty　of　Indian　corn,　and　vast　quantities　of　cotton　and　tobacco.　Our　pine　apples　grow　without　culture;　they　are　about　the　size　of　the　largest　sugarloaf,　and　finely　flavoured.　We　have　also　spices　of　different　kinds,　particularly　pepper;　and　a　variety　of　delicious　fruits　which　I　have　never　seen　in　Europe;　together　with　gums　of　various　kinds,　and　honey　in　abundance.　All　our　industry　is　exerted　to　improve　those　blessings　of　nature.　Agriculture　is　our　chief　employment;　and　everyone,　even　the　children　and　women,　are　engaged　in　it.　Thus　we　are　all　habituated　to　labour　from　our　earliest　years.　Everyone　contributes　something　to　the　common　stock;　and　as　we　are　unacquainted　with　idleness,　we　have　no　beggars.　The　benefits　of　such　a　mode　of　living　are　obvious.　The　WestIndia　planters　prefer　the　slaves　of　Benin　or　Eboe　to　those　of　any　other　part　of　Guinea,　for　their　hardiness,　intelligence,　integrity,　and　zeal.　Those　benefits　are　felt　by　us　in　the　general　healthiness　of　the　people,　and　in　their　vigour　and　activity;　I　might　have　added　too　in　their　comeliness.　Deformity　is　indeed　unknown　amongst　us,　I　mean　that　of　shape.　Numbers　of　the　natives　of　Eboe　now　in　London　might　be　brought　in　support　of　this　assertion;　for,　in　regard　to　complexion,　ideas　of　beauty　are　wholly　relative.　I　remember　while　in　Africa　to　have　seen　three　negro　children,　who　were　tawny,　and　another　quite　white,　who　were　universally　regarded　by　myself　and　the　natives　in　general,　as　far　as　related　to　their　complexions,　as　deformed.　Our　women　too　were,　in　my　eyes　at　least,　uncommonly　graceful,　alert,　and　modest　to　a　degree　of　bashfulness;　nor　do　I　remember　to　have　ever　heard　of　an　instance　of　incontinence　amongst　them　before　marriage.　They　are　also　remarkably　cheerful.　Indeed　cheerfulness　and　affability　are　two　of　the　leading　characteristics　of　our　nation.

Our　tillage　is　exercised　in　a　large　plain　or　common,　some　hours　walk　from　our　dwellings,　and　all　the　neighbours　resort　thither　in　a　body.　They　use　no　beasts　of　husbandry;　and　their　only　instruments　are　hoes,　axes,　shovels,　and　beaks,　or　pointed　iron　to　dig　with.　Sometimes　we　are　visited　by　locusts,　which　come　in　large　clouds,　so　as　to　darken　the　air,　and　destroy　our　harvest.　This　however　happens　rarely,　but　when　it　does,　a　famine　is　produced　by　it.　I　remember　an　instance　or　two　wherein　this　happened.　This　common　is　ofttimes　the　theatre　of　war;　and　therefore　when　our　people　go　out　to　till　their　land,　they　not　only　go　in　a　body,　but　generally　take　their　arms　with　them,　for　fear　of　a　surprise;　and　when　they　apprehend　an　invasion　they　guard　the　avenues　to　their　dwellings,　by　driving　sticks　into　the　ground,　which　are　so　sharp　at　one　end　as　to　pierce　the　foot,　and　are　generally　dipt　in　poison.　From　what　I　can　recollect　of　these　battles,　they　appear　to　have　been　irruptions　of　one　little　state　or　district　on　the　other,　to　obtain　prisoners　or　booty.　Perhaps　they　were　incited　to　this　by　those　traders　who　brought　the　European　goods　I　mentioned　amongst　us.　Such　mode　of　obtaining　slaves　in　Africa　is　common;　and　I　believe　more　are　procured　this　way,　and　by　kidnapping,　than　any　other.　When　a　trader　wants　slaves,　he　applies　to　a　chief　for　them,　and　tempts　him　with　his　wares.　It　is　not　extraordinary,　if　on　this　occasion　he　yields　to　the　temptation　with　as　little　firmness,　and　accepts　the　price　of　his　fellow　creatures　liberty　with　as　little　reluctance,　as　the　enlightened　merchant.　Accordingly,　he　falls　on　his　neighbours,　and　a　desperate　battle　ensues.　If　he　prevails,　and　takes　prisoners,　he　gratifies　his　avarice　by　selling　them;　but,　if　his　party　be　vanquished,　and　he　falls　into　the　hands　of　the　enemy,　he　is　put　to　death:　for,　as　he　has　been　known　to　foment　their　quarrels,　it　is　thought　dangerous　to　let　him　survive,　and　no　ransom　can　save　him,　though　all　other　prisoners　may　be　redeemed.　We　have　firearms,　bows　and　arrows,　broad　twoedged　swords　and　javelins;　we　have　shields　also,　which　cover　a　man　from　head　to　foot.　All　are　taught　the　use　of　the　weapons.　Even　our　women　are　warriors,　and　march　boldly　out　to　fight　along　with　the　men.　Our　whole　district　is　a　kind　of　militia:　on　a　certain　signal　given,　such　as　the　firing　of　a　gun　at　night,　they　all　rise　in　arms　and　rush　upon　their　enemy.　It　is　perhaps　something　remarkable,　that　when　our　people　march　to　the　field,　a　red　flag　or　banner　is　borne　before　them.　I　was　once　a　witness　to　a　battle　in　our　common.　We　had　been　all　at　work　in　it　one　day　as　usual　when　our　people　were　suddenly　attacked.　I　climbed　a　tree　at　some　distance,　from　which　I　beheld　the　fight.　There　were　many　women　as　well　as　men　on　both　sides;　among　others　my　mother　was　there　and　armed　with　a　broad　sword.　After　fighting　for　a　considerable　time　with　great　fury,　and　many　had　been　killed,　our　people　obtained　the　victory,　and　took　their　enemys　Chief　prisoner.　He　was　carried　off　in　great　triumph,　and,　though　he　offered　a　large　ransom　for　his　life,　he　was　put　to　death.　A　virgin　of　note　among　our　enemies　had　been　slain　in　the　battle,　and　her　arm　was　exposed　in　our　marketplace,　where　our　trophies　were　always　exhibited.　The　spoils　were　divided　according　to　the　merit　of　the　warriors.　Those　prisoners　which　were　not　sold　or　redeemed　we　kept　as　slaves:　but　how　different　was　their　condition　from　that　of　the　slaves　in　the　WestIndies!　With　us　they　do　no　more　work　than　other　members　of　the　community,　even　their　master.　Their　food,　clothing,　and　lodging　were　nearly　the　same　as　theirs,　except　that　they　were　not　permitted　to　eat　with　those　who　were　free　born　and　there　was　scarce　any　other　difference　between　them,　than　a　superior　degree　of　importance　which　the　head　of　a　family　possesses　in　our　state,　and　that　authority　which,　as　such,　he　exercises　over　every　part　of　his　household.　Some　of　these　slaves　have　even　slaves　under　them,　as　their　own　property,　and　for　their　own　use.

As　to　religion,　the　natives　believe　that　there　is　one　Creator　of　all　things,　and　that　he　lives　in　the　sun,　and　is　girded　round　with　a　belt,　that　he　may　never　eat　or　drink;　but,　according　to　some,　he　smokes　a　pipe,　which　is　our　own　favourite　luxury.　They　believe　he　governs　events,　especially　our　deaths　or　captivity;　but,　as　for　the　doctrine　of　eternity,　I　do　not　remember　to　have　ever　heard　of　it:　some　however　believe　in　the　transmigration　of　souls　in　a　certain　degree.　Those　spirits,　which　are　not　transmigrated,　such　as　our　dear　friends　or　relations,　they　believe　always　attend　them,　and　guard　them　from　the　bad　spirits　of　their　foes.　For　this　reason,　they　always,　before　eating,　as　I　have　observed,　put　some　small　portion　of　the　meat,　and　pour　some　of　their　drink,　on　the　ground　for　them;　and　they　often　make　oblations　of　the　blood　of　beasts　or　fowls　at　their　graves.　I　was　very　fond　of　my　mother,　and　almost　constantly　with　her.　When　she　went　to　make　these　oblations　at　her　mothers　tomb,　which　was　a　kind　of　small　solitary　thatched　house,　I　sometimes　attended　her.　There　she　made　her　libations,　and　spent　most　of　the　night　in　cries　and　lamentations.　I　have　been　often　extremely　terrified　on　these　occasions.　The　loneliness　of　the　place,　the　darkness　of　the　night,　and　the　ceremony　of　libation,　naturally　awful　and　gloomy,　were　heightened　by　my　mothers　lamentations;　and　these,　concurring　with　the　doleful　cries　of　birds,　by　which　these　places　were　frequented,　gave　an　inexpressible　terror　to　the　scene.

We　compute　the　year　from　the　day　on　which　the　sun　crosses　the　line,　and,　on　its　setting　that　evening,　there　is　a　general　shout　throughout　the　land;　at　least　I　can　speak　from　my　own　knowledge　throughout　our　vicinity.　The　people　at　the　same　time　make　a　great　noise　with　rattles,　not　unlike　the　basket　rattles　used　by　children　here,　though　much　larger,　and　hold　up　their　hands　to　heaven　for　a　blessing.　It　is　then　the　greatest　offerings　are　made;　and　those　children　whom　our　wise　men　foretell　will　be　fortunate　are　then　presented　to　different　people.　I　remember　many　used　to　come　to　see　me,　and　I　was　carried　about　to　others　for　that　purpose.　They　have　many　offerings,　particularly　at　full　moons;　generally　two　at　harvest,　before　the　fruits　are　taken　out　of　the　ground:　and,　when　any　young　animals　are　killed,　sometimes　they　offer　up　part　of　them　as　a　sacrifice.　These　offerings,　when　made　by　one　of　the　heads　of　a　family,　serve　for　the　whole.　I　remember　we　often　had　them　at　my　fathers　and　my　uncles,　and　their　families　have　been　present.　Some　of　our　offerings　are　eaten　with　bitter　herbs.　We　had　a　saying　among　us　to　anyone　of　a　cross　temper,　“That　if　they　were　to　be　eaten,　they　should　be　eaten　with　bitter　herbs.”

We　practised　circumcision　like　the　Jews,　and　made　offerings　and　feasts　on　that　occasion　in　the　same　manner　as　they　did.　Like　them　also,　our　children　were　named　from　some　event,　some　circumstance,　or　fancied　foreboding　at　the　time　of　their　birth.　I　was　named　Olaudah,　which,　in　our　language,　signifies　vicissitude,　or　fortunate　also;　one　favoured,　and　having　a　loud　voice　and　well　spoken.　I　remember　we　never　polluted　the　name　of　the　object　of　our　adoration;　on　the　contrary,　it　was　always　mentioned　with　the　greatest　reverence;　and　we　were　totally　unacquainted　with　swearing,　and　all　those　terms　of　abuse　and　reproach　which　find　the　way　so　readily　and　copiously　into　the　languages　of　more　civilized　people.　The　only　expressions　of　that　kind　I　remember　were　“May　you　rot,　or　may　you　swell,　or　may　a　beast　take　you.”

I　have　before　remarked,　that　the　natives　of　this　part　of　Africa　are　extremely　cleanly.　This　necessary　habit　of　decency　was　with　us　a　part　of　religion,　and　therefore　we　had　many　purifications　and　washings;　indeed　almost　as　many,　and　used　on　the　same　occasions,　if　my　recollection　does　not　fail　me,　as　the　Jews.　Those　that　touched　the　dead　at　any　time　were　obliged　to　wash　and　purify　themselves　before　they　could　enter　a　dwellinghouse.　Every　woman　too,　at　certain　times,　was　forbidden　to　come　into　a　dwellinghouse,　or　touch　any　person,　or　anything　we　ate.　I　was　so　fond　of　my　mother　I　could　not　keep　from　her,　or　avoid　touching　her　at　some　of　those　periods,　in　consequence　of　which　I　was　obliged　to　be　kept　out　with　her,　in　a　little　house　made　for　that　purpose,　till　offering　was　made,　and　then　we　were　purified.

Though　we　had　no　places　of　public　worship,　we　had　priests　and　magicians,　or　wise　men.　I　do　not　remember　whether　they　had　different　offices,　or　whether　they　were　united　in　the　same　persons　but　they　were　held　in　great　reverence　by　the　people.　They　calculated　our　time,　and　foretold　events,　as　their　name　imported,　for　we　called　them　Ahaffoewaycah,　which　signifies　calculators,　or　yearly　men,　our　year　being　called　Ahaffoe.　They　wore　their　beards;　and,　when　they　died,　they　were　succeeded　by　their　sons.　Most　of　their　implements　and　things　of　value　were　interred　along　with　them.　Pipes　and　tobacco　were　also　put　into　the　grave　with　the　corpse,　which　was　always　perfumed　and　ornamented;　and　animals　were　offered　in　sacrifice　to　them.　None　accompanied　their　funerals　but　those　of　the　same　profession　or　tribe.　These　buried　them　after　sunset,　and　always　returned　from　the　grave　by　a　different　way　from　that　which　they　went.

These　magicians　were　also　our　doctors　or　physicians.　They　practised　bleeding　by　cupping,　and　were　very　successful　in　healing　wounds　and　expelling　poisons.　They　had　likewise　some　extraordinary　method　of　discovering　jealousy,　theft,　and　poisoning;　the　success　of　which　no　doubt　they　derived　from　their　unbounded　influence　over　the　credulity　and　superstition　of　the　people.　I　do　not　remember　what　those　methods　were,　except　that　as　to　poisoning.　I　recollect　an　instance　or　two,　which　I　hope　it　will　not　be　deemed　impertinent　here　to　insert,　as　it　may　serve　as　a　kind　of　specimen　of　the　rest,　and　is　still　used　by　the　negroes　in　the　West　Indies.　A　young　woman　had　been　poisoned,　but　it　was　not　known　by　whom;　the　doctors　ordered　the　corpse　to　be　taken　up　by　some　persons,　and　carried　to　the　grave.　As　soon　as　the　bearers　had　raised　it　on　their　shoulders,　they　seemed　seized　with　some　sudden　impulse,　and　ran　to　and　fro,　unable　to　stop　themselves.　At　last,　after　having　passed　through　a　number　of　thorns　and　prickly　bushes　unhurt,　the　corpse　fell　from　them　close　to　a　house,　and　defaced　it　in　the　fall;　and　the　owner　being　taken　up,　he　immediately　confessed　the　poisoning.

The　natives　are　extremely　cautious　about　poison.　When　they　buy　any　eatable　the　seller　kisses　it　all　round　before　the　buyer,　to　shew　him　it　is　not　poisoned;　and　the　same　is　done　when　any　meat　or　drink　is　presented,　particularly　to　a　stranger.　We　have　serpents　of　different　kinds,　some　of　which　are　esteemed　ominous　when　they　appear　in　our　houses,　and　these　we　never　molest.　I　remember　two　of　those　ominous　snakes,　each　of　which　was　as　thick　as　the　calf　of　a　mans　leg,　and　in　colour　resembling　a　dolphin　in　the　water,　crept　at　different　times　into　my　mothers　nighthouse,　where　I　always　lay　with　her,　and　coiled　themselves　into　folds,　and　each　time　they　crowed　like　a　cock.　I　was　desired　by　some　of　our　wise　men　to　touch　these,　that　I　might　be　interested　in　the　good　omens,　which　I　did,　for　they　were　quite　harmless,　and　would　tamely　suffer　themselves　to　be　handled;　and　then　they　were　put　into　a　large　open　earthen　pan,　and　set　on　one　side　of　the　highway.　Some　of　our　snakes,　however,　were　poisonous:　one　of　them　crossed　the　road　one　day　when　I　was　standing　on　it,　and　passed　between　my　feet,　without　offering　to　touch　me,　to　the　great　surprise　of　many　who　saw　it;　and　these　incidents　were　accounted　by　the　wise　men,　and　likewise　by　my　mother　and　the　rest　of　the　people,　as　remarkable　omens　in　my　favour.

...

Chapter　2

I　hope　the　reader　will　not　think　I　have　trespassed　on　his　patience　in　introducing　myself　to　him,　with　some　account　of　the　manners　and　customs　of　my　country.　They　had　been　implanted　in　me　with　great　care,　and　made　an　impression　on　my　mind,　which　time　could　not　erase,　and　which　all　the　adversity　and　variety　of　fortune　I　have　since　experienced,　served　only　to　rivet　and　record;　for,　whether　the　love　of　ones　country　be　real　or　imaginary,　or　a　lesson　of　reason,　or　an　instinct　of　nature,　I　still　look　back　with　pleasure　on　the　first　scenes　of　my　life,　though　that　pleasure　has　been　for　the　most　part　mingled　with　sorrow.

I　have　already　acquainted　the　reader　with　the　time　and　place　of　my　birth.　My　father,　besides　many　slaves,　had　a　numerous　family,　of　which　seven　lived　to　grow　up,　including　myself　and　a　sister,　who　was　the　only　daughter.　As　I　was　the　youngest　of　the　sons,　I　became,　of　course,　the　greatest　favorite　with　my　mother,　and　was　always　with　her;　and　she　used　to　take　particular　pains　to　form　my　mind.　I　was　trained　up　from　my　earliest　years　in　the　art　of　war;　my　daily　exercise　was　shooting　and　throwing　javelins;　and　my　mother　adorned　me　with　emblems,　after　the　manner　of　our　greatest　warriors.　In　this　way　I　grew　up　till　I　was　turned　the　age　of　eleven,　when　an　end　was　put　to　my　happiness　in　the　following　manner:　—generally　when　the　grown　people　in　the　neighborhood　were　gone　far　in　the　fields　to　labor,　the　children　assembled　together　in　some　of　the　neighboring　premises　to　play;　and　commonly　some　of　us　used　to　get　up　a　tree　to　look　out　for　any　assailant,　or　kidnapper,　that　might　come　upon　us;　for　they　sometimes　took　those　opportunities　of　our　parents　absence,　to　attack　and　carry　off　as　many　as　they　could　seize.　One　day　as　I　was　watching　at　the　top　of　a　tree　in　our　yard,　I　saw　one　of　those　people　come　into　the　yard　of　our　next　neighbor　but　one　to　kidnap,　there　being　many　stout　young　people　in　it.　Immediately　on　this　I　gave　the　alarm　of　the　rogue,　and　he　was　surrounded　by　the　stoutest　of　them,　who　entangled　him　with　cords,　so　that　he　could　not　escape　till　some　of　the　grown　people　came　and　secured　him.　But,　alas!　ere　longere　long:　不久以后。

it　was　my　fate　to　be　thus　attacked,　and　to　be　carried　off,　when　none　of　the　grown　people　were　nigh.　One　day,　when　all　our　people　were　gone　out　to　their　works　as　usual,　and　only　I　and　my　dear　sister　were　left　to　mind　the　house,　two　men　and　a　woman　got　over　our　walls,　and　in　a　moment　seized　us　both,　and,　without　giving　us　time　to　cry　out,　or　make　resistance,　they　stopped　our　mouths,　and　ran　off　with　us　into　the　nearest　wood.　Here　they　tied　our　hands,　and　continued　to　carry　us　as　far　as　they　could,　till　night　came　on,　when　we　reached　a　small　house,　where　the　robbers　halted　for　refreshment,　and　spent　the　night.　We　were　then　unbound,　but　were　unable　to　take　any　food;　and,　being　quite　overpowered　by　fatigue　and　grief,　our　only　relief　was　some　sleep,　which　allayed　our　misfortune　for　a　short　time.　The　next　morning　we　left　the　house,　and　continued　traveling　all　the　day.　For　a　long　time　we　had　kept　the　woods,　but　at　last　we　came　into　a　road　which　I　believed　I　knew.　I　had　now　some　hopes　of　being　delivered;　for　we　had　advanced　but　a　little　way　before　I　discovered　some　people　at　a　distance,　on　which　I　began　to　cry　out　for　their　assistance:　but　my　cries　had　no　other　effect　than　to　make　them　tie　me　faster　and　stop　my　mouth,　and　then　they　put　me　into　a　large　sack.　They　also　stopped　my　sisters　mouth,　and　tied　her　hands;　and　in　this　manner　we　proceeded　till　we　were　out　of　sight　of　these　people.　When　we　went　to　rest　the　following　night,　they　offered　us　some　victuals,　but　we　refused　it;　and　the　only　comfort　we　had　was　in　being　in　one　anothers　arms　all　that　night,　and　bathing　each　other　with　our　tears.　But　alas!　we　were　soon　deprived　of　even　the　small　comfort　of　weeping　together.　The　next　day　proved　a　day　of　greater　sorrow　than　I　had　yet　experienced;　for　my　sister　and　I　were　then　separated,　while　we　lay　clasped　in　each　others　arms.　It　was　in　vain　that　we　besought　them　not　to　part　us;　she　was　torn　from　me,　and　immediately　carried　away,　while　I　was　left　in　a　state　of　distraction　not　to　be　described.　I　cried　and　grieved　continually;　and　for　several　days　did　not　eat　any　thing　but　what　they　forced　into　my　mouth.　At　length,　after　many　days　traveling,　during　which　I　had　often　changed　masters,　I　got　into　the　hands　of　a　chieftain,　in　a　very　pleasant　country.　This　man　had　two　wives　and　some　children,　and　they　all　used　me　extremely　well,　and　did　all　they　could　to　comfort　me;　particularly　the　first　wife,　who　was　something　like　my　mother.　Although　I　was　a　great　many　days　journey　from　my　fathers　house,　yet　these　people　spoke　exactly　the　same　language　with　us.　This　first　master　of　mine,　as　I　may　call　him,　was　a　smith,　and　my　principal　employment　was　working　his　bellows,　which　were　the　same　kind　as　I　had　seen　in　my　vicinity.　They　were　in　some　respects　not　unlike　the　stoves　here　in　gentlemens　kitchens,　and　were　covered　over　with　leather;　and　in　the　middle　of　that　leather　a　stick　was　fixed,　and　a　person　stood　up,　and　worked　it　in　the　same　manner　as　is　done　to　pump　water　out　of　a　cask　with　a　hand　pump.　I　believe　it　was　gold　he　worked,　for　it　was　of　a　lovely　bright　yellow　color,　and　was　worn　by　the　women　on　their　wrists　and　ankles.　I　was　there　I　suppose　about　a　month,　and　they　at　last　used　to　trust　me　some　little　distance　from　the　house.　This　liberty　I　used　in　embracing　every　opportunity　to　inquire　the　way　to　my　own　home;　and　I　also　sometimes,　for　the　same　purpose,　went　with　the　maidens,　in　the　cool　of　the　evenings,　to　bring　pitchers　of　water　from　the　springs　for　the　use　of　the　house.　I　had　also　remarked　where　the　sun　rose　in　the　morning,　and　set　in　the　evening,　as　I　had　traveled　along;　and　I　had　observed　that　my　fathers　house　was　towards　the　rising　of　the　sun.　I　therefore　determined　to　seize　the　first　opportunity　of　making　my　escape,　and　to　shape　my　course　for　that　quarter;　for　I　was　quite　oppressed　and　weighed　down　by　grief　after　my　mother　and　friends;　and　my　love　of　liberty,　ever　great,　was　strengthened　by　the　mortifying　circumstance　of　not　daring　to　eat　with　the　freeborn　children,　although　I　was　mostly　their　companion.　While　I　was　projecting　my　escape　one　day,　an　unlucky　event　happened,　which　quite　disconcerted　my　plan,　and　put　an　end　to　my　hopes.　I　used　to　be　sometimes　employed　in　assisting　an　elderly　slave　to　cook　and　take　care　of　the　poultry;　and　one　morning,　while　I　was　feeding　some　chickens,　I　happened　to　toss　a　small　pebble　at　one　of　them,　which　hit　it　on　the　middle,　and　directly　killed　it.　The　old　slave,　having　soon　after　missed　the　chicken,　inquired　after　it;　and　on　my　relating　the　accident　(for　I　told　her　the　truth,　for　my　mother　would　never　suffer　me　to　tell　a　lie),　she　flew　into　a　violent　passion,　and　threatened　that　I　should　suffer　for　it;　and,　my　master　being　out,　she　immediately　went　and　told　her　mistress　what　I　had　done.　This　alarmed　me　very　much,　and　I　expected　an　instant　flogging,　which　to　me　was　uncommonly　dreadful,　for　I　had　seldom　been　beaten　at　home.　I　therefore　resolved　to　fly;　and　accordingly　I　ran　into　a　thicket　that　was　hard　by,　and　hid　myself　in　the　bushes.　Soon　afterwards　my　mistress　and　the　slave　returned,　and,　not　seeing　me,　they　searched　all　the　house,　but　not　finding　me,　and　I　not　making　answer　when　they　called　to　me,　they　thought　I　had　run　away,　and　the　whole　neighborhood　was　raised　in　the　pursuit　of　me.　In　that　part　of　the　country,　as　in　ours,　the　houses　and　villages　were　skirted　with　woods,　or　shrubberies,　and　the　bushes　were　so　thick　that　a　man　could　readily　conceal　himself　in　them,　so　as　to　elude　the　strictest　search.　The　neighbors　continued　the　whole　day　looking　for　me,　and　several　times　many　of　them　came　within　a　few　yards　of　the　place　where　I　lay　hid.　I　expected　every　moment,　when　I　heard　a　rustling　among　the　trees,　to　be　found　out,　and　punished　by　my　master;　but　they　never　discovered　me,　though　they　were　often　so　near　that　I　even　heard　their　conjectures　as　they　were　looking　about　for　me;　and　I　now　learned　from　them　that　any　attempts　to　return　home　would　be　hopeless.　Most　of　them　supposed　I　had　fled　towards　home;　but　the　distance　was　so　great,　and　the　way　so　intricate,　that　they　thought　I　could　never　reach　it,　and　that　I　should　be　lost　in　the　woods.　When　I　heard　this　I　was　seized　with　a　violent　panic,　and　abandoned　myself　to　despair.　Night,　too,　began　to　approach,　and　aggravated　all　my　fears.　I　had　before　entertained　hopes　of　getting　home,　and　had　determined　when　it　should　be　dark　to　make　the　attempt;　but　I　was　now　convinced　it　was　fruitless,　and　began　to　consider　that,　if　possibly　I　could　escape　all　other　animals,　I　could　not　those　of　the　human　kind;　and　that,　not　knowing　the　way,　I　must　perish　in　the　woods.　Thus　was　I　like　the　hunted　deer:

—“Every　leaf　and　every　whispring　breath,

Conveyd　a　foe,　and　every　foe　a　death.”

I　heard　frequent　rustlings　among　the　leaves,　and　being　pretty　sure　they　were　snakes,　I　expected　every　instant　to　be　stung　by　them.　This　increased　my　anguish,　and　the　horror　of　my　situation　became　now　quite　insupportable.　I　at　length　quitted　the　thicket,　very　faint　and　hungry,　for　I　had　not　eaten　or　drank　any　thing　all　the　day,　and　crept　to　my　masters　kitchen,　from　whence　I　set　out　at　first,　which　was　an　open　shed,　and　laid　myself　down　in　the　ashes　with　an　anxious　wish　for　death,　to　relieve　me　from　all　my　pains.　I　was　scarcely　awake　in　the　morning,　when　the　old　woman　slave,　who　was　the　first　up,　came　to　light　the　fire,　and　saw　me　in　the　fire　place.　She　was　very　much　surprised　to　see　me,　and　could　scarcely　believe　her　own　eyes.　She　now　promised　to　intercede　forme,　and　went　for　her　master,　who　soon　after　came,　and,　having　slightly　reprimanded　me,　ordered　me　to　be　taken　care　of,　and　not　illtreated.

Soon　after　this,　my　masters　only　daughter,　and　child　by　his　first　wife,　sickened　and　died,　which　affected　him　so　much　that　for　some　time　he　was　almost　frantic,　and　really　would　have　killed　himself,　had　he　not　been　watched　and　prevented.　However,　in　short　time　afterwards　he　recovered,　and　I　was　again　sold.　I　was　now　carried　to　the　left　of　the　suns　rising,　through　many　dreary　wastes　and　dismal　woods,　amidst　the　hideous　roarings　of　wild　beasts.　The　people　I　was　sold　to　used　to　carry　me　very　often,　when　I　was　tired,　either　on　their　shoulders　or　on　their　backs.　I　saw　many　convenient　well　built　sheds　along　the　road,　at　proper　distances,　to　accommodate　the　merchants　and　travelers,　who　lay　in　those　buildings　along　with　their　wives,　who　often　accompany　them;　and　they　always　go　well　armed.

From　the　time　I　left　my　own　nation,　I　always　found　somebody　that　understood　me　till　I　came　to　the　sea　coast.　The　languages　of　different　nations　did　not　totally　differ,　nor　were　they　so　copious　as　those　of　the　Europeans,　particularly　the　English.　They　were　therefore,　easily　learned;　and,　while　I　was　journeying　thus　through　Africa,　I　acquired　two　or　three　different　tongues.　In　this　manner　I　had　been　traveling　for　a　considerable　time,　when,　one　evening,　to　my　great　surprise,　whom　should　I　see　brought　to　the　house　where　I　was　but　my　dear　sister!　As　soon　as　she　saw　me,　she　gave　a　loud　shriek,　and　ran　into　my　arms—I　was　quite　overpowered:　neither　of　us　could　speak;　but,　for　a　considerable　time,　clung　to　each　other　in　mutual　embraces,　unable　to　do　any　thing　but　weep.　Our　meeting　affected　all　who　saw　us;　and,　indeed,　I　must　acknowledge,　in　honor　of　those　sable　destroyers　of　human　rights,　that　I　never　met　with　any　ill　treatment,　or　saw　any　offered　to　their　slaves,　except　tying　them,　when　necessary,　to　keep　them　from　running　away.　When　these　people　knew　we　were　brother　and　sister,　they　indulged　us　to　be　together;　and　the　man,　to　whom　I　supposed　we　belonged,　lay　with　us,　he　in　the　middle,　while　she　and　I　held　one　another　by　the　hands　across　his　breast　all　night;　and　thus　for　a　while　we　forgot　our　misfortunes,　in　the　joy　of　being　together;　but　even　this　small　comfort　was　soon　to　have　an　end;　for　scarcely　had　the　fatal　morning　appeared　when　she　was　again　torn　from　me　forever!　I　was　now　more　miserable,　if　possible,　than　before.　The　small　relief　which　her　presence　gave　me　from　pain　was　gone,　and　the　wretchedness　of　my　situation　was　redoubled　by　my　anxiety　after　her　fate,　and　my　apprehensions　lest　her　sufferings　should　be　greater　than　mine,　when　I　could　not　be　with　her　to　alleviate　them.　Yes,　thou　dear　partner　of　all　my　childish　sports!　thou　sharer　of　my　joys　and　sorrows!　happy　should　I　have　ever　esteemed　myself　to　encounter　every　misery　for　you　and　to　procure　your　freedom　by　the　sacrifice　of　my　own.—Though　you　were　early　forced　from　my　arms,　your　image　has　been　always　riveted　in　my　heart,　from　which　neither　time　nor　fortune　have　been　able　to　remove　it;　so　that,　while　the　thoughts　of　your　sufferings　have　damped　my　prosperity,　they　have　mingled　with　adversity　and　increased　its　bitterness.　To　that　Heaven　which　protects　the　weak　from　the　strong,　I　commit　the　care　of　your　innocence　and　virtues,　if　they　have　not　already　received　their　full　reward,　and　if　your　youth　and　delicacy　have　not　long　since　fallen　victims　to　the　violence　of　the　African　trader,　the　pestilential　stench　of　a　Guinea　ship　the　seasoning　in　the　European　colonies,　or　the　lash　and　lust　of　a　brutal　and　unrelenting　overseer.

I　did　not　long　remain　after　my　sister.　I　was　again　sold,　and　carried　through　a　number　of　places,　till　after　traveling　a　considerable　time,　I　came　to　a　town　called　Tinmah,　in　the　most　beautiful　country　I　had　yet　seen　in　Africa.　It　was　extremely　rich,　and　there　were　many　rivulets　which　flowed　through　it,　and　supplied　a　large　pond　in　the　center　of　the　town,　where　the　people　washed.　Here　I　first　saw　and　tasted　cocoa　nuts,　which　I　thought　superior　to　any　nuts　I　had　ever　tasted　before;　and　the　trees　which　were　loaded,　were　also　interspersed　among　the　houses,　which　had　commodious　shades　adjoining,　and　were　in　the　same　manner　as　ours,　the　insides　being　neatly　plastered　and　whitewashed.　Here　I　also　saw　and　tasted　for　the　first　time,　sugar　cane.　Their　money　consisted　of　little　white　shells,　the　size　of　the　finger　nail.　I　was　sold　here　for　one　hundred　and　seventytwo　of　them,　by　a　merchant　who　lived　and　brought　me　there.　I　had　been　about　two　or　three　days　at　his　house,　when　a　wealthy　widow,　a　neighbor　of　his,　came　there　one　evening,　and　brought　with　her　an　only　son,　a　young　gentleman　about　my　own　age　and　size.　Here　they　saw　me;　and,　having　taken　a　fancy　to　me,　I　was　bought　of　the　merchant,　and　went　home　with　them.　Her　house　and　premises　were　situated　close　to　one　of　those　rivulets　I　have　mentioned,　and　were　the　finest　I　ever　saw　in　Africa:　they　were　very　extensive,　and　she　had　a　number　of　slaves　to　attend　her.　The　next　day　I　was　washed　and　perfumed,　and　when　mealtime　came,　I　was　led　into　the　presence　of　my　mistress,　and　ate　and　drank　before　her　with　her　son.This　filled　me　with　astonishment;　and　I　could　scarce　help　expressing　my　surprise　that　the　young　gentleman　should　suffer　me,　who　was　bound,　to　eat　with　him　who　was　free;　and　not　only　so,　but　that　he　would　not　at　any　time　either　eat　or　drink　till　I　had　taken　first,　because　I　was　the　eldest,　which　was　agreeable　to　our　custom.　Indeed,　every　thing　here,　and　all　their　treatment　of　me,　made　me　forget　that　I　was　a　slave.　The　language　of　these　people　resembled　ours　so　nearly,　that　we　understood　each　other　perfectly.　They　had　also　the　very　same　customs　as　we.　There　were　likewise　slaves　daily　to　attend　us,　while　my　young　master　and　I,　with　other　boys,　sported　with　our　darts　and　bows　and　arrows,　as　I　had　been　used　to　do　at　home.　In　this　resemblance　to　my　former　happy　state,　I　passed　about　two　months;　and　I　now　began　to　think　I　was　to　be　adopted　into　the　family,　and　was　beginning　to　be　reconciled　to　my　situation,　and　to　forget　by　degrees　my　misfortunes,　when　all　at　once　the　delusion　vanished;　for,　without　the　least　previous　knowledge,　one　morning　early,　while　my　dear　master　and　companion　was　still　asleep,　I　was　awakened　out　of　my　reverie　to　fresh　sorrow,　and　hurried　away　even　amongst　the　uncircumcised.

Thus,　at　the　very　moment　I　dreamed　of　the　greatest　happiness,　I　found　myself　most　miserable;　and　it　seemed　as　if　fortune　wished　to　give　me　this　taste　of　joy　only　to　render　the　reverse　more　poignant.—The　change　I　now　experienced,　was　as　painful　as　it　was　sudden　and　unexpected.　It　was　a　change　indeed,　from　a　state　of　bliss　to　a　scene　which　is　inexpressible　by　me,　as　it　discovered　to　me　an　element　I　had　never　before　beheld,　and　till　then　had　no　idea　of,　and　wherein　such　instances　of　hardship　and　cruelty　continually　occurred,　as　I　can　never　reflect　on　but　with　horror.

All　the　nations　and　people　I　had　hitherto　passed　through　resembled　our　own　in　their　manners,　customs,　and　language:　but　I　came　at　length　to　a　country,　the　inhabitants　of　which　differed　from　us　in　all　those　particulars.　I　was　very　much　struck　with　this　difference,　especially　when　I　came　among　a　people　who　did　not　circumcise,　and　ate　without　washing　their　hands.　They　cooked　also　in　iron　pots,　and　had　European　cutlasses　and　cross　bows,　which　were　unknown　to　us,　and　fought　with　their　fists　among　themselves.　Their　women　were　not　so　modest　as　ours,　for　they　ate,　and　drank,　and　slept　with　their　men.　But　above　all,　I　was　amazed　to　see　no　sacrifices　or　offerings　among　them.　In　some　of　those　places　the　people　ornamented　themselves　with　scars,　and　likewise　filed　their　teeth　very　sharp.　They　wanted　sometimes　to　ornament　me　in　the　same　manner,　but　I　would　not　suffer　them;　hoping　that　I　might　some　time　be　among　a　people　who　did　not　thus　disfigure　themselves,　as　I　thought　they　did.　At　last　I　came　to　the　banks　of　a　large　river　which　was　covered　with　canoes,　in　which　the　people　appeared　to　live　with　their　household　utensils,　and　provisions　of　all　kinds.　I　was　beyond　measure　astonished　at　this,　as　I　had　never　before　seen　any　water　larger　than　a　pond　or　a　rivulet:　and　my　surprise　was　mingled　with　no　small　fear　when　I　was　put　into　one　of　these　canoes,　and　we　began　to　paddle　and　move　along　the　river.　We　continued　going　on　thus　till　night,　and　when　we　came　to　land,　and　made　fires　on　the　banks,　each　family　by　themselves;　some　dragged　their　canoes　on　shore,　others　stayed　and　cooked　in　theirs,　and　laid　in　them　all　night.　Those　on　the　land　had　mats,　of　which　they　made　tents,　some　in　the　shape　of　little　houses;　in　these　we　slept;　and　after　the　morning　meal,　we　embarked　again　and　proceeded　as　before.　I　was　often　very　much　astonished　to　see　some　of　the　women,　as　well　as　the　men,　jump　into　the　water,　dive　to　the　bottom,　come　up　again,　and　swim　about.—Thus　I　continued　to　travel,　sometimes　by　land,　sometimes　by　water,　through　different　countries　and　various　nations,　till,　at　the　end　of　six　or　seven　months　after　I　had　been　kidnapped,　I　arrived　at　the　sea　coast.　It　would　be　tedious　and　uninteresting　to　relate　all　the　incidents　which　befell　me　during　this　journey,　and　which　I　have　not　yet　forgotten;　of　the　various　hands　I　passed　through,　and　the　manners　and　customs　of　all　the　different　people　among　whom　I　lived—I　shall　therefore　only　observe,　that　in　all　the　places　where　I　was,　the　soil　was　exceedingly　rich;　the　pumpkins,　eadas,　plaintains,　yams,　&c.　&c.　were　in　great　abundance,　and　of　incredible　size.　There　were　also　vast　quantities　of　different　gums,　though　not　used　for　any　purpose,　and　every　where　a　great　deal　of　tobacco.　The　cotton　even　grew　quite　wild,　and　there　was　plenty　of　redwood.　I　saw　no　mechanics　whatever　in　all　the　way,　except　such　as　I　have　mentioned.　The　chief　employment　in　all　these　countries　was　agriculture,　and　both　the　males　and　females,　as　with　us,　were　brought　up　to　it,　and　trained　in　the　arts　of　war.

The　first　object　which　saluted　my　eyes　when　I　arrived　on　the　coast,　was　the　sea,　and　a　slave　ship,　which　was　then　riding　at　anchor,　and　waiting　for　its　cargo.　These　filled　me　with　astonishment,　which　was　soon　converted　into　terror,　when　I　was　carried　on　board.　I　was　immediately　handled,　and　tossed　up　to　see　if　I　were　sound,　by　some　of　the　crew;　and　I　was　now　persuaded　that　I　had　gotten　into　a　world　of　bad　spirits,　and　that　they　were　going　to　kill　me.　Their　complexions,　too,　differing　so　much　from　ours,　their　long　hair,　and　the　language　they　spoke　(which　was　very　different　from　any　I　had　ever　heard),　united　to　confirm　me　in　this　belief.　Indeed,　such　were　the　horrors　of　my　views　and　fears　at　the　moment,　that,　if　ten　thousand　worlds　had　been　my　own,　I　would　have　freely　parted　with　them　all　to　have　exchanged　my　condition　with　that　of　the　meanest　slave　in　my　own　country.　When　I　looked　round　the　ship　too,　and　saw　a　large　furnace　of　copper　boiling,　and　a　multitude　of　black　people　of　every　description　chained　together,　every　one　of　their　countenances　expressing　dejection　and　sorrow,　I　no　longer　doubted　of　my　fate;　and,　quite　overpowered　with　horror　and　anguish,　I　fell　motionless　on　the　deck　and　fainted.　When　I　recovered　a　little,　I　found　some　black　people　about　me,　who　I　believed　were　some　of　those　who　had　brought　me　on　board,　and　had　been　receiving　their　pay;　they　talked　to　me　in　order　to　cheer　me,　but　all　in　vain.　I　asked　them　if　we　were　not　to　be　eaten　by　those　white　men　with　horrible　looks,　red　faces,　and　long　hair.　They　told　me　I　was　not:　and　one　of　the　crew　brought　me　a　small　portion　of　spirituous　liquor　in　a　wine　glass,　but,　being　afraid　of　him,　I　would　not　take　it　out　of　his　hand.　One　of　the　blacks,　therefore,　took　it　from　him　and　gave　it　to　me,　and　I　took　a　little　down　my　palate,　which,　instead　of　reviving　me,　as　they　thought　it　would,　threw　me　into　the　greatest　consternation　at　the　strange　feeling　it　produced,　having　never　tasted　any　such　liquor　before.　Soon　after　this,　the　blacks　who　brought　me　on　board　went　off,　and　left　me　abandoned　to　despair.

I　now　saw　myself　deprived　of　all　chance　of　returning　to　my　native　country,　or　even　the　least　glimpse　of　hope　of　gaining　the　shore,　which　I　now　considered　as　friendly;　and　I　even　wished　for　my　former　slavery　in　preference　to　my　present　situation,　which　was　filled　with　horrors　of　everykind,　still　heightened　by　my　ignorance　of　what　I　was　to　undergo.　I　was　not　long　suffered　to　indulge　my　grief;　I　was　soon　put　down　under　the　decks,　and　there　I　received　such　a　salutation　in　my　nostrils　as　I　had　never　experienced　in　my　life:　so　that,　with　the　loathsomeness　of　the　stench,　and　crying　together,　I　became　so　sick　and　low　that　I　was　not　able　to　eat,　nor　had　I　the　least　desire　to　taste　anything.　I　now　wished　for　the　last　friend,　death,　to　relieve　me;　but　soon,　to　my　grief,　two　of　the　white　men　offered　me　eatables;　and,　on　my　refusing　to　eat,　one　of　them　held　me　fast　by　the　hands,　and　laid　me　across,　I　think　the　windlass,　and　tied　my　feet,　while　the　other　flogged　me　severely.　I　had　never　experienced　anything　of　this　kind　before,　and　although　not　being　used　to　the　water,　I　naturally　feared　that　element　the　first　time　I　saw　it,　yet,　nevertheless,　could　I　have　got　over　the　nettings,　I　would　have　jumped　over　the　side,　but　I　could　not;　and　besides,　the　crew　used　to　watch　us　very　closely　who　were　not　chained　down　to　the　decks,　lest　we　should　leap　into　the　water;　and　I　have　seen　some　of　these　poor　African　prisoners　most　severely　cut,　for　attempting　to　do　so,　and　hourly　whipped　for　not　eating.　This　indeed　was　often　the　case　with　myself.　In　a　little　time　after,　amongst　the　poor　chained　men,　I　found　some　of　my　own　nation,　which　in　a　small　degree　gave　ease　to　my　mind.　I　inquired　of　these　what　was　to　be　done　with　us;　They　gave　me　to　understand　we　were　to　be　carried　to　these　white　peoples　country　to　work　for　them.　I　then　was　a　little　revived,　and　thought,　if　it　were　no　worse　than　working,　my　situation　was　not　so　desperate;　but　still　I　feared　I　should　be　put　to　death,　the　white　people　looked　and　acted,　as　I　thought,　in　so　savage　a　manner;　for　I　had　never　seen　among　any　people　such　instances　of　brutal　cruelty;　and　this　not　only　shown　towards　us　blacks,　but　also　to　some　of　the　whites　themselves.　One　white　man　in　particular　I　saw,　when　we　were　permitted　to　be　on　deck,　flogged　so　unmercifully　with　a　large　rope　near　the　foremast,　that　he　died　in　consequence　of　it;　and　they　tossed　him　over　the　side　as　they　would　have　done　a　brute.　This　made　me　fear　these　people　the　more;　and　I　expected　nothing　less　than　to　be　treated　in　the　same　manner.　I　could　not　help　expressing　my　fears　and　apprehensions　to　some　of　my　countrymen;　I　asked　them　if　these　people　had　no　country,　but　lived　in　this　hollow　place　(the　ship):　they　told　me　they　did　not,　but　came　from　a　distant　one.　“Then,”　said　I,　“how　comes　it　in　all　our　country　we　never　heard　of　them?”　They　told　me　because　they　lived　so　very　far　off.　I　then　asked　where　were　their　women?　had　they　any　like　themselves?　I　was　told　they　had.　“And　why,”　said　I,　“do　we　not　see　them?”　They　answered,　because　they　were　left　behind.　I　asked　how　the　vessel　could　go?　they　told　me　they　could　not　tell;　but　that　there　was　cloth　put　upon　the　masts　by　the　help　of　the　ropes　I　saw,　and　then　the　vessel　went　on;　and　the　white　men　had　some　spell　or　magic　they　put　in　the　water　when　they　liked,　in　order　to　stop　the　vessel.　I　was　exceedingly　amazed　at　this　account,　and　really　thought　they　were　spirits.　I　therefore　wished　much　to　be　from　amongst　them,　for　I　expected　they　would　sacrifice　me;　but　my　wishes　were　vain—for　we　were　so　quartered　that　it　was　impossible　for　any　of　us　to　make　our　escape.

While　we　stayed　on　the　coast　I　was　mostly　on　deck;　and　one　day,　to　my　great　astonishment,　I　saw　one　of　these　vessels　coming　in　with　the　sails　up.　As　soon　as　the　whites　saw　it,　they　gave　a　great　shout,　at　which　we　were　amazed;　and　the　more　so,　as　the　vessel　appeared　larger　by　approaching　nearer.　At　last,　she　came　to　an　anchor　in　my　sight,　and　when　the　anchor　was　let　go,　I　and　my　countrymen　who　saw　it,　were　lost　in　astonishment　to　observe　the　vessel　stop　and　were　now　convinced　it　was　done　by　magic.　Soon　after　this　the　other　ship　got　her　boats　out,　and　they　came　on　board　of　us,　and　the　people　of　both　ships　seemed　very　glad　to　see　each　other.　Several　of　the　strangers　also　shook　hands　with　us　black　people,　and　made　motions　with　their　hands,　signifying　I　suppose,　we　were　to　go　to　their　country,　but　we　did　not　understand　them.

At　last,　when　the　ship　we　were　in　had　got　in　all　her　cargo,　they　made　ready　with　many　fearful　noises,　and　we　were　all　put　under　deck,　so　that　we　could　not　see　how　they　managed　the　vessel.　But　this　disappointment　was　the　least　of　my　sorrow.　The　stench　of　the　hold　while　we　were　on　the　coast　was　so　intolerably　loathsome,　that　it　was　dangerous　to　remain　there　for　any　time,　and　some　of　us　had　been　permitted　to　stay　on　the　deck　for　the　fresh　air;　but　now　that　the　whole　ships　cargo　were　confined　together,　it　became　absolutely　pestilential.　The　closeness　of　the　place,　and　the　heat　of　the　climate,　added　to　the　number　in　the　ship,　which　was　so　crowded　that　each　had　scarcely　room　to　turn　himself,　almost　suffocated　us.　This　produced　copious　perspirations,　so　that　the　air　soon　became　unfit　for　respiration,　from　a　variety　of　loathsome　smells,　and　brought　on　a　sickness　among　the　slaves,　of　which　many　died—thus　falling　victims　to　the　improvident　avarice,　as　I　may　call　it,　of　their　purchasers.　This　wretched　situation　was　again　aggravated　by　the　galling　of　the　chains,　now　become　insupportable,　and　the　filth　of　the　necessary　tubs,　into　which　the　children　often　fell,　and　were　almost　suffocated.　The　shrieks　of　the　women,　and　the　groans　of　the　dying,　rendered　the　whole　a　scene　of　horror　almost　inconceivable.　Happily　perhaps,　for　myself,　I　was　soon　reduced　so　low　here　that　it　was　thought　necessary　to　keep　me　almost　always　on　deck;　and　from　my　extreme　youth　I　was　not　put　in　fetters.　In　this　situation　I　expected　every　hour　to　share　the　fate　of　my　companions,　some　of　whom　were　almost　daily　brought　upon　deck　at　the　point　of　death,　which　I　began　to　hope　would　soon　put　an　end　to　my　miseries.　Often　did　I　think　many　of　the　inhabitants　of　the　deep　much　more　happy　than　myself.　I　envied　them　the　freedom　they　enjoyed,　and　as　often　wished　I　could　change　my　condition　for　theirs.　Every　circumstance　I　met　with,　served　only　to　render　my　state　more　painful,　and　heightened　my　apprehensions,　and　my　opinion　of　the　cruelty　of　the　whites.

Questions　for　Discussion

1.　What　do　you　think　of　the　society　in　Eboe　where　the　author　was　born　regarding　its　gender　relationship?

2.　According　to　the　author,　what　are　the　differences　between　the　slaves　in　the　authors　hometown　and　those　in　the　West　Indies?

3.　Equianos　Interesting　Narrative　contributes　a　lot　to　the　development　of　Slave　Narrative,　please　tell　the　similarity(ties)　and　difference(s)　between　this　book　and　Frederick　Douglasss　Narrative.

2.　Narrative　of　the　Life　of　Frederick　Douglass

作者简介

弗雷德里克·道格拉斯(Frederick　Douglas)(1818—1895)是美国19世纪废奴主义的倡导者，在美国黑人解放运动中发挥了主导作用，被后世誉为“所有被压迫者的英雄典范”。道格拉斯还是一位杰出的作家，他的三部自传奠定了他在美国文学史上的重要地位。

1818年2月，道格拉斯诞生于美国马里兰州塔尔波特县吐卡霍地方的一个由奴隶主艾伦·安东尼经营的种植场。他的母亲是安东尼家的黑人女奴哈丽特·贝利，父亲是一个身份无从知悉的白人。道格拉斯生为奴隶，不知生父是谁，婴儿时期就与母亲分开，早年与外祖母柏西·贝利一起度过。道格拉斯于1824年夏被带到东海岸最大的种植园——劳埃种植园当家奴，18个月后被安东尼女婿的兄弟、居于巴尔的摩的休·奥德要去与其儿子汤姆做伴。在巴尔的摩的七年间，女主人索菲亚将道格拉斯视如己出，教他识字、读写《圣经》。道格拉斯也善于利用一切机会学习拼写与基本算术，并在获取新知中强化了争取个人自由的迫切愿望。

1833年3月，道格拉斯结束其家庭奴仆的生活，被转卖至位于东海岸圣米切尔的一处由奴隶主托马斯管理的种植园。特立独行的道格拉斯在此创办了一所主日学校，教有色人孩子识字，这让托马斯大为恼火，遂将其送往有着“驯奴师”之称的爱德华·柯维那里接受“调教”。在柯维手下，道格拉斯每天超负荷地劳作，忍受着非人的折磨，这一段痛苦经历更坚定了他争取自由的决心。

1835年1月，道格拉斯被雇佣给临近一个名叫威廉·弗里兰的奴隶主，生活条件有所改善，但与此同时他萌生了逃亡计划。1836年，道格拉斯计划带上四位同胞逃奔自由，但行动遭到泄密。道格拉斯作为密谋组织者被关进塔波特县监狱，最后因证据缺失被释放。1836年夏至1838年，道格拉斯在巴尔的摩的船厂工作，同时参加自由黑人组织——东巴尔的摩协进会的活动，在那里结识了他未来的妻子安·默里。

1838年9月，道格拉斯在友人帮助下，化装成水手，通过“地下铁道”逃到马萨诸塞州的新贝德福，终于挣脱了奴隶身份的枷锁。获得自由的道格拉斯没有忘记仍在奴隶主压迫下的南方同胞们的苦难，1841年他参加新贝德福的废奴运动，成为加里森派的演讲员；1845年至1847年他到访过英国，其间他从休·奥德那里赎买了人身自由；1848年成为美国黑人大会主席；1851年后又成为政治废奴派领袖。1877年至1881年，他担任哥伦比亚区联邦法院执行官；1881年至1886年，又担任哥伦比亚特区联邦法院书记官；1889年至1891年任美国驻圣多明各代办和驻海地公使。道格拉斯一生竭其所能为美国黑人寻求一条通往解放的光明大道，他成为那个时代黑人群体最重要的发言人。

作品简介与赏析

《弗雷德里克·道格拉斯：一个美国奴隶的生平自述》(以下简称《自述》)是19世纪美国著名黑人领袖、作家、演说家和政治家道格拉斯所著的三部自传中最广为流传、影响最为深远的一部。该作品涌动着苦难、压迫、挣扎和反抗，弥漫着血腥之味，充斥着暴力、摧残和戕害的黑色乐章，是沉重枷锁下黑人奴隶灵魂的一曲悲歌。作品从控诉黑奴交易、追求自由平等和弘扬人道主义精神等几个层面形成了一代美国黑奴反压迫、反暴力的历史叙事，成为叙述美国种植园奴隶制及其丑恶形态的经典之作，并将自传作为政治革新使命书的诠释方式推向极致。

《自述》于1845年问世，此时道格拉斯逃离南方种植园已有7年。自1841年起，道格拉斯就作为废奴运动的先锋开始了成功的演讲生涯，他的演讲在深受欢迎的同时也招来了一些白人的质疑，他们猜测道格拉斯是受雇于废奴主义领袖的职业演说家，而非逃自南方的黑奴。为了消除这些怀疑和敌意，道格拉斯决定详尽地写出个人经历，进一步摧垮黑奴制度，同时对那些怀疑和敌对者进行有力反击。此书一经出版即在北方引起轰动，后多次再版，并被翻译成多种文字畅销海外，在当时堪称奇迹。彼得·戈麦斯在该书引言中称:“此作品对于废奴进程的重要意义和作用，堪比早期福音传播之于基督教。”

《自述》共11章，总体呈现了道格拉斯作为被奴隶制暴力践踏的边缘者的文化身份，同时凸显其与奴隶制誓死抗争的自由斗士形象。道格拉斯从小目睹白人阶层小到贫苦农民，中到监管工、小奴隶主，大到大奴隶主对其亲人与其他众多黑人同胞的残暴蹂躏和非人性践踏；充斥其周围的是血腥的暴力和地狱般的生存状态。在这种极端生活状态下，接受知识启蒙的道格拉斯找到了逃脱黑暗魔爪的钥匙。他勤奋努力，学习新知、阅读进步书籍，逐渐走向通往自由之路。在废奴人士的帮助下，道格拉斯挣脱了捆绑在黑人祖先和同胞身上的罪恶奴隶枷锁，到达自由的北方，终结了自己的奴隶身份。自此，他的生命迎来重大转机，由一位黑奴成功转型为废奴勇士，自传到此画上了一个句号。

作为一名杰出的黑人作家与政治家，道格拉斯在《自述》中将黑人个体与集体的声音泯合于文本之中，使得黑人逐渐开始被认可为言说者主体，从而证明他们是文明之人而非生而为奴。该自传是道格拉斯争取黑人同胞自由之路的里程碑之作，有力控诉了蓄奴制度的罪恶，白人阶层的嗜血如狂、暴虐成性，在根本上动摇了美国奴隶制的根基。

自我意识的觉醒使道格拉斯意识到奴隶制的残暴。在《自述》第一章中，道格拉斯追忆的第一件事就是他七八岁时亲眼目睹奴隶主鞭打姨母海丝特的凶残行径，之前，他一直在“种植园的外围”和他的外婆生活在一起，并未亲历过种植园的暴力，更不知道暴力鞭笞实际上是种植园成年奴隶们生活的常态。虽然其后也目睹了许多类似的暴行，但姨母的受刑给他留下了极为痛苦且永生难忘的印象。“它以一种强大的力量击打着我”，道格拉斯回忆道，似乎接受鞭刑的是他自己。他倏然意识到掌握在他人手中的身体之脆弱和卑贱，也意识到他与身处苦难中的奴隶同胞们心手相连。“这粗野的奴隶制特征”及此次的鞭打使他开始“探究奴隶制的本质和历史”。“它是一扇浸满鲜血的大门，一个通往地狱般奴隶制的入口，而我即将通过这一入口”。小道格拉斯对自己的未来充满了恐惧，同时也对剥夺了黑人基本人权的奴隶制极度憎恶。

奴隶主错误地认为可以通过鞭打把黑人变成没有思想的劳役机器。《自述》第十章中，道格拉斯被奴隶主送往有着“驯奴师”之称的爱德华·柯维手下接受“调教”，在那里他遭受了非人的折磨。满腔悲愤的道格拉斯经常登临种植园附近切萨皮克湾高高的堤岸，对着浩瀚海洋中往来如织的商船大声抒发他内心的苦闷和渴望：“上帝啊，救救我吧！让我自由吧！为什么我是奴隶？我要逃跑。我受不了了！我一定要试一试，即使被抓住！反正我只能丧生一次……我不可能生而为奴死亦为奴。我要下水去！就在这个港湾里，我将获得自由！”道格拉斯向上帝呐喊、诉说着自己灵魂深处的痛苦与愤懑，字里行间是对奴隶制的强烈反叛，是乞求上帝把他们从奴役中解救出来的虔敬祷告。道格拉斯对奴隶制的憎恨和对自由的热切渴望在此处得到了淋漓尽致的展现，同时也为其日后逃亡成功并走上废奴运动的历史舞台埋下伏笔。

Narrative　of　the　Life　of　Frederick　Douglass

Chapter　1

I　was　born　in　Tuckahoe,　near　Hillsborough,　and　about　twelve　miles　from　Easton,　in　Talbot　county

Talbot　county:　塔尔博特县，位于马里兰州东海岸的核心地带。始建于1661年，以马里兰州的第一位州长巴尔的摩勋爵的妹妹格雷丝·塔尔博特夫人的名字命名。

,　Maryland.　I　have　no　accurate　knowledge　of　my　age,　never　having　seen　any　authentic　record　containing　it.　By　far　the　larger　part　of　the　slaves　know　as　little　of　their　ages　as　horses　know　of　theirs,　and　it　is　the　wish　of　most　masters　within　my　knowledge　to　keep　their　slaves　thus　ignorant.　I　do　not　remember　to　have　ever　met　a　slave　who　could　tell　of　his　birthday.　They　seldom　come　nearer　to　it　than　plantingtime,　harvesttime,　cherrytime,　springtime,　or　falltime.　A　want　of　information　concerning　my　own　was　a　source　of　unhappiness　to　me　even　during　childhood.　The　white　children　could　tell　their　ages.　I　could　not　tell　why　I　ought　to　be　deprived　of　the　same　privilege.　I　was　not　allowed　to　make　any　inquiries　of　my　master　concerning　it.　He　deemed　all　such　inquiries　on　the　part　of　a　slave　improper　and　impertinent,　and　evidence　of　a　restless　spirit.　The　nearest　estimate　I　can　give　makes　me　now　between　twentyseven　and　twentyeight　years　of　age.　I　come　to　this,　from　hearing　my　master　say,　sometime　during　1835,　I　was　about　seventeen　years　old.

My　mother　was　named　Harriet　Bailey.　She　was　the　daughter　of　Isaac　and　Betsey　Bailey,　both　colored,　and　quite　dark.　My　mother　was　of　a　darker　complexion　than　either　my　grandmother　or　grandfather.

My　father　was　a　white　man.　He　was　admitted　to　be　such　by　all　I　ever　heard　speak　of　my　parentage.　The　opinion　was　also　whispered　that　my　master　was　my　father;　but　of　the　correctness　of　this　opinion,　I　know　nothing;　the　means　of　knowing　was　withheld　from　me.　My　mother　and　I　were　separated　when　I　was　but　an　infant—before　I　knew　her　as　my　mother.　It　is　a　common　custom,　in　the　part　of　Maryland　from　which　I　ran　away,　to　part　children　from　their　mothers　at　a　very　early　age.　Frequently,　before　the　child　has　reached　its　twelfth　month,　its　mother　is　taken　from　it,　and　hired　out　on　some　farm　a　considerable　distance　off,　and　the　child　is　placed　under　the　care　of　an　old　woman,　too　old　for　field　labor.　For　what　this　separation　is　done,　I　do　not　know,　unless　it　be　to　hinder　the　development　of　the　childs　affection　toward　its　mother,　and　to　blunt　and　destroy　the　natural　affection　of　the　mother　for　the　child.　This　is　the　inevitable　result.

I　never　saw　my　mother,　to　know　her　as　such,　more　than　four　or　five　times　in　my　life;　and　each　of　these　times　was　very　short　in　duration,　and　at　night.　She　was　hired　by　a　Mr.　Stewart,　who　lived　about　twelve　miles　from　my　home.　She　made　her　journeys　to　see　me　in　the　night,　travelling　the　whole　distance　on　foot,　after　the　performance　of　her　days　work.　She　was　a　field　hand,　and　a　whipping　is　the　penalty　of　not　being　in　the　field　at　sunrise,　unless　a　slave　has　special　permission　from　his　or　her　master　to　the　contrary—a　permission　which　they　seldom　get,　and　one　that　gives　to　him　that　gives　it　the　proud　name　of　being　a　kind　master.　I　do　not　recollect　of　ever　seeing　my　mother　by　the　light　of　day.　She　was　with　me　in　the　night.　She　would　lie　down　with　me,　and　get　me　to　sleep,　but　long　before　I　waked　she　was　gone.　Very　little　communication　ever　took　place　between　us.　Death　soon　ended　what　little　we　could　have　while　she　lived,　and　with　it　her　hardships　and　suffering.　She　died　when　I　was　about　seven　years　old,　on　one　of　my　masters　farms,　near　Lees　Mill.　I　was　not　allowed　to　be　present　during　her　illness,　at　her　death,　or　burial.　She　was　gone　long　before　I　knew　anything　about　it.　Never　having　enjoyed,　to　any　considerable　extent,　her　soothing　presence,　her　tender　and　watchful　care,　I　received　the　tidings　of　her　death　with　much　the　same　emotions　I　should　have　probably　felt　at　the　death　of　a　stranger.

Called　thus　suddenly　away,　she　left　me　without　the　slightest　intimation　of　who　my　father　was.　The　whisper　that　my　master　was　my　father,　may　or　may　not　be　true;　and,　true　or　false,　it　is　of　but　little　consequence　to　my　purpose　whilst　the　fact　remains,　in　all　its　glaring　odiousness,　that　slaveholders　have　ordained,　and　by　law　established,　that　the　children　of　slave　women　shall　in　all　cases　follow　the　condition　of　their　mothers;　and　this　is　done　too　obviously　to　administer　to　their　own　lusts,　and　make　a　gratification　of　their　wicked　desires　profitable　as　well　as　pleasurable;　for　by　this　cunning　arrangement,　the　slaveholder,　in　cases　not　a　few,　sustains　to　his　slaves　the　double　relation　of　master　and　father.

I　know　of　such　cases;　and　it　is　worthy　of　remark　that　such　slaves　invariably　suffer　greater　hardships,　and　have　more　to　contend　with,　than　others.　They　are,　in　the　first　place,　a　constant　offence　to　their　mistress.　She　is　ever　disposed　to　find　fault　with　them;　they　can　seldom　do　anything　to　please　her;　she　is　never　better　pleased　than　when　she　sees　them　under　the　lash,　especially　when　she　suspects　her　husband　of　showing　to　his　mulatto　children　favors　which　he　withholds　from　his　black　slaves.　The　master　is　frequently　compelled　to　sell　this　class　of　his　slaves,　out　of　deference　to　the　feelings　of　his　white　wife;　and,　cruel　as　the　deed　may　strike　anyone　to　be,　for　a　man　to　sell　his　own　children　to　human　fleshmongers,　it　is　often　the　dictate　of　humanity　for　him　to　do　so;　for,　unless　he　does　this,　he　must　not　only　whip　them　himself,　but　must　stand　by　and　see　one　white　son　tie　up　his　brother,　of　but　few　shades　darker　complexion　than　himself,　and　ply　the　gory　lash　to　his　naked　back;　and　if　he　lisp　one　word　of　disapproval,　it　is　set　down　to　his　parental　partiality,　and　only　makes　a　bad　matter　worse,　both　for　himself　and　the　slave　whom　he　would　protect　and　defend.

Every　year　brings　with　it　multitudes　of　this　class　of　slaves.　It　was　doubtless　in　consequence　of　a　knowledge　of　this　fact,　that　one　great　statesman　of　the　south　predicted　the　downfall　of　slavery　by　the　inevitable　laws　of　population.　Whether　this　prophecy　is　ever　fulfilled　or　not,　it　is　nevertheless　plain　that　a　very　differentlooking　class　of　people　are　springing　up　at　the　south,　and　are　now　held　in　slavery,　from　those　originally　brought　to　this　country　from　Africa;　and　if　their　increase　will　do　no　other　good,　it　will　do　away　the　force　of　the　argument,　that　God　cursed　Ham,　and　therefore　American　slavery　is　right.　If　the　lineal　descendants　of　Ham　are　alone　to　be　scripturally　enslaved,　it　is　certain　that　slavery　at　the　south　must　soon　become　unscriptural;　for　thousands　are　ushered　into　the　world,　annually,　who,　like　myself,　owe　their　existence　to　white　fathers,　and　those　fathers　most　frequently　their　own　masters.

I　have　had　two　masters.　My　first　masters　name　was　Anthony.　I　do　not　remember　his　first　name.　He　was　generally　called　Captain　Anthony—a　title　which,　I　presume,　he　acquired　by　sailing　a　craft　on　the　Chesapeake　Bay.　He　was　not　considered　a　rich　slaveholder.　He　owned　two　or　three　farms,　and　about　thirty　slaves.　His　farms　and　slaves　were　under　the　care　of　an　overseer.　The　overseers　name　was　Plummer.　Mr.　Plummer　was　a　miserable　drunkard,　a　profane　swearer,　and　a　savage　monster.　He　always　went　armed　with　a　cowskin　and　a　heavy　cudgel.　I　have　known　him　to　cut　and　slash　the　womens　heads　so　horribly,　that　even　master　would　be　enraged　at　his　cruelty,　and　would　threaten　to　whip　him　if　he　did　not　mind　himself.　Master,　however,　was　not　a　humane　slaveholder.　It　required　extraordinary　barbarity　on　the　part　of　an　overseer　to　affect　him.　He　was　a　cruel　man,　hardened　by　a　long　life　of　slaveholding.　He　would　at　times　seem　to　take　great　pleasure　in　whipping　a　slave.　I　have　often　been　awakened　at　the　dawn　of　day　by　the　most　heartrending　shrieks　of　an　own　aunt　of　mine,　whom　he　used　to　tie　up　to　a　joist,　and　whip　upon　her　naked　back　till　she　was　literally　covered　with　blood.　No　words,　no　tears,　no　prayers,　from　his　gory　victim,　seemed　to　move　his　iron　heart　from　its　bloody　purpose.　The　louder　she　screamed,　the　harder　he　whipped;　and　where　the　blood　ran　fastest,　there　he　whipped　longest.　He　would　whip　her　to　make　her　scream,　and　whip　her　to　make　her　hush;　and　not　until　overcome　by　fatigue,　would　he　cease　to　swing　the　bloodclotted　cowskin.　I　remember　the　first　time　I　ever　witnessed　this　horrible　exhibition.　I　was　quite　a　child,　but　I　well　remember　it.　I　never　shall　forget　it　whilst　I　remember　anything.　It　was　the　first　of　a　long　series　of　such　outrages,　of　which　I　was　doomed　to　be　a　witness　and　a　participant.　It　struck　me　with　awful　force.　It　was　the　bloodstained　gate,　the　entrance　to　the　hell　of　slavery,　through　which　I　was　about　to　pass.　It　was　a　most　terrible　spectacle.　I　wish　I　could　commit　to　paper　the　feelings　with　which　I　beheld　it.

This　occurrence　took　place　very　soon　after　I　went　to　live　with　my　old　master,　and　under　the　following　circumstances.　Aunt　Hester　went　out　one　night—where　or　for　what　I　do　not　know—and　happened　to　be　absent　when　my　master　desired　her　presence.　He　had　ordered　her　not　to　go　out　evenings,　and　warned　her　that　she　must　never　let　him　catch　her　in　company　with　a　young　man,　who　was　paying　attention　to　her,　belonging　to　Colonel　Lloyd.　The　young　mans　name　was　Ned　Roberts,　generally　called　Lloyds　Ned.　Why　master　was　so　careful　of　her,　may　be　safely　left　to　conjecture.　She　was　a　woman　of　noble　form,　and　of　graceful　proportions,　having　very　few　equals,　and　fewer　superiors,　in　personal　appearance　among　the　colored　or　white　women　of　our　neighborhood.

Aunt　Hester　had　not　only　disobeyed　his　orders　in　going　out,　but　had　been　found　in　company　with　Lloyds　Ned;　which　circumstance,　I　found,　from　what　he　said　while　whipping　her,　was　the　chief　offence.　Had　he　been　a　man　of　pure　morals　himself,　he　might　have　been　thought　interested　in　protecting　the　innocence　of　my　aunt;　but　those　who　knew　him　will　not　suspect　him　of　any　such　virtue.　Before　he　commenced　whipping　Aunt　Hester,　he　took　her　into　the　kitchen,　and　stripped　her　from　neck　to　waist,　leaving　her　neck,　shoulders,　and　back　entirely　naked.　He　then　told　her　to　cross　her　hands,　calling　her　at　the　same　time　a　d—d　b—h.　After　crossing　her　hands,　he　tied　them　with　a　strong　rope,　and　led　her　to　a　stool　under　a　large　hook　in　the　joist,　put　in　for　the　purpose.　He　made　her　get　upon　the　stool,　and　tied　her　hands　to　the　hook.　She　now　stood　fair　for　his　infernal　purpose.　Her　arms　were　stretched　up　at　their　full　length,　so　that　she　stood　upon　the　ends　of　her　toes.　He　then　said　to　her,　“Now,　you　d—d　b—h,　Ill　learn　you　how　to　disobey　my　orders!”　and　after　rolling　up　his　sleeves,　he　commenced　to　lay　on　the　heavy　cowskin,　and　soon　the　warm,　red　blood　(amid　heartrending　shrieks　from　her,　and　horrid　oaths　from　him)　came　dripping　to　the　floor.　I　was　so　terrified　and　horrorstricken　at　the　sight,　that　I　hid　myself　in　a　closet,　and　dared　not　venture　out　till　long　after　the　bloody　transaction　was　over.　I　expected　it　would　be　my　turn　next.　It　was　all　new　to　me.　I　had　never　seen　anything　like　it　before.　I　had　always　lived　with　my　grandmother　on　the　outskirts　of　the　plantation,　where　she　was　put　to　raise　the　children　of　the　younger　women.　I　had　therefore　been,　until　now,　out　of　the　way　of　the　bloody　scenes　that　often　occurred　on　the　plantation.

Chapter　10

I　left　Master　Thomass　house,　and　went　to　live　with　Mr.　Covey,　on　the　1st　of　January,　1833.　I　was　now,　for　the　first　time　in　my　life,　a　field　hand.　In　my　new　employment,　I　found　myself　even　more　awkward　than　a　country　boy　appeared　to　be　in　a　large　city.　I　had　been　at　my　new　home　but　one　week　before　Mr.　Covey　gave　me　a　very　severe　whipping,　cutting　my　back,　causing　the　blood　to　run,　and　raising　ridges　on　my　flesh　as　large　as　my　little　finger.　The　details　of　this　affair　are　as　follows:　Mr.　Covey　sent　me,　very　early　in　the　morning　of　one　of　our　coldest　days　in　the　month　of　January,　to　the　woods,　to　get　a　load　of　wood.　He　gave　me　a　team　of　unbroken　oxen.　He　told　me　which　was　the　inhand　ox,　and　which　the　offhand　one.　He　then　tied　the　end　of　a　large　rope　around　the　horns　of　the　inhand　ox,　and　gave　me　the　other　end　of　it,　and　told　me,　if　the　oxen　started　to　run,　that　I　must　hold　on　upon　the　rope.　I　had　never　driven　oxen　before,　and　of　course　I　was　very　awkward.　I,　however,　succeeded　in　getting　to　the　edge　of　the　woods　with　little　difficulty;　but　I　had　got　a　very　few　rods　into　the　woods,　when　the　oxen　took　fright,　and　started　full　tilt,　carrying　the　cart　against　trees,　and　over　stumps,　in　the　most　frightful　manner.　I　expected　every　moment　that　my　brains　would　be　dashed　out　against　the　trees.　After　running　thus　for　a　considerable　distance,　they　finally　upset　the　cart,　dashing　it　with　great　force　against　a　tree,　and　threw　themselves　into　a　dense　thicket.　How　I　escaped　death,　I　do　not　know.　There　I　was,　entirely　alone,　in　a　thick　wood,　in　a　place　new　to　me.　My　cart　was　upset　and　shattered,　my　oxen　were　entangled　among　the　young　trees,　and　there　was　none　to　help　me.　After　a　long　spell　of　effort,　I　succeeded　in　getting　my　cart　righted,　my　oxen　disentangled,　and　again　yoked　to　the　cart.　I　now　proceeded　with　my　team　to　the　place　where　I　had,　the　day　before,　been　chopping　wood,　and　loaded　my　cart　pretty　heavily,　thinking　in　this　way　to　tame　my　oxen.　I　then　proceeded　on　my　way　home.　I　had　now　consumed　one　half　of　the　day.　I　got　out　of　the　woods　safely,　and　now　felt　out　of　danger.　I　stopped　my　oxen　to　open　the　woods　gate;　and　just　as　I　did　so,　before　I　could　get　hold　of　my　oxrope,　the　oxen　again　started,　rushed　through　the　gate,　catching　it　between　the　wheel　and　the　body　of　the　cart,　tearing　it　to　pieces,　and　coming　within　a　few　inches　of　crushing　me　against　the　gatepost.　Thus　twice,　in　one　short　day,　I　escaped　death　by　the　merest　chance.　On　my　return,　I　told　Mr.　Covey　what　had　happened,　and　how　it　happened.　He　ordered　me　to　return　to　the　woods　again　immediately.　I　did　so,　and　he　followed　on　after　me.　Just　as　I　got　into　the　woods,　he　came　up　and　told　me　to　stop　my　cart,　and　that　he　would　teach　me　how　to　trifle　away　my　time,　and　break　gates.　He　then　went　to　a　large　gumtree,　and　with　his　axe　cut　three　large　switches,　and,　after　trimming　them　up　neatly　with　his　pocketknife,　he　ordered　me　to　take　off　my　clothes.　I　made　him　no　answer,　but　stood　with　my　clothes　on.　He　repeated　his　order.　I　still　made　him　no　answer,　nor　did　I　move　to　strip　myself.　Upon　this　he　rushed　at　me　with　the　fierceness　of　a　tiger,　tore　off　my　clothes,　and　lashed　me　till　he　had　worn　out　his　switches,　cutting　me　so　savagely　as　to　leave　the　marks　visible　for　a　long　time　after.　This　whipping　was　the　first　of　a　number　just　like　it,　and　for　similar　offences.

I　lived　with　Mr.　Covey　one　year.　During　the　first　six　months,　of　that　year,　scarce　a　week　passed　without　his　whipping　me.　I　was　seldom　free　from　a　sore　back.　My　awkwardness　was　almost　always　his　excuse　for　whipping　me.　We　were　worked　fully　up　to　the　point　of　endurance.　Long　before　day　we　were　up,　our　horses　fed,　and　by　the　first　approach　of　day　we　were　off　to　the　field　with　our　hoes　and　ploughing　teams.　Mr.　Covey　gave　us　enough　to　eat,　but　scarce　time　to　eat　it.　We　were　often　less　than　five　minutes　taking　our　meals.　We　were　often　in　the　field　from　the　first　approach　of　day　till　its　last　lingering　ray　had　left　us;　and　at　savingfodder　time,　midnight　often　caught　us　in　the　field　binding　blades.

Covey　would　be　out　with　us.　The　way　he　used　to　stand　it,　was　this.　He　would　spend　the　most　of　his　afternoons　in　bed.　He　would　then　come　out　fresh　in　the　evening,　ready　to　urge　us　on　with　his　words,　example,　and　frequently　with　the　whip.　Mr.　Covey　was　one　of　the　few　slaveholders　who　could　and　did　work　with　his　hands.　He　was　a　hardworking　man.　He　knew　by　himself　just　what　a　man　or　a　boy　could　do.　There　was　no　deceiving　him.　His　work　went　on　in　his　absence　almost　as　well　as　in　his　presence;　and　he　had　the　faculty　of　making　us　feel　that　he　was　ever　present　with　us.　This　he　did　by　surprising　us.　He　seldom　approached　the　spot　where　we　were　at　work　openly,　if　he　could　do　it　secretly.　He　always　aimed　at　taking　us　by　surprise.　Such　was　his　cunning,　that　we　used　to　call　him,　among　ourselves,　“the　snake.”　When　we　were　at　work　in　the　cornfield,　he　would　sometimes　crawl　on　his　hands　and　knees　to　avoid　detection,　and　all　at　once　he　would　rise　nearly　in　our　midst,　and　scream　out,　“Ha,　ha!　Come,　come!　Dash　on,　dash　on!”　This　being　his　mode　of　attack,　it　was　never　safe　to　stop　a　single　minute.　His　comings　were　like　a　thief　in　the　night.　He　appeared　to　us　as　being　ever　at　hand.　He　was　under　every　tree,　behind　every　stump,　in　every　bush,　and　at　every　window,　on　the　plantation.　He　would　sometimes　mount　his　horse,　as　if　bound　to　St.　Michaels

St.　Michael:　圣迈克尔，位于马里兰州东海岸，毗邻伊士顿县。

,　a　distance　of　seven　miles,　and　in　half　an　hour　afterwards　you　would　see　him　coiled　up　in　the　corner　of　the　woodfence,　watching　every　motion　of　the　slaves.　He　would,　for　this　purpose,　leave　his　horse　tied　up　in　the　woods.　Again,　he　would　sometimes　walk　up　to　us,　and　give　us　orders　as　though　he　was　upon　the　point　of　starting　on　a　long　journey,　turn　his　back　upon　us,　and　make　as　though　he　was　going　to　the　house　to　get　ready;　and,　before　he　would　get　half　way　thither,　he　would　turn　short　and　crawl　into　a　fencecorner,　or　behind　some　tree,　and　there　watch　us　till　the　going　down　of　the　sun.

Mr.　Coveys　forte　consisted　in　his　power　to　deceive.　His　life　was　devoted　to　planning　and　perpetrating　the　grossest　deceptions.　Everything　he　possessed　in　the　shape　of　learning　or　religion,　he　made　conform　to　his　disposition　to　deceive.　He　seemed　to　think　himself　equal　to　deceiving　the　Almighty.　He　would　make　a　short　prayer　in　the　morning,　and　a　long　prayer　at　night;　and,　strange　as　it　may　seem,　few　men　would　at　times　appear　more　devotional　than　he.　The　exercises　of　his　family　devotions　were　always　commenced　with　singing;　and,　as　he　was　a　very　poor　singer　himself,　the　duty　of　raising　the　hymn　generally　came　upon　me.　He　would　read　his　hymn,　and　nod　at　me　to　commence.　I　would　at　times　do　so;　at　others,　I　would　not.　My　noncompliance　would　almost　always　produce　much　confusion.　To　show　himself　independent　of　me,　he　would　start　and　stagger　through　with　his　hymn　in　the　most　discordant　manner.　In　this　state　of　mind,　he　prayed　with　more　than　ordinary　spirit.　Poor　man!　such　was　his　disposition,　and　success　at　deceiving,　I　do　verily　believe　that　he　sometimes　deceived　himself　into　the　solemn　belief,　that　he　was　a　sincere　worshipper　of　the　most　high　God;　and　this,　too,　at　a　time　when　he　may　be　said　to　have　been　guilty　of　compelling　his　woman　slave　to　commit　the　sin　of　adultery.　The　facts　in　the　case　are　these:　Mr.　Covey　was　a　poor　man;　he　was　just　commencing　in　life;　he　was　only　able　to　buy　one　slave;　and,　shocking　as　is　the　fact,　he　bought　her,　as　he　said,　for　a　breeder.　This　woman　was　named　Caroline.　Mr.　Covey　bought　her　from　Mr.　Thomas　Lowe,　about　six　miles　from　St.　Michaels.　She　was　a　large,　ablebodied　woman,　about　twenty　years　old.　She　had　already　given　birth　to　one　child,　which　proved　her　to　be　just　what　he　wanted.　After　buying　her,　he　hired　a　married　man　of　Mr.　Samuel　Harrison,　to　live　with　him　one　year;　and　him　he　used　to　fasten　up　with　her　every　night!　The　result　was,　that,　at　the　end　of　the　year,　the　miserable　woman　gave　birth　to　twins.　At　this　result　Mr.　Covey　seemed　to　be　highly　pleased,　both　with　the　man　and　the　wretched　woman.　Such　was　his　joy,　and　that　of　his　wife,　that　nothing　they　could　do　for　Caroline　during　her　confinement　was　too　good,　or　too　hard,　to　be　done.　The　children　were　regarded　as　being　quite　an　addition　to　his　wealth.

If　at　any　one　time　of　my　life　more　than　another,　I　was　made　to　drink　the　bitterest　dregs　of　slavery,　that　time　was　during　the　first　six　months　of　my　stay　with　Mr.　Covey.　We　were　worked　in　all　weathers.　It　was　never　too　hot　or　too　cold;　it　could　never　rain,　blow,　hail,　or　snow,　too　hard　for　us　to　work　in　the　field.　Work,　work,　work,　was　scarcely　more　the　order　of　the　day　than　of　the　night.　The　longest　days　were　too　short　for　him,　and　the　shortest　nights　too　long　for　him.　I　was　somewhat　unmanageable　when　I　first　went　there,　but　a　few　months　of　this　discipline　tamed　me.　Mr.　Covey　succeeded　in　breaking　me.　I　was　broken　in　body,　soul,　and　spirit.　My　natural　elasticity　was　crushed,　my　intellect　languished,　the　disposition　to　read　departed,　the　cheerful　spark　that　lingered　about　my　eye　died;　the　dark　night　of　slavery　closed　in　upon　me;　and　behold　a　man　transformed　into　a　brute!

Sunday　was　my　only　leisure　time.　I　spent　this　in　a　sort　of　beastlike　stupor,　between　sleep　and　wake,　under　some　large　tree.　At　times　I　would　rise　up,　a　flash　of　energetic　freedom　would　dart　through　my　soul,　accompanied　with　a　faint　beam　of　hope,　that　flickered　for　a　moment,　and　then　vanished.　I　sank　down　again,　mourning　over　my　wretched　condition.　I　was　sometimes　prompted　to　take　my　life,　and　that　of　Covey,　but　was　prevented　by　a　combination　of　hope　and　fear.　My　sufferings　on　this　plantation　seem　now　like　a　dream　rather　than　a　stern　reality.

Our　house　stood　within　a　few　rods　of　the　Chesapeake　Bay,　whose　broad　bosom　was　ever　white　with　sails　from　every　quarter　of　the　habitable　globe.　Those　beautiful　vessels,　robed　in　purest　white,　so　delightful　to　the　eye　of　freemen,　were　to　me　so　many　shrouded　ghosts,　to　terrify　and　torment　me　with　thoughts　of　my　wretched　condition.　I　have　often,　in　the　deep　stillness　of　a　summers　Sabbath,　stood　all　alone　upon　the　lofty　banks　of　that　noble　bay,　and　traced,　with　saddened　heart　and　tearful　eye,　the　countless　number　of　sails　moving　off　to　the　mighty　ocean.　The　sight　of　these　always　affected　me　powerfully.　My　thoughts　would　compel　utterance;　and　there,　with　no　audience　but　the　Almighty,　I　would　pour　out　my　souls　complaint,　in　my　rude　way,　with　an　apostrophe　to　the　moving　multitude　of　ships:　—

“You　are　loosed　from　your　moorings,　and　are　free;　I　am　fast　in　my　chains,　and　am　a　slave!You　move　merrily　before　the　gentle　gale,　and　I　sadly　before　the　bloody　whip!　You　are　freedoms　swiftwinged　angels,　that　fly　round　the　world;　I　am　confined　in　bands　of　iron!　O　that　I　were　free!　O,　that　I　were　on　one　of　your　gallant　decks,　and　under　your　protecting　wing!　Alas!　betwixt　me　and　you,　the　turbid　waters　roll.　Go　on,　go　on.　O　that　I　could　also　go!　Could　I　but　swim!　If　I　could　fly!　O,　why　was　I　born　a　man,　of　whom　to　make　a　brute!　The　glad　ship　is　gone;　she　hides　in　the　dim　distance.　I　am　left　in　the　hottest　hell　of　unending　slavery.　O　God,　save　me!　God,　deliver　me!　Let　me　be　free!　Is　there　any　God?　Why　am　I　a　slave?　I　will　run　away.　I　will　not　stand　it.　Get　caught,　or　get　clear,　Ill　try　it.　I　had　as　well　die　with　ague　as　the　fever.　I　have　only　one　life　to　lose.　I　had　as　well　be　killed　running　as　die　standing.　Only　think　of　it;　one　hundred　miles　straight　north,　and　I　am　free!　Try　it?　Yes!　God　helping　me,　I　will.　It　cannot　be　that　I　shall　live　and　die　a　slave.　I　will　take　to　the　water.　This　very　bay　shall　yet　bear　me　into　freedom.　The　steamboats　steered　in　a　northeast　course　from　North　Point.　I　will　do　the　same;　and　when　I　get　to　the　head　of　the　bay,　I　will　turn　my　canoe　adrift,　and　walk　straight　through　Delaware　into　Pennsylvania.　When　I　get　there,　I　shall　not　be　required　to　have　a　pass;　I　can　travel　without　being　disturbed.　Let　but　the　first　opportunity　offer,　and,　come　what　will,　I　am　off.　Meanwhile,　I　will　try　to　bear　up　under　the　yoke.　I　am　not　the　only　slave　in　the　world.　Why　should　I　fret?　I　can　bear　as　much　as　any　of　them.　Besides,　I　am　but　a　boy,　and　all　boys　are　bound　to　someone.　It　may　be　that　my　misery　in　slavery　will　only　increase　my　happiness　when　I　get　free.　There　is　a　better　day　coming.”

Thus　I　used　to　think,　and　thus　I　used　to　speak　to　myself;　goaded　almost　to　madness　at　one　moment,　and　at　the　next　reconciling　myself　to　my　wretched　lot.

I　have　already　intimated　that　my　condition　was　much　worse,　during　the　first　six　months　of　my　stay　at　Mr.　Coveys,　than　in　the　last　six.　The　circumstances　leading　to　the　change　in　Mr.　Coveys　course　toward　me　form　an　epoch　in　my　humble　history.　You　have　seen　how　a　man　was　made　a　slave;　you　shall　see　how　a　slave　was　made　a　man.　On　one　of　the　hottest　days　of　the　month　of　August,　1833,　Bill　Smith,　William　Hughes,　a　slave　named　Eli,　and　myself,　were　engaged　in　fanning　wheat.　Hughes　was　clearing　the　fanned　wheat　from　before　the　fan,　Eli　was　turning,　Smith　was　feeding,　and　I　was　carrying　wheat　to　the　fan.　The　work　was　simple,　requiring　strength　rather　than　intellect;　yet,　to　one　entirely　unused　to　such　work,　it　came　very　hard.　About　three　oclock　of　that　day,　I　broke　down;　my　strength　failed　me;　I　was　seized　with　a　violent　aching　of　the　head,　attended　with　extreme　dizziness;　I　trembled　in　every　limb.　Finding　what　was　coming,　I　nerved　myself　up,　feeling　it　would　never　do　to　stop　work.　I　stood　as　long　as　I　could　stagger　to　the　hopper　with　grain.　When　I　could　stand　no　longer,　I　fell,　and　felt　as　if　held　down　by　an　immense　weight.　The　fan　of　course　stopped;　everyone　had　his　own　work　to　do;　and　no　one　could　do　the　work　of　the　other,　and　have　his　own　go　on　at　the　same　time.

Mr.　Covey　was　at　the　house,　about　one　hundred　yards　from　the　treadingyard　where　we　were　fanning.　On　hearing　the　fan　stop,　he　left　immediately,　and　came　to　the　spot　where　we　were.　He　hastily　inquired　what　the　matter　was.　Bill　answered　that　I　was　sick,　and　there　was　no　one　to　bring　wheat　to　the　fan.　I　had　by　this　time　crawled　away　under　the　side　of　the　post　and　railfence　by　which　the　yard　was　enclosed,　hoping　to　find　relief　by　getting　out　of　the　sun.　He　then　asked　where　I　was.　He　was　told　by　one　of　the　hands.　He　came　to　the　spot,　and,　after　looking　at　me　awhile,　asked　me　what　was　the　matter.　I　told　him　as　well　as　I　could,　for　I　scarce　had　strength　to　speak.　He　then　gave　me　a　savage　kick　in　the　side,　and　told　me　to　get　up.　I　tried　to　do　so,　but　fell　back　in　the　attempt.　He　gave　me　another　kick,　and　again　told　me　to　rise.　I　again　tried,　and　succeeded　in　gaining　my　feet;　but,　stooping　to　get　the　tub　with　which　I　was　feeding　the　fan,　I　again　staggered　and　fell.　While　down　in　this　situation,　Mr.　Covey　took　up　the　hickory　slat　with　which　Hughes　had　been　striking　off　the　halfbushel　measure,　and　with　it　gave　me　a　heavy　blow　upon　the　head,　making　a　large　wound,　and　the　blood　ran　freely;　and　with　this　again　told　me　to　get　up.　I　made　no　effort　to　comply,　having　now　made　up　my　mind　to　let　him　do　his　worst.　In　a　short　time　after　receiving　this　blow,　my　head　grew　better.　Mr.　Covey　had　now　left　me　to　my　fate.　At　this　moment　I　resolved,　for　the　first　time,　to　go　to　my　master,　enter　a　complaint,　and　ask　his　protection.　In　order　to　do　this,　I　must　that　afternoon　walk　seven　miles;　and　this,　under　the　circumstances,　was　truly　a　severe　undertaking.　I　was　exceedingly　feeble;　made　so　as　much　by　the　kicks　and　blows　which　I　received,　as　by　the　severe　fit　of　sickness　to　which　I　had　been　subjected.　I,　however,　watched　my　chance,　while　Covey　was　looking　in　an　opposite　direction,　and　started　for　St.　Michaels.　I　succeeded　in　getting　a　considerable　distance　on　my　way　to　the　woods,　when　Covey　discovered　me,　and　called　after　me　to　come　back,　threatening　what　he　would　do　if　I　did　not　come.　I　disregarded　both　his　calls　and　his　threats,　and　made　my　way　to　the　woods　as　fast　as　my　feeble　state　would　allow;　and　thinking　I　might　be　overhauled　by　him　if　I　kept　the　road,　I　walked　through　the　woods,　keeping　far　enough　from　the　road　to　avoid　detection,　and　near　enough　to　prevent　losing　my　way.　I　had　not　gone　far　before　my　little　strength　again　failed　me.　I　could　go　no　farther.　I　fell　down,　and　lay　for　a　considerable　time.　The　blood　was　yet　oozing　from　the　wound　on　my　head.　For　a　time　I　thought　I　should　bleed　to　death;　and　think　now　that　I　should　have　done　so,　but　that　the　blood　so　matted　my　hair　as　to　stop　the　wound.　After　lying　there　about　three　quarters　of　an　hour,　I　nerved　myself　up　again,　and　started　on　my　way,　through　bogs　and　briers,　barefooted　and　bareheaded,　tearing　my　feet　sometimes　at　nearly　every　step;　and　after　a　journey　of　about　seven　miles,　occupying　some　five　hours　to　perform　it,　I　arrived　at　masters　store.　I　then　presented　an　appearance　enough　to　affect　any　but　a　heart　of　iron.　From　the　crown　of　my　head　to　my　feet,　I　was　covered　with　blood.　My　hair　was　all　clotted　with　dust　and　blood;　my　shirt　was　stiff　with　blood.　My　legs　and　feet　were　torn　in　sundry　places　with　briers　and　thorns,　and　were　also　covered　with　blood.　I　suppose　I　looked　like　a　man　who　had　escaped　a　den　of　wild　beasts,　and　barely　escaped　them.　In　this　state　I　appeared　before　my　master,　humbly　entreating　him　to　interpose　his　authority　for　my　protection.　I　told　him　all　the　circumstances　as　well　as　I　could,　and　it　seemed,　as　I　spoke,　at　times　to　affect　him.　He　would　then　walk　the　floor,　and　seek　to　justify　Covey　by　saying　he　expected　I　deserved　it.　He　asked　me　what　I　wanted.　I　told　him,　to　let　me　get　a　new　home;　that　as　sure　as　I　lived　with　Mr.　Covey　again,　I　should　live　with　but　to　die　with　him;　that　Covey　would　surely　kill　me;　he　was　in　a　fair　way　for　it.　Master　Thomas　ridiculed　the　idea　that　there　was　any　danger　of　Mr.　Coveys　killing　me,　and　said　that　he　knew　Mr.　Covey;　that　he　was　a　good　man,　and　that　he　could　not　think　of　taking　me　from　him;　that,　should　he　do　so,　he　would　lose　the　whole　years　wages;　that　I　belonged　to　Mr.　Covey　for　one　year,　and　that　I　must　go　back　to　him,　come　what　might;　and　that　I　must　not　trouble　him　with　any　more　stories,　or　that　he　would　himself　get　hold　of　me.　After　threatening　me　thus,　he　gave　me　a　very　large　dose　of　salts,　telling　me　that　I　might　remain　in　St.　Michaels　that　night,　(it　being　quite　late,)　but　that　I　must　be　off　back　to　Mr.　Coveys　early　in　the　morning;　and　that　if　I　did　not,　he　would　get　hold　of　me,　which　meant　that　he　would　whip　me.　I　remained　all　night,　and,　according　to　his　orders,　I　started　off　to　Coveys　in　the　morning,　(Saturday　morning,)　wearied　in　body　and　broken　in　spirit.　I　got　no　supper　that　night,　or　breakfast　that　morning.　I　reached　Coveys　about　nine　oclock;　and　just　as　I　was　getting　over　the　fence　that　divided　Mrs.　Kemps　fields　from　ours,　out　ran　Covey　with　his　cowskin,　to　give　me　another　whipping.　Before　he　could　reach　me,　I　succeeded　in　getting　to　the　cornfield;　and　as　the　corn　was　very　high,　it　afforded　me　the　means　of　hiding.　He　seemed　very　angry,　and　searched　for　me　a　long　time.　My　behavior　was　altogether　unaccountable.　He　finally　gave　up　the　chase,　thinking,　I　suppose,　that　I　must　come　home　for　something　to　eat;　he　would　give　himself　no　further　trouble　in　looking　for　me.　I　spent　that　day　mostly　in　the　woods,　having　the　alternative　before　me—to　go　home　and　be　whipped　to　death,　or　stay　in　the　woods　and　be　starved　to　death.　That　night,　I　fell　in　with　Sandy　Jenkins,　a　slave　with　whom　I　was　somewhat　acquainted.　Sandy　had　a　free　wife,　who　lived　about　four　miles　from　Mr.　Coveys;　and　it　being　Saturday,　he　was　on　his　way　to　see　her.　I　told　him　my　circumstances,　and　he　very　kindly　invited　me　to　go　home　with　him.　I　went　home　with　him,　and　talked　this　whole　matter　over,　and　got　his　advice　as　to　what　course　it　was　best　for　me　to　pursue.　I　found　Sandy　an　old　adviser.　He　told　me,　with　great　solemnity,　I　must　go　back　to　Covey;　but　that　before　I　went,　I　must　go　with　him　into　another　part　of　the　woods,　where　there　was　a　certain　root,　which,　if　I　would　take　some　of　it　with　me,　carrying　it　always　on　my　right　side,　would　render　it　impossible　for　Mr.　Covey,　or　any　other　white　man,　to　whip　me.　He　said　he　had　carried　it　for　years;　and　since　he　had　done　so,　he　had　never　received　a　blow,　and　never　expected　to　while　he　carried　it.　I　at　first　rejected　the　idea,　that　the　simple　carrying　of　a　root　in　my　pocket　would　have　any　such　effect　as　he　had　said,　and　was　not　disposed　to　take　it;　but　Sandy　impressed　the　necessity　with　much　earnestness,　telling　me　it　could　do　no　harm,　if　it　did　no　good.　To　please　him,　I　at　length　took　the　root,　and,　according　to　his　direction,　carried　it　upon　my　right　side.　This　was　Sunday　morning.　I　immediately　started　for　home;　and　upon　entering　the　yard　gate,　out　came　Mr.　Covey　on　his　way　to　a　meeting.　He　spoke　to　me　very　kindly,　bade　me　drive　the　pigs　from　a　lot　nearby,　and　passed　on　towards　the　church.　Now,　this　singular　conduct　of　Mr.　Covey　really　made　me　begin　to　think　that　there　was　something　in　the　root　which　Sandy　had　given　me;　and　had　it　been　on　any　other　day　than　Sunday,　I　could　have　attributed　the　conduct　to　no　other　cause　than　the　influence　of　that　root;　and　as　it　was,　I　was　half　inclined　to　think　the　root　to　be　something　more　than　I　at　first　had　taken　it　to　be.　All　went　well　till　Monday　morning.　On　this　morning,　the　virtue　of　the　root　was　fully　tested.　Long　before　daylight,　I　was　called　to　go　and　rub,　curry,　and　feed,　the　horses.　I　obeyed,　and　was　glad　to　obey.　But　whilst　thus　engaged,　whilst　in　the　act　of　throwing　down　some　blades　from　the　loft,　Mr.　Covey　entered　the　stable　with　a　long　rope;　and　just　as　I　was　half　out　of　the　loft,　he　caught　hold　of　my　legs,　and　was　about　tying　me.　As　soon　as　I　found　what　he　was　up　to,　I　gave　a　sudden　spring,　and　as　I　did　so,　he　holding　to　my　legs,　I　was　brought　sprawling　on　the　stable　floor.　Mr.　Covey　seemed　now　to　think　he　had　me,　and　could　do　what　he　pleased;　but　at　this　moment—from　whence　came　the　spirit　I　dont　know—I　resolved　to　fight;　and,　suiting　my　action　to　the　resolution,　I　seized　Covey　hard　by　the　throat;　and　as　I　did　so,　I　rose.　He　held　on　to　me,　and　I　to　him.　My　resistance　was　so　entirely　unexpected,　that　Covey　seemed　taken　all　aback.　He　trembled　like　a　leaf.　This　gave　me　assurance,　and　I　held　him　uneasy,　causing　the　blood　to　run　where　I　touched　him　with　the　ends　of　my　fingers.　Mr.　Covey　soon　called　out　to　Hughes　for　help.　Hughes　came,　and,　while　Covey　held　me,　attempted　to　tie　my　right　hand.　While　he　was　in　the　act　of　doing　so,　I　watched　my　chance,　and　gave　him　a　heavy　kick　close　under　the　ribs.　This　kick　fairly　sickened　Hughes,　so　that　he　left　me　in　the　hands　of　Mr.　Covey.　This　kick　had　the　effect　of　not　only　weakening　Hughes,　but　Covey　also.　When　he　saw　Hughes　bending　over　with　pain,　his　courage　quailed.　He　asked　me　if　I　meant　to　persist　in　my　resistance.　I　told　him　I　did,　come　what　might;　that　he　had　used　me　like　a　brute　for　six　months,　and　that　I　was　determined　to　be　used　so　no　longer.　With　that,　he　strove　to　drag　me　to　a　stick　that　was　lying　just　out　of　the　stable　door.　He　meant　to　knock　me　down.　But　just　as　he　was　leaning　over　to　get　the　stick,　I　seized　him　with　both　hands　by　his　collar,　and　brought　him　by　a　sudden　snatch　to　the　ground.　By　this　time,　Bill　came.　Covey　called　upon　him　for　assistance.　Bill　wanted　to　know　what　he　could　do.　Covey　said,　“Take　hold　of　him,　take　hold　of　him!”　Bill　said　his　master　hired　him　out　to　work,　and　not　to　help　to　whip　me;　so　he　left　Covey　and　me　to　fight　our　own　battle　out.　We　were　at　it　for　nearly　two　hours.　Covey　at　length　let　me　go,　puffing　and　blowing　at　a　great　rate,　saying　that　if　I　had　not　resisted,　he　would　not　have　whipped　me　half　so　much.　The　truth　was,　that　he　had　not　whipped　me　at　all.　I　considered　him　as　getting　entirely　the　worst　end　of　the　bargain;　for　he　had　drawn　no　blood　from　me,　but　I　had　from　him.　The　whole　six　months　afterwards,　that　I　spent　with　Mr.　Covey,　he　never　laid　the　weight　of　his　finger　upon　me　in　anger.　He　would　occasionally　say,　he　didnt　want　to　get　hold　of　me　again.　“No,”　thought　I,　“you　need　not;　for　you　will　come　off　worse　than　you　did　before.”

This　battle　with　Mr.　Covey　was　the　turningpoint　in　my　career　as　a　slave.　It　rekindled　the　few　expiring　embers　of　freedom,　and　revived　within　me　a　sense　of　my　own　manhood.　It　recalled　the　departed　selfconfidence,　and　inspired　me　again　with　a　determination　to　be　free.　The　gratification　afforded　by　the　triumph　was　a　full　compensation　for　whatever　else　might　follow,　even　death　itself.　He　only　can　understand　the　deep　satisfaction　which　I　experienced,　who　has　himself　repelled　by　force　the　bloody　arm　of　slavery.　I　felt　as　I　never　felt　before.　It　was　a　glorious　resurrection,　from　the　tomb　of　slavery,　to　the　heaven　of　freedom.　My　longcrushed　spirit　rose,　cowardice　departed,　bold　defiance　took　its　place;　and　I　now　resolved　that,　however　long　I　might　remain　a　slave　in　form,　the　day　had　passed　forever　when　I　could　be　a　slave　in　fact.　I　did　not　hesitate　to　let　it　be　known　of　me,　that　the　white　man　who　expected　to　succeed　in　whipping,　must　also　succeed　in　killing　me.

From　this　time　I　was　never　again　what　might　be　called　fairly　whipped,　though　I　remained　a　slave　four　years　afterwards.　I　had　several　fights,　but　was　never　whipped.

It　was　for　a　long　time　a　matter　of　surprise　to　me　why　Mr.　Covey　did　not　immediately　have　me　taken　by　the　constable　to　the　whippingpost,　and　there　regularly　whipped　for　the　crime　of　raising　my　hand　against　a　white　man　in　defence　of　myself.　And　the　only　explanation　I　can　now　think　of　does　not　entirely　satisfy　me;　but　such　as　it　is,　I　will　give　it.　Mr.　Covey　enjoyed　the　most　unbounded　reputation　for　being　a　firstrate　overseer　and　negrobreaker.　It　was　of　considerable　importance　to　him.　That　reputation　was　at　stake;　and　had　he　sent　me—a　boy　about　sixteen　years　old—to　the　public　whippingpost,　his　reputation　would　have　been　lost;　so,　to　save　his　reputation,　he　suffered　me　to　go　unpunished.

My　term　of　actual　service　to　Mr.　Edward　Covey　ended　on　Christmas　day,　1833.　The　days　between　Christmas　and　New　Years　Day　are　allowed　as　holidays;　and,　accordingly,　we　were　not　required　to　perform　any　labor,　more　than　to　feed　and　take　care　of　the　stock.　This　time　we　regarded　as　our　own,　by　the　grace　of　our　masters;　and　we　therefore　used　or　abused　it　nearly　as　we　pleased.　Those　of　us　who　had　families　at　a　distance,　were　generally　allowed　to　spend　the　whole　six　days　in　their　society.　This　time,　however,　was　spent　in　various　ways.　The　staid,　sober,　thinking　and　industrious　ones　of　our　number　would　employ　themselves　in　making　cornbrooms,　mats,　horsecollars,　and　baskets;　and　another　class　of　us　would　spend　the　time　in　hunting　opossums,　hares,　and　coons.　But　by　far　the　larger　part　engaged　in　such　sports　and　merriments　as　playing　ball,　wrestling,　running　footraces,　fiddling,　dancing,　and　drinking　whisky;　and　this　latter　mode　of　spending　the　time　was　by　far　the　most　agreeable　to　the　feelings　of　our　masters.　A　slave　who　would　work　during　the　holidays　was　considered　by　our　masters　as　scarcely　deserving　them.　He　was　regarded　as　one　who　rejected　the　favor　of　his　master.　It　was　deemed　a　disgrace　not　to　get　drunk　at　Christmas;　and　he　was　regarded　as　lazy　indeed,　who　had　not　provided　himself　with　the　necessary　means,　during　the　year,　to　get　whisky　enough　to　last　him　through　Christmas.

From　what　I　know　of　the　effect　of　these　holidays　upon　the　slave,　I　believe　them　to　be　among　the　most　effective　means　in　the　hands　of　the　slaveholder　in　keeping　down　the　spirit　of　insurrection.　Were　the　slaveholders　at　once　to　abandon　this　practice,　I　have　not　the　slightest　doubt　it　would　lead　to　an　immediate　insurrection　among　the　slaves.　These　holidays　serve　as　conductors,　or　safetyvalves,　to　carry　off　the　rebellious　spirit　of　enslaved　humanity.　But　for　these,　the　slave　would　be　forced　up　to　the　wildest　desperation;　and　woe　betide　the　slaveholder,　the　day　he　ventures　to　remove　or　hinder　the　operation　of　those　conductors!　I　warn　him　that,　in　such　an　event,　a　spirit　will　go　forth　in　their　midst,　more　to　be　dreaded　than　the　most　appalling　earthquake.

The　holidays　are　part　and　parcel　of　the　gross　fraud,　wrong,　and　inhumanity　of　slavery.　They　are　professedly　a　custom　established　by　the　benevolence　of　the　slaveholders;　but　I　undertake　to　say,　it　is　the　result　of　selfishness,　and　one　of　the　grossest　frauds　committed　upon　the　downtrodden　slave.　They　do　not　give　the　slaves　this　time　because　they　would　not　like　to　have　their　work　during　its　continuance,　but　because　they　know　it　would　be　unsafe　to　deprive　them　of　it.　This　will　be　seen　by　the　fact,　that　the　slaveholders　like　to　have　their　slaves　spend　those　days　just　in　such　a　manner　as　to　make　them　as　glad　of　their　ending　as　of　their　beginning.　Their　object　seems　to　be,　to　disgust　their　slaves　with　freedom,　by　plunging　them　into　the　lowest　depths　of　dissipation.　For　instance,　the　slaveholders　not　only　like　to　see　the　slave　drink　of　his　own　accord,　but　will　adopt　various　plans　to　make　him　drunk.　One　plan　is,　to　make　bets　on　their　slaves,　as　to　who　can　drink　the　most　whisky　without　getting　drunk;　and　in　this　way　they　succeed　in　getting　whole　multitudes　to　drink　to　excess.　Thus,　when　the　slave　asks　for　virtuous　freedom,　the　cunning　slaveholder,　knowing　his　ignorance,　cheats　him　with　a　dose　of　vicious　dissipation,　artfully　labelled　with　the　name　of　liberty.　The　most　of　us　used　to　drink　it　down,　and　the　result　was　just　what　might　be　supposed:　many　of　us　were　led　to　think　that　there　was　little　to　choose　between　liberty　and　slavery.　We　felt,　and　very　properly　too,　that　we　had　almost　as　well　be　slaves　to　man　as　to　rum.　So,　when　the　holidays　ended,　we　staggered　up　from　the　filth　of　our　wallowing,　took　a　long　breath,　and　marched　to　the　field—feeling,　upon　the　whole,　rather　glad　to　go,　from　what　our　master　had　deceived　us　into　a　belief　was　freedom,　back　to　the　arms　of　slavery.

I　have　said　that　this　mode　of　treatment　is　a　part　of　the　whole　system　of　fraud　and　inhumanity　of　slavery.　It　is　so.　The　mode　here　adopted　to　disgust　the　slave　with　freedom,　by　allowing　him　to　see　only　the　abuse　of　it,　is　carried　out　in　other　things.　For　instance,　a　slave　loves　molasses;　he　steals　some.　His　master,　in　many　cases,　goes　off　to　town,　and　buys　a　large　quantity;　he　returns,　takes　his　whip,　and　commands　the　slave　to　eat　the　molasses,　until　the　poor　fellow　is　made　sick　at　the　very　mention　of　it.　The　same　mode　is　sometimes　adopted　to　make　the　slaves　refrain　from　asking　for　more　food　than　their　regular　allowance.　A　slave　runs　through　his　allowance,　and　applies　for　more.　His　master　is　enraged　at　him;　but,　not　willing　to　send　him　off　without　food,　gives　him　more　than　is　necessary,　and　compels　him　to　eat　it　within　a　given　time.　Then,　if　he　complains　that　he　cannot　eat　it,　he　is　said　to　be　satisfied　neither　full　nor　fasting,　and　is　whipped　for　being　hard　to　please!　I　have　an　abundance　of　such　illustrations　of　the　same　principle,　drawn　from　my　own　observation,　but　think　the　cases　I　have　cited　sufficient.　The　practice　is　a　very　common　one.

On　the　first　of　January,　1834,　I　left　Mr.　Covey,　and　went　to　live　with　Mr.　William　Freeland,　who　lived　about　three　miles　from　St.　Michaels.　I　soon　found　Mr.　Freeland　a　very　different　man　from　Mr.　Covey.　Though　not　rich,　he　was　what　would　be　called　an　educated　southern　gentleman.　Mr.　Covey,　as　I　have　shown,　was　a　welltrained　negrobreaker　and　slavedriver.　The　former　(slaveholder　though　he　was)　seemed　to　possess　some　regard　for　honor,　some　reverence　for　justice,　and　some　respect　for　humanity.　The　latter　seemed　totally　insensible　to　all　such　sentiments.　Mr.　Freeland　had　many　of　the　faults　peculiar　to　slaveholders,　such　as　being　very　passionate　and　fretful;　but　I　must　do　him　the　justice　to　say,　that　he　was　exceedingly　free　from　those　degrading　vices　to　which　Mr.　Covey　was　constantly　addicted.　The　one　was　open　and　frank,　and　we　always　knew　where　to　find　him.　The　other　was　a　most　artful　deceiver,　and　could　be　understood　only　by　such　as　were　skilful　enough　to　detect　his　cunninglydevised　frauds.　Another　advantage　I　gained　in　my　new　master　was,　he　made　no　pretensions　to,　or　profession　of,　religion;　and　this,　in　my　opinion,　was　truly　a　great　advantage.　I　assert　most　unhesitatingly,　that　the　religion　of　the　south　is　a　mere　covering　for　the　most　horrid　crimes—a　justifier　of　the　most　appalling　barbarity—a　sanctifier　of　the　most　hateful　frauds—and　a　dark　shelter　under　which　the　darkest,　foulest,　grossest,　and　most　infernal　deeds　of　slaveholders　find　the　strongest　protection.　Were　I　to　be　again　reduced　to　the　chains　of　slavery,　next　to　that　enslavement,　I　should　regard　being　the　slave　of　a　religious　master　the　greatest　calamity　that　could　befall　me.　For　of　all　slaveholders　with　whom　I　have　ever　met,　religious　slaveholders　are　the　worst.　I　have　ever　found　them　the　meanest　and　basest,　the　most　cruel　and　cowardly,　of　all　others.　It　was　my　unhappy　lot　not　only　to　belong　to　a　religious　slaveholder,　but　to　live　in　a　community　of　such　religionists.　Very　near　Mr.　Freeland　lived　the　Rev.　Daniel　Weeden,　and　in　the　same　neighborhood　lived　the　Rev.　Rigby　Hopkins.　These　were　members　and　ministers　in　the　Reformed　Methodist　Church.　Mr.　Weeden　owned,　among　others,　a　woman　slave,　whose　name　I　have　forgotten.　This　womans　back,　for　weeks,　was　kept　literally　raw,　made　so　by　the　lash　of　this　merciless,　religious　wretch.　He　used　to　hire　hands.　His　maxim　was,　Behave　well　or　behave　ill,　it　is　the　duty　of　a　master　occasionally　to　whip　a　slave,　to　remind　him　of　his　masters　authority.　Such　was　his　theory,　and　such　his　practice.

Mr.　Hopkins　was　even　worse　than　Mr.　Weeden.　His　chief　boast　was　his　ability　to　manage　slaves.　The　peculiar　feature　of　his　government　was　that　of　whipping　slaves　in　advance　of　deserving　it.　He　always　managed　to　have　one　or　more　of　his　slaves　to　whip　every　Monday　morning.　He　did　this　to　alarm　their　fears,　and　strike　terror　into　those　who　escaped.　His　plan　was　to　whip　for　the　smallest　offences,　to　prevent　the　commission　of　large　ones.　Mr.　Hopkins　could　always　find　some　excuse　for　whipping　a　slave.　It　would　astonish　one,　unaccustomed　to　a　slaveholding　life,　to　see　with　what　wonderful　ease　a　slaveholder　can　find　things,　of　which　to　make　occasion　to　whip　a　slave.　A　mere　look,　word,　or　motion—a　mistake,　accident,　or　want　of　power—are　all　matters　for　which　a　slave　may　be　whipped　at　any　time.　Does　a　slave　look　dissatisfied?　It　is　said,　he　has　the　devil　in　him,　and　it　must　be　whipped　out.　Does　he　speak　loudly　when　spoken　to　by　his　master?　Then　he　is　getting　highminded,　and　should　be　taken　down　a　buttonhole　lower.　Does　he　forget　to　pull　off　his　hat　at　the　approach　of　a　white　person?　Then　he　is　wanting　in　reverence,　and　should　be　whipped　for　it.　Does　he　ever　venture　to　vindicate　his　conduct,　when　censured　for　it?　Then　he　is　guilty　of　impudence—one　of　the　greatest　crimes　of　which　a　slave　can　be　guilty.　Does　he　ever　venture　to　suggest　a　different　mode　of　doing　things　from　that　pointed　out　by　his　master?　He　is　indeed　presumptuous,　and　getting　above　himself;　and　nothing　less　than　a　flogging　will　do　for　him.　Does　he,　while　ploughing,　break　a　plough—or,　while　hoeing,　break　a　hoe?　It　is　owing　to　his　carelessness,　and　for　it　a　slave　must　always　be　whipped.　Mr.　Hopkins　could　always　find　something　of　this　sort　to　justify　the　use　of　the　lash,　and　he　seldom　failed　to　embrace　such　opportunities.　There　was　not　a　man　in　the　whole　county,　with　whom　the　slaves　who　had　the　getting　their　own　home,　would　not　prefer　to　live,　rather　than　with　this　Rev.　Mr.　Hopkins.　And　yet　there　was　not　a　mananywhere　round,　who　made　higher　professions　of　religion,　or　was　more　active　in　revivals—more　attentive　to　the　class,　lovefeast,　prayer　and　preaching　meetings,　or　more　devotional　in　his　family—that　prayed　earlier,　later,　louder,　and　longer—than　this　same　reverend　slavedriver,　Rigby　Hopkins.

But　to　return　to　Mr.　Freeland,　and　to　my　experience　while　in　his　employment.　He,　like　Mr.　Covey,　gave　us　enough　to　eat;　but,　unlike　Mr.　Covey,　he　also　gave　us　sufficient　time　to　take　our　meals.　He　worked　us　hard,　but　always　between　sunrise　and　sunset.　He　required　a　good　deal　of　work　to　be　done,　but　gave　us　good　tools　with　which　to　work.　His　farm　was　large,　but　he　employed　hands　enough　to　work　it,　and　with　ease,　compared　with　many　of　his　neighbors.　My　treatment,　while　in　his　employment,　was　heavenly,　compared　with　what　I　experienced　at　the　hands　of　Mr.　Edward　Covey.

Mr.　Freeland　was　himself　the　owner　of　but　two　slaves.　Their　names　were　Henry　Harris　and　John　Harris.　The　rest　of　his　hands　he　hired.　These　consisted　of　myself,　Sandy　Jenkins,　and　Handy　Caldwell.　Henry　and　John　were　quite　intelligent,　and　in　a　very　little　while　after　I　went　there,　I　succeeded　in　creating　in　them　a　strong　desire　to　learn　how　to　read.　This　desire　soon　sprang　up　in　the　others　also.　They　very　soon　mustered　up　some　old　spellingbooks,　and　nothing　would　do　but　that　I　must　keep　a　Sabbath　school

Sabbath　school:　主日学校,在星期日开设的为青少年进行宗教教育和识字教育的免费学校,兴起于18世纪末，盛行于19世纪上半期。

.　I　agreed　to　do　so,　and　accordingly　devoted　my　Sundays　to　teaching　these　my　loved　fellowslaves　how　to　read.　Neither　of　them　knew　his　letters　when　I　went　there.　Some　of　the　slaves　of　the　neighboring　farms　found　what　was　going　on,　and　also　availed　themselves　of　this　little　opportunity　to　learn　to　read.　It　was　understood,　among　all　who　came,　that　there　must　be　as　little　display　about　it　as　possible.　It　was　necessary　to　keep　our　religious　masters　at　St.　Michaels　unacquainted　with　the　fact,　that,　instead　of　spending　the　Sabbath　in　wrestling,　boxing,　and　drinking　whisky,　we　were　trying　to　learn　how　to　read　the　will　of　God;　for　they　had　much　rather　see　us　engaged　in　those　degrading　sports,　than　to　see　us　behaving　like　intellectual,　moral,　and　accountable　beings.　My　blood　boils　as　I　think　of　the　bloody　manner　in　which　Messrs.　Wright　Fairbanks　and　Garrison　West,　both　classleaders,　in　connection　with　many　others,　rushed　in　upon　us　with　sticks　and　stones,　and　broke　up　our　virtuous　little　Sabbath　school,　at　St.　Michaels—all　calling　themselves　Christians!　humble　followers　of　the　Lord　Jesus　Christ!　But　I　am　again　digressing.

I　held　my　Sabbath　school　at　the　house　of　a　free　colored　man,　whose　name　I　deem　it　imprudent　to　mention;　for,　should　it　be　known,　it　might　embarrass　him　greatly,　though　the　crime　of　holding　the　school　was　committed　ten　years　ago.　I　had　at　one　time　over　forty　scholars,　and　those　of　the　right　sort,　ardently　desiring　to　learn.　They　were　of　all　ages,　though　mostly　men　and　women.　I　look　back　to　those　Sundays　with　an　amount　of　pleasure　not　to　be　expressed.　They　were　great　days　to　my　soul.　The　work　of　instructing　my　dear　fellowslaves　was　the　sweetest　engagement　with　which　I　was　ever　blessed.　We　loved　each　other,　and　to　leave　them　at　the　close　of　the　Sabbath　was　a　severe　cross　indeed.　When　I　think　that　these　precious　souls　are　today　shut　up　in　the　prisonhouse　of　slavery,　my　feelings　overcome　me,　and　I　am　almost　ready　to　ask,　“Does　a　righteous　God　govern　the　universe?　and　for　what　does　he　hold　the　thunders　in　his　right　hand,　if　not　to　smite　the　oppressor,　and　deliver　the　spoiled　out　of　the　hand　of　the　spoiler?”　These　dear　souls　came　not　to　Sabbath　school　because　it　was　popular　to　do　so,　nor　did　I　teach　them　because　it　was　reputable　to　be　thus　engaged.　Every　moment　they　spent　in　that　school,　they　were　liable　to　be　taken　up,　and　given　thirtynine　lashes.　They　came　because　they　wished　to　learn.　Their　minds　had　been　starved　by　their　cruel　masters.　They　had　been　shut　up　in　mental　darkness.　I　taught　them,　because　it　was　the　delight　of　my　soul　to　be　doing　something　that　looked　like　bettering　the　condition　of　my　race.　I　kept　up　my　school　nearly　the　whole　year　I　lived　with　Mr.　Freeland;　and,　besides　my　Sabbath　school,　I　devoted　three　evenings　in　the　week,　during　the　winter,　to　teaching　the　slaves　at　home.　And　I　have　the　happiness　to　know,　that　several　of　those　who　came　to　Sabbath　school　learned　how　to　read;　and　that　one,　at　least,　is　now　free　through　my　agency.

The　year　passed　off　smoothly.　It　seemed　only　about　half　as　long　as　the　year　which　preceded　it.　I　went　through　it　without　receiving　a　single　blow.　I　will　give　Mr.　Freeland　the　credit　of　being　the　best　master　I　ever　had,　till　I　became　my　own　master.　For　the　ease　with　which　I　passed　the　year,　I　was,　however,　somewhat　indebted　to　the　society　of　my　fellowslaves.　They　were　noble　souls;　they　not　only　possessed　loving　hearts,　but　brave　ones.　We　were　linked　and　interlinked　with　each　other.　I　loved　them　with　a　love　stronger　than　anything　I　have　experienced　since.　It　is　sometimes　said　that　we　slaves　do　not　love　and　confide　in　each　other.　In　answer　to　this　assertion,　I　can　say,　I　never　loved　any　or　confided　in　any　people　more　than　my　fellowslaves,　and　especially　those　with　whom　I　lived　at　Mr.　Freelands.　I　believe　we　would　have　died　for　each　other.　We　never　undertook　to　do　anything,　of　any　importance,　without　a　mutual　consultation.　We　never　moved　separately.　We　were　one;　and　as　much　so　by　our　tempers　and　dispositions,　as　by　the　mutual　hardships　to　which　we　were　necessarily　subjected　by　our　condition　as　slaves.

At　the　close　of　the　year　1834,　Mr.　Freeland　again　hired　me　of　my　master,　for　the　year　1835.　But,　by　this　time,　I　began　to　want　to　live　upon　free　land　as　well　as　with　Freeland;　and　I　was　no　longer　content,　therefore,　to　live　with　him　or　any　other　slaveholder.　I　began,　with　the　commencement　of　the　year,　to　prepare　myself　for　a　final　struggle,　which　should　decide　my　fate　one　way　or　the　other.　My　tendency　was　upward.　I　was　fast　approaching　manhood,　and　year　after　year　had　passed,　and　I　was　still　a　slave.　These　thoughts　roused　me—I　must　do　something.　I　therefore　resolved　that　1835　should　not　pass　without　witnessing　an　attempt,　on　my　part,　to　secure　my　liberty.　But　I　was　not　willing　to　cherish　this　determination　alone.　My　fellowslaves　were　dear　to　me.　I　was　anxious　to　have　them　participate　with　me　in　this,　my　lifegiving　determination.　I　therefore,　though　with　great　prudence,　commenced　early　to　ascertain　their　views　and　feelings　in　regard　to　their　condition,　and　to　imbue　their　minds　with　thoughts　of　freedom.　I　bent　myself　to　devising　ways　and　means　for　our　escape,　and　meanwhile　strove,　on　all　fitting　occasions,　to　impress　them　with　the　gross　fraud　and　inhumanity　of　slavery.　I　went　first　to　Henry,　next　to　John,　then　to　the　others.　I　found,　in　them　all,　warm　hearts　and　noble　spirits.　They　were　ready　to　hear,　and　ready　to　act　when　a　feasible　plan　should　be　proposed.　This　was　what　I　wanted.　I　talked　to　them　of　our　want　of　manhood,　if　we　submitted　to　our　enslavement　without　at　least　one　noble　effort　to　be　free.　We　met　often,　and　consulted　frequently,　and　told　our　hopes　and　fears,　recounted　the　difficulties,　real　and　imagined,　which　we　should　be　called　on　to　meet.　At　times　we　were　almost　disposed　to　give　up,　and　try　to　content　ourselves　with　our　wretched　lot;　at　others,　we　were　firm　and　unbending　in　our　determination　to　go.　Whenever　we　suggested　any　plan,　there　was　shrinking—the　odds　were　fearful.　Our　path　was　beset　with　the　greatest　obstacles;　and　if　we　succeeded　in　gaining　the　end　of　it,　our　right　to　be　free　was　yet　questionable—we　were　yet　liable　to　be　returned　to　bondage.　We　could　see　no　spot,　this　side　of　the　ocean,　where　we　could　be　free.　We　knew　nothing　about　Canada.　Our　knowledge　of　the　north　did　not　extend　farther　than　New　York;　and　to　go　there,　and　be　forever　harassed　with　the　frightful　liability　of　being　returned　to　slavery—with　the

certainty　of　being　treated　tenfold　worse　than　before—the　thought　was　truly　a　horrible　one,　and　one　which　it　was　not　easy　to　overcome.　The　case　sometimes　stood　thus:　At　every　gate　through　which　we　were　to　pass,　we　saw　a　watchman—at　every　ferry　a　guard—on　every　bridge　a　sentinel—and　in　every　wood　a　patrol.　We　were　hemmed　in　upon　every　side.　Here　were　the　difficulties,　real　or　imagined—the　good　to　be　sought,　and　the　evil　to　be　shunned.　On　the　one　hand,　there　stood　slavery,　a　stern　reality,　glaring　frightfully　upon　us—its　robes　already　crimsoned　with　the　blood　of　millions,　and　even　now　feasting　itself　greedily　upon　our　own　flesh.　On　the　other　hand,　away　back　in　the　dim　distance,　under　the　flickering　light　of　the　north　star,　behind　some　craggy　hill　or　snowcovered　mountain,　stood　a　doubtful　freedom—half　frozen—beckoning　us　to　come　and　share　its　hospitality.　This　in　itself　was　sometimes　enough　to　stagger　us;　but　when　we　permitted　ourselves　to　survey　the　road,　we　were　frequently　appalled.　Upon　either　side　we　saw　grim　death,　assuming　the　most　horrid　shapes.　Now　it　was　starvation,　causing　us　to　eat　our　own　flesh;　now　we　were　contending　with　the　waves,　and　were　drowned;　now　we　were　overtaken,　and　torn　to　pieces　by　the　fangs　of　the　terrible　bloodhound.　We　were　stung　by　scorpions,　chased　by　wild　beasts,　bitten　by　snakes,　and　finally,　after　having　nearly　reached　the　desired　spot—after　swimming　rivers,　encountering　wild　beasts,　sleeping　in　the　woods,　suffering　hunger　and　nakedness—we　were　overtaken　by　our　pursuers,　and,　in　our　resistance,　we　were　shot　dead　upon　the　spot!　I　say,　this　picture　sometimes　appalled　us,　and　made　us

“rather　bear　those　ills　we　had,

Than　fly　to　others,　that　we　knew　not　of.”

In　coming　to　a　fixed　determination　to　run　away,　we　did　more　than　Patrick　Henry,　when　he　resolved　upon　liberty　or　death.　With　us　it　was　a　doubtful　liberty　at　most,　and　almost　certain　death　if　we　failed.　For　my　part,　I　should　prefer　death　to　hopeless　bondage.

Sandy,　one　of　our　number,　gave　up　the　notion,　but　still　encouraged　us.　Our　company　then　consisted　of　Henry　Harris,　John　Harris,　Henry　Bailey,　Charles　Roberts,　and　myself.　Henry　Bailey　was　my　uncle,　and　belonged　to　my　master.　Charles　married　my　aunt:　he　belonged　to　my　masters　fatherinlaw,　Mr.　William　Hamilton.

The　plan　we　finally　concluded　upon　was,　to　get　a　large　canoe　belonging　to　Mr.　Hamilton,　and　upon　the　Saturday　night　previous　to　Easter　holidays,　paddle　directly　up　the　Chesapeake　Bay.　On　our　arrival　at　the　head　of　the　bay,　a　distance　of　seventy　or　eighty　miles　from　where　we　lived,　it　was　our　purpose　to　turn　our　canoe　adrift,　and　follow　the　guidance　of　the　north　star　till　we　got　beyond　the　limits　of　Maryland.　Our　reason　for　taking　the　water　route　was,　that　we　were　less　liable　to　be　suspected　as　runaways;　we　hoped　to　be　regarded　as　fishermen;　whereas,　if　we　should　take　the　land　route,　we　should　be　subjected　to　interruptions　of　almost　every　kind.　Anyone　having　a　white　face,　and　being　so　disposed,　could　stop　us,　and　subject　us　to　examination.

The　week　before　our　intended　start,　I　wrote　several　protections,　one　for　each　of　us.　As　well　as　I　can　remember,　they　were　in　the　following　words,　to　wit:　—

“This　is　to　certify　that　I,　the　undersigned,　have　given　the　bearer,　my　servant,　full　liberty　to　go　to　Baltimore,　and　spend　the　Easter　holidays.　Written　with　mine　own　hand,　&c.,　1835.

William　Hamilton,

“Near　St.　Michaels,　in　Talbot　county,　Maryland.”

We　were　not　going　to　Baltimore;　but,　in　going　up　the　bay,　we　went　toward　Baltimore,　and　these　protections　were　only　intended　to　protect　us　while　on　the　bay.

As　the　time　drew　near　for　our　departure,　our　anxiety　became　more　and　more　intense.　It　was　truly　a　matter　of　life　and　death　with　us.　The　strength　of　our　determination　was　about　to　be　fully　tested.　At　this　time,　I　was　very　active　in　explaining　every　difficulty,　removing　every　doubt,　dispelling　every　fear,　and　inspiring　all　with　the　firmness　indispensable　to　success　in　our　undertaking;　assuring　them　that　half　was　gained　the　instant　we　made　the　move;　we　had　talked　long　enough;　we　were　now　ready　to　move;　if　not　now,　we　never　should　be;　and　if　we　did　not　intend　to　move　now,　we　had　as　well　fold　our　arms,　sit　down,　and　acknowledge　ourselves　fit　only　to　be　slaves.　This,　none　of　us　were　prepared　to　acknowledge.　Every　man　stood　firm;　and　at　our　last　meeting,　we　pledged　ourselves　afresh,　in　the　most　solemn　manner,　that,　at　the　time　appointed,　we　would　certainly　start　in　pursuit　of　freedom.　This　was　in　the　middle　of　the　week,　at　the　end　of　which　we　were　to　be　off.　We　went,　as　usual,　to　our　several　fields　of　labor,　but　with　bosoms　highly　agitated　with　thoughts　of　our　truly　hazardous　undertaking.　We　tried　to　conceal　our　feelings　as　much　as　possible;　and　I　think　we　succeeded　very　well.

After　a　painful　waiting,　the　Saturday　morning,　whose　night　was　to　witness　our　departure,　came.　I　hailed　it　with　joy,　bring　what　of　sadness　it　might.　Friday　night　was　a　sleepless　one　for　me.　I　probably　felt　more　anxious　than　the　rest,　because　I　was,　by　common　consent,　at　the　head　of　the　whole　affair.　The　responsibility　of　success　or　failure　lay　heavily　upon　me.　The　glory　of　the　one,　and　the　confusion　of　the　other,　were　alike　mine.　The　first　two　hours　of　that　morning　were　such　as　I　never　experienced　before,　and　hope　never　to　again.　Early　in　the　morning,　we　went,　as　usual,　to　the　field.　We　were　spreading　manure;　and　all　at　once,　while　thus　engaged,　I　was　overwhelmed　with　an　indescribable　feeling,　in　the　fulness　of　which　I　turned　to　Sandy,　who　was　nearby,　and　said,　“We　are　betrayed!”　“Well,”　said　he,　“that　thought　has　this　moment　struck　me.”　We　said　no　more.　I　was　never　more　certain　of　anything.

The　horn　was　blown　as　usual,　and　we　went　up　from　the　field　to　the　house　for　breakfast.　I　went　for　the　form,　more　than　for　want　of　anything　to　eat　that　morning.　Just　as　I　got　to　the　house,　in　looking　out　at　the　lane　gate,　I　saw　four　white　men,　with　two　colored　men.　The　white　men　were　on　horseback,　and　the　colored　ones　were　walking　behind,　as　if　tied.　I　watched　them　a　few　moments　till　they　got　up　to　our　lane　gate.　Here　they　halted,　and　tied　the　colored　men　to　the　gatepost.　I　was　not　yet　certain　as　to　what　the　matter　was.　In　a　few　moments,　in　rode　Mr.　Hamilton,　with　a　speed　betokening　great　excitement.　He　came　to　the　door,　and　inquired　if　Master　William　was　in.　He　was　told　he　was　at　the　barn.　Mr.　Hamilton,　without　dismounting,　rode　up　to　the　barn　with　extraordinary　speed.　In　a　few　moments,　he　and　Mr.　Freeland　returned　to　the　house.　By　this　time,　the　three　constables　rode　up,　and　in　great　haste　dismounted,　tied　their　horses,　and　met　Master　William　and　Mr.　Hamilton　returning　from　the　barn;　and　after　talking　awhile,　they　all　walked　up　to　the　kitchen　door.　There　was　no　one　in　the　kitchen　but　myself　and　John.　Henry　and　Sandy　were　up　at　the　barn.　Mr.　Freeland　put　his　head　in　at　the　door,　and　called　me　by　name,　saying,　there　were　some　gentlemen　at　the　door　who　wished　to　see　me.　I　stepped　to　the　door,　and　inquired　what　they　wanted.　They　at　once　seized　me,　and,　without　giving　me　any　satisfaction,　tied　me—lashing　my　hands　closely　together.　I　insisted　upon　knowing　what　the　matter　was.　They　at　length　said,　that　they　had　learned　I　had　been　in　a　“scrape,”　and　that　I　was　to　be　examined　before　my　master;　and　if　their　information　proved　false,　I　should　not　be　hurt.

In　a　few　moments,　they　succeeded　in　tying　John.　They　then　turned　to　Henry,　who　had　by　this　time　returned,　and　commanded　him　to　cross　his　hands.　“I　wont!”　said　Henry,　in　a　firm　tone,　indicating　his　readiness　to　meet　the　consequences　of　his　refusal.　“Wont　you?”　said　Tom　Graham,　the　constable.　“No,　I　wont!”　said　Henry,　in　a　still　stronger　tone.　With　this,　two　of　the　constables　pulled　out　their　shining　pistols,　and　swore,　by　their　Creator,　that　they　would　make　him　cross　his　hands　or　kill　him.　Each　cocked　his　pistol,　and,　with　fingers　on　the　trigger,　walked　up　to　Henry,　saying,　at　the　same　time,　if　he　did　not　cross　his　hands,　they　would　blow　his　damned　heart　out.　“Shoot　me,　shoot　me!”　said　Henry;　“you　cant　kill　me　but　once.　Shoot,　shoot—and　be　damned!　I　wont　be　tied!”　This　he　said　in　a　tone　of　loud　defiance;　and　at　the　same　time,　with　a　motion　as　quick　as　lightning,　he　with　one　single　stroke　dashed　the　pistols　from　the　hand　of　each　constable.　As　he　did　this,　all　hands　fell　upon　him,　and,　after　beating　him　some　time,　they　finally　overpowered　him,　and　got　him　tied.

During　the　scuffle,　I　managed,　I　know　not　how,　to　get　my　pass　out,　and,　without　being　discovered,　put　it　into　the　fire.　We　were　all　now　tied;　and　just　as　we　were　to　leave　for　Easton　jail,　Betsy　Freeland,　mother　of　William　Freeland,　came　to　the　door　with　her　hands　full　of　biscuits,　and　divided　them　between　Henry　and　John.　She　then　delivered　herself　of　a　speech,　to　the　following　effect:　—addressing　herself　to　me,　she　said,　“You　devil!　You　yellow　devil!　it　was　you　that　put　it　into　the　heads　of　Henry　and　John　to　run　away.　But　for　you,　you　longlegged　mulatto　devil!　Henry　nor　John　would　never　have　thought　of　such　a　thing.”　I　made　no　reply,　and　was　immediately　hurried　off　towards　St.　Michaels.　Just　a　moment　previous　to　the　scuffle　with　Henry,　Mr.　Hamilton　suggested　the　propriety　of　making　a　search　for　the　protections　which　he　had　understood　Frederick　had　written　for　himself　and　the　rest.　But,　just　at　the　moment　he　was　about　carrying　his　proposal　into　effect,　his　aid　was　needed　in　helping　to　tie　Henry;　and　the　excitement　attending　the　scuffle　caused　them　either　to　forget,　or　to　deem　it　unsafe,　under　the　circumstances,　to　search.　So　we　were　not　yet　convicted　of　the　intention　to　run　away.

When　we　got　about　half　way　to　St.　Michaels,　while　the　constables　having　us　in　charge　were　looking　ahead,　Henry　inquired　of　me　what　he　should　do　with　his　pass.　I　told　him　to　eat　it　with　his　biscuit,　and　own　nothing;　and　we　passed　the　word　around,　“Own　nothing;”　and　“Own　nothing

!”　said　we　all.　Our　confidence　in　each　other　was　unshaken.　We　were　resolved　to　succeed　or　fail　together,　after　the　calamity　had　befallen　us　as　much　as　before.　We　were　now　prepared　for　anything.　We　were　to　be　dragged　that　morning　fifteen　miles　behind　horses,　and　then　to　be　placed　in　the　Easton　jail.　When　we　reached　St.　Michaels,　we　underwent　a　sort　of　examination.　We　all　denied　that　we　ever　intended　to　run　away.　We　did　this　more　to　bring　out　the　evidence　against　us,　than　from　any　hope　of　getting　clear　of　being　sold;　for,　as　I　have　said,　we　were　ready　for　that.　The　fact　was,　we　cared　but　little　where　we　went,　so　we　went　together.　Our　greatest　concern　was　about　separation.　We　dreaded　that　more　than　anything　this　side　of　death.　We　found　the　evidence　against　us　to　be　the　testimony　of　one　person;　our　master　would　not　tell　who　it　was;　but　we　came　to　a　unanimous　decision　among　ourselves　as　to　who　their　informant　was.　We　were　sent　off　to　the　jail　at　Easton.　When　we　got　there,　we　were　delivered　up　to　the　sheriff,　Mr.　Joseph　Graham,　and　by　him　placed　in　jail.　Henry,　John,　and　myself,　were　placed　in　one　room　together—Charles,　and　Henry　Bailey,　in　another.　Their　object　in　separating　us　was　to　hinder　concert.

We　had　been　in　jail　scarcely　twenty　minutes,　when　a　swarm　of　slave　traders,　and　agents　for　slave　traders,　flocked　into　jail　to　look　at　us,　and　to　ascertain　if　we　were　for　sale.　Such　a　set　of　beings　I　never　saw　before!　I　felt　myself　surrounded　by　so　many　fiends　from　perdition.　A　band　of　pirates　never　looked　more　like　their　father,　the　devil.　They　laughed　and　grinned　over　us,　saying,“Ah,　my　boys!　we　have　got　you,　havent　we?”　And　after　taunting　us　in　various　ways,　they　one　by　one　went　into　an　examination　of　us,　with　intent　to　ascertain　our　value.　They　would　impudently　ask　us　if　we　would　not　like　to　have　them　for　our　masters.　We　would　make　them　no　answer,　and　leave　them　to　find　out　as　best　they　could.　Then　they　would　curse　and　swear　at　us,　telling　us　that　they　could　take　the　devil　out　of　us　in　a　very　little　while,　if　we　were　only　in　their　hands.

While　in　jail,　we　found　ourselves　in　much　more　comfortable　quarters　than　we　expected　when　we　went　there.　We　did　not　get　much　to　eat,　nor　that　which　was　very　good;　but　we　had　a　good　clean　room,　from　the　windows　of　which　we　could　see　what　was　going　on　in　the　street,　which　was　very　much　better　than　though　we　had　been　placed　in　one　of　the　dark,　damp　cells.　Upon　the　whole,　we　got　along　very　well,　so　far　as　the　jail　and　its　keeper　were　concerned.　Immediately　after　the　holidays　were　over,　contrary　to　all　our　expectations,　Mr.　Hamilton　and　Mr.　Freeland　came　up　to　Easton,　and　took　Charles,　the　two　Henrys,　and　John,　out　of　jail,　and　carried　them　home,　leaving　me　alone.　I　regarded　this　separation　as　a　final　one.　It　caused　me　more　pain　than　anything　else　in　the　whole　transaction.　I　was　ready　for　anything　rather　than　separation.　I　supposed　that　they　had　consulted　together,　and　had　decided　that,　as　I　was　the　whole　cause　of　the　intention　of　the　others　to　run　away,　it　was　hard　to　make　the　innocent　suffer　with　the　guilty;　and　that　they　had,　therefore,　concluded　to　take　the　others　home,　and　sell　me,　as　a　warning　to　the　others　that　remained.　It　is　due　to　the　noble　Henry　to　say,　he　seemed　almost　as　reluctant　at　leaving　the　prison　as　at　leaving　home　to　come　to　the　prison.　But　we　knew　we　should,　in　all　probability,　be　separated,　if　we　were　sold;　and　since　he　was　in　their　hands,　he　concluded　to　go　peaceably　home.

I　was　now　left　to　my　fate.　I　was　all　alone,　and　within　the　walls　of　a　stone　prison.　But　a　few　days　before,　and　I　was　full　of　hope.　I　expected　to　have　been　safe　in　a　land　of　freedom;　but　now　I　was　covered　with　gloom,　sunk　down　to　the　utmost　despair.　I　thought　the　possibility　of　freedom　was　gone.　I　was　kept　in　this　way　about　one　week,　at　the　end　of　which,　Captain　Auld,　my　master,　to　my　surprise　and　utter　astonishment,　came　up,　and　took　me　out,　with　the　intention　of　sending　me,　with　a　gentleman　of　his　acquaintance,　into　Alabama.　But,　from　some　cause　or　other,　he　did　not　send　me　to　Alabama,　but　concluded　to　send　me　back　to　Baltimore,　to　live　again　with　his　brother　Hugh,　and　to　learn　a　trade.

Questions　for　Discussion

1.　How　does　Frederick　Douglass　describe　his　early　life　in　the　Narrative?

2.　What　insights　do　we　gain　from　the　Narrative　into　the　life　of　a　typical　slave?

3.　How　does　Frederick　Douglass　understand　his　identity　as　a　male　slave?

4.　What　is　Frederick　Douglasss　attitude　towards　Christianity　and　its　members?

5.　How　to　change　from　a　man　to　a　slave　and　a　slave　to　a　man?

3.　Incidents　in　the　Life　of　a　Slave　Girl

作者简介

1813年，哈丽雅特·雅各布斯（Harriet　Jacobs）（1813—1897）出生于北卡罗来纳州的伊登顿镇，与同为奴隶的父亲、母亲和奶奶生活在一起。奶奶曾是北卡罗来纳州种植园里的一名农耕者，在独立战争期间被送往北方，并获得自由，但后来却阴差阳错地再次为奴，被送回南方。在伊登顿镇，她是一名备办宴席者，有些积蓄，镇上的居民对她充满敬意。

雅各布斯和哥哥约翰年幼时，父母均去世。1819年母亲死后，她住在好心的女奴隶主玛格丽特·霍尼布洛家，玛格丽特去世后，她成为其年幼的侄女——詹姆斯·诺康博士的女儿——的财产。13岁时，雅各布斯爱上一名黑人木匠，但遭到诺康的反对，为了摆脱好色的诺康肆无忌惮的骚扰，雅各布斯同意未婚律师萨缪尔·索耶的求爱，很快怀孕，被赶出家门，被迫和奶奶住在一起。

1829年和1833年雅各布斯和索耶生下儿子约瑟夫和女儿路易莎。因局势动荡，南方对奴隶的控制加强，她试图带着儿女逃走。1842年雅各布斯成功逃往纽约，在利顺德饭店为知名废奴人士纳撒尼尔·威利斯工作，成为一名住家婴儿保姆。

即便身在纽约，雅各布斯也没有安全感，感到被人“追捕”，特别是1850年国会通过《逃奴法案》后更是如此，直到1852年纳撒尼尔·威利斯的第二任妻子赎买了她的自由。雅各布斯在为威利斯一家工作时，偷偷撰写自己的回忆录，1861年，她用笔名琳达·布伦特出版了回忆录《女奴生平》，不过没有引起很大反响。

1862年，雅各布斯搬到华盛顿特区，1863年与女儿团聚。她们以贵格会教徒的身份，救助那些逃离奴隶制或者战争的黑人。1865年和1867年，雅各布斯返回伊登顿镇，救济穷人，她也到过非洲的萨瓦纳和英格兰等地。随着南方重建的结束，她和女儿返回北方，经营一家为哈佛师生提供膳食和住宿的公司。雅各布斯卒于1897年3月7日，享年84岁，墓碑上刻着：为了上帝，忍受苦难，充满热情。

作品简介与赏析

雅各布斯的《女奴生平》与道格拉斯的《自述》（1845）一样享有盛誉，曾被误认为是编辑蔡尔德所著，直到20世纪70年代，才由让·耶林研究确认，发现它并非虚构，确实为雅各布斯本人所写。

雅各布斯在《女奴生平》中采取19世纪十分流行的言情小说笔调，描述女主人公与社会力量的对抗；这部作品中的女奴渴望过上有德行的生活，却在幼年就意识到女奴生活的艰难和辛酸；她与没有婚姻关系的男人生下两个小孩也属无奈的选择，因而恳请读者，不要把她与自由女性放置在同一道德框架里进行评判。

雅各布斯的《女奴生平》对1831年特纳领导的黑人起义，以及1850年通过的《逃奴法案》都有提及，揭露了北方一些人的虚伪，认为他们和某些南方人一样偏执，带着种族歧视的目光。她渴望能为那些被剥夺公民权的阶层发声，见证人性中黑暗的一面；为受奴役的姐妹呐喊，呼吁北方女性认识奴隶制的罪恶，并予以批判。

《女奴生平》不仅揭露了蓄奴制的丑恶，也探讨了黑人女性的身份构建问题。即便黑人女性积极参与废奴运动，但是她们的声音或被忽视、或流于伤感、或被轻描淡写一带而过，成为废奴文本的附属品。约翰尼·斯托弗认为，19世纪黑人女性传记作品利用她们独特的声音，在力图否定非洲女性身份的美国文化中诠释她们的不幸遭遇，利用自传体叙事模式，对企图把她们边缘化的文学、社会和政治体制进行无情的抨击。

雅各布斯在《女奴生平》中采用了多种叙事技巧：言情小说的感伤笔调，黑人方言的大量使用和“狡黠的抗争策略”。通过展示谦卑且贞洁的自我形象，渲染母亲和孩子之间的亲情纽带，她力图唤起白人女性的同情；此外，雅各布斯利用黑人方言，尝试重塑主流社会话语，从而达到误导、戏弄压迫者的目的；另外，雅各布斯通过“狡黠的抵抗”策略，使用“隐蔽、狡诈、犹豫、保密、沉默、喃喃自语、窃窃私语和视觉转换等手段”，发表自己的见解，激发读者的情感体验。

和其他男性作者的奴隶叙事相比，《女奴生平》的艺术特点比较鲜明。首先，雅各布斯借助故事叙述者——琳达·布伦特的口吻直接和北方白人女性对话，呼吁她们加入废奴运动中来；其次，雅各布斯以一个基督徒的身份讲述自己的遭遇，因此共同的基督价值观增强了作者和读者之间的联系纽带，从某种程度上来说，《女奴生平》和《汤姆叔叔的小屋》颇为相似；最后，《女奴生平》聚焦主人公布伦特如何依靠黑人家庭、血亲关系和族群力量争取自由解放，这与男性作者的奴隶叙事，比如道格拉斯的《自述》相比差异很大，后者往往渲染男性黑奴孤独而英勇的抗争历程。

总之，自传文体是黑人妇女保持自己个人和文化记忆的方式，同时也对贬低她们的社会政治、经济和文学体制进行挑战。

Preface　by　the　Author

READER,　be　assured　this　narrative　is　no　fiction.　I　am　aware　that　some　of　my　adventures　may　seem　incredible;　but　they　are,　nevertheless,　strictly　true.　I　have　not　exaggerated　the　wrongs　inflicted　by　Slavery;　on　the　contrary,　my　descriptions　fall　far　short　of　the　facts.　I　have　concealed　the　names　of　places,　and　given　persons　fictitious　names.　I　had　no　motive　for　secrecy　on　my　own　account,　but　I　deemed　it　kind　and　considerate　towards　others　to　pursue　this　course.

I　wish　I　were　more　competent　to　the　task　I　have　undertaken.　But　I　trust　my　readers　will　excuse　deficiencies　in　consideration　of　circumstances.　I　was　born　and　reared　in　Slavery;　and　I　remained　in　a　Slave　State　twentyseven　years.　Since　I　have　been　in　the　North,　it　has　been　necessary　for　me　to　work　diligently　for　my　own　support,　and　the　education　of　my　children.　This　has　not　left　me　much　leisure　to　make　up　for　the　loss　of　early　opportunities　to　improve　myself;　and　it　has　compelled　me　to　write　these　pages　at　irregular　intervals,　whenever　I　could　snatch　an　hour　from　household　duties.

When　I　first　arrived　in　Philadelphia,　Bishop　Paine1　advised　me　to　publish　a　sketch　of　my　life,　but　I　told　him　I　was　altogether　incompetent　to　complete　such　an　undertaking.　Though　I　have　improved　my　mind　somewhat　since　that　time,　I　still　remain　of　the　same　opinion;　but　I　trust　my　motives　will　excuse　what　might　otherwise　seem　presumptuous.　I　have　not　written　my　experiences　in　order　to　attract　attention　to　myself;　on　the　contrary,　it　would　have　been　more　pleasant　to　me　to　have　been　silent　about　my　own　history.　Neither　do　I　care　to　excite　sympathy　for　my　own　sufferings.　But　I　do　earnestly　desire　to　arouse　the　women　of　the　North　to　a　realizing　sense　of　the　condition　of　two　millions　of　women　in　the　South,　still　in　bondage,　suffering　what　I　suffered,　and　most　of　them　far　worse.　I　want　to　add　my　testimony　to　that　of　abler　pens　to　convince　the　people　of　the　Free　States　what　Slavery　really　is.　Only　by　experience　can　anyone　realize　how　deep,　and　dark,　and　foul　is　that　pit　of　abominations.　May　the　blessing　of　God　rest　on　this　imperfect　effort　in　behalf　of　my　persecuted　people!

Linda　Brent

Introduction　by　the　Editor

THE　author　of　the　following　autobiography　is　personally　known　to　me,　and　her　conversation　and　manners　inspire　me　with　confidence.　During　the　last　seventeen　years,　she　has　lived　the　greater　part　of　the　time　with　a　distinguished　family　in　New　York,　and　has　so　deported　herself　as　to　be　highly　esteemed　by　them.　This　fact　is　sufficient,　without　further　credentials　of　her　character.　I　believe　those　who　know　her　will　not　be　disposed　to　doubt　her　veracity,　though　some　incidents　in　her　story　are　more　romantic　than　fiction.

At　her　request,　I　have　revised　her　manuscript;　but　such　changes　as　I　have　made　have　been　mainly　for　purposes　of　condensation　and　orderly　arrangement.　I　have　not　added　anything　to　the　incidents,　or　changed　the　import　of　her　very　pertinent　remarks.　With　trifling　exceptions,　both　the　ideas　and　the　language　are　her　own.　I　pruned　excrescences　a　little,　but　otherwise　I　had　no　reason　for　changing　her　lively　and　dramatic　way　of　telling　her　own　story.　The　names　of　both　persons　and　places　are　known　to　me;　but　for　good　reasons　I　suppress　them.

It　will　naturally　excite　surprise　that　a　woman　reared　in　Slavery　should　be　able　to　write　so　well.　But　circumstances　will　explain　this.　In　the　first　place,　nature　endowed　her　with　quick　perceptions.　Secondly,　the　mistress,　with　whom　she　lived　till　she　was　twelve　years　old,　was　a　kind,　considerate　friend,　who　taught　her　to　read　and　spell.　Thirdly,　she　was　placed　in　favorable　circumstances　after　she　came　to　the　North;　having　frequent　intercourse　with　intelligent　persons,　who　felt　a　friendly　interest　in　her　welfare,　and　were　disposed　to　give　her　opportunities　for　selfimprovement.

I　am　well　aware　that　many　will　accuse　me　of　indecorum　for　presenting　these　pages　to　the　public;　for　the　experiences　of　this　intelligent　and　muchinjured　woman　belong　to　a　class　which　some　call　delicate　subjects,　and　others　indelicate.　This　peculiar　phase　of　Slavery　has　generally　been　kept　veiled;　but　the　public　ought　to　be　made　acquainted　with　its　monstrous　features,　and　I　willingly　take　the　responsibility　of　presenting　them　with　the　veil　withdrawn.　I　do　this　for　the　sake　of　my　sisters　in　bondage,　who　are　suffering　wrongs　so　foul,　that　our　ears　are　too　delicate　to　listen　to　them.　I　do　it　with　the　hope　of　arousing　conscientious　and　reflecting　women　in　the　North　to　a　sense　of　their　duty　in　the　exertion　of　moral　influence　on　the　question　of　Slavery,　on　all　possible　occasions.　I　do　it　with　the　hope　that　every　man　who　reads　this　narrative　will　swear　solemnly　before　God　that,　so　far　as　he　has　power　to　prevent　it,　no　fugitive　from　Slavery　shall　ever　be　sent　back　to　suffer　in　that　loathsome　den　of　corruption　and　cruelty.

L.　Maria　Child

Incidents　in　the　Life　of　a　Slave　Girl,　Seven　Years　Concealed

Chapter　1

Childhood

I　was　born　a　slave;　but　I　never　knew　it　till　six　years　of　happy　childhood　had　passed　away.　My　father　was　a　carpenter,　and　considered　so　intelligent　and　skilful　in　his　trade,　that,　when　buildings　out　of　the　common　line　were　to　be　erected,　he　was　sent　for　from　long　distances,　to　be　head　workman.　On　condition　of　paying　his　mistress　two　hundred　dollars　a　year,　and　supporting　himself,　he　was　allowed　to　work　at　his　trade,　and　manage　his　own　affairs.　His　strongest　wish　was　to　purchase　his　children;　but,　though　he　several　times　offered　his　hard　earnings　for　that　purpose,　he　never　succeeded.　In　complexion　my　parents　were　a　light　shade　of　brownish　yellow,　and　were　termed　mulattoes.　They　lived　together　in　a　comfortable　home;　and,　though　we　were　all　slaves,　I　was　so　fondly　shielded　that　I　never　dreamed　I　was　a　piece　of　merchandise,　trusted　to　them　for　safe　keeping,　and　liable　to　be　demanded　of　them　at　any　moment.　I　had　one　brother,　William,　who　was　two　years　younger　than　myself—a　bright,　affectionate　child.　I　had　also　a　great　treasure　in　my　maternal　grandmother,　who　was　a　remarkable　woman　in　many　respects.　She　was　the　daughter　of　a　planter　in　South　Carolina,　who,　at　his　death,　left　her　mother　and　his　three　children　free,　with　money　to　go　to　St.　Augustine,　where　they　had　relatives.　It　was　during　the　Revolutionary　War;　and　they　were　captured　on　their　passage,　carried　back,　and　sold　to　different　purchasers.　Such　was　the　story　my　grandmother　used　to　tell　me;　but　I　do　not　remember　all　the　particulars.　She　was　a　little　girl　when　she　was　captured　and　sold　to　the　keeper　of　a　large　hotel.　I　have　often　heard　her　tell　how　hard　she　fared　during　childhood.　But　as　she　grew　older　she　evinced　so　much　intelligence,　and　was　so　faithful,　that　her　master　and　mistress　could　not　help　seeing　it　was　for　their　interest　to　take　care　of　such　a　valuable　piece　of　property.　She　became　an　indispensable　personage　in　the　household,　officiating　in　all　capacities,　from　cook　and　wet　nurse　to　seamstress.　She　was　much　praised　for　her　cooking;　and　her　nice　crackers　became　so　famous　in　the　neighborhood　that　many　people　were　desirous　of　obtaining　them.　In　consequence　of　numerous　requests　of　this　kind,　she　asked　permission　of　her　mistress　to　bake　crackers　at　night,　after　all　the　household　work　was　done;　and　she　obtained　leave　to　do　it,　provided　she　would　clothe　herself　and　her　children　from　the　profits.　Upon　these　terms,　after　working　hard　all　day　for　her　mistress,　she　began　her　midnight　bakings　assisted　by　her　two　oldest　children.　The　business　proved　profitable;　and　each　year　she　laid　by　a　little,　which　was　saved　for　a　fund　to　purchase　her　children.　Her　master　died,　and　the　property　was　divided　among　his　heirs.　The　widow　had　her　dower　in　the　hotel,　which　she　continued　to　keep　open.　My　grandmother　remained　in　her　service　as　a　slave;　but　her　children　were　divided　among　her　masters　children.　As　she　had　five,　Benjamin,　the　youngest　one,　was　sold,　in　order　that　each　heir　might　have　an　equal　portion　of　dollars　and　cents.　There　was　so　little　difference　in　our　ages　that　he　seemed　more　like　my　brother　than　my　uncle.　He　was　a　bright,　handsome　lad,　nearly　white;　for　he　inherited　the　complexion　my　grandmother　had　derived　from　AngloSaxon　ancestors.　Though　only　ten　years　old,　seven　hundred　and　twenty　dollars　were　paid　for　him.　His　sale　was　a　terrible　blow　to　my　grandmother;　but　she　was　naturally　hopeful,　and　she　went　to　work　with　renewed　energy,　trusting　in　time　to　be　able　to　purchase　some　of　her　children.　She　had　laid　up　three　hundred　dollars,　which　her　mistress　one　day　begged　as　a　loan,　promising　to　pay　her　soon.　The　reader　probably　knows　that　no　promise　or　writing　given　to　a　slave　is　legally　binding;　for,　according　to　Southern　laws,　a　slave,　being　property,　can　hold　no　property.　When　my　grandmother　lent　her　hard　earnings　to　her　mistress,　she　trusted　solely　to　her　honor.　The　honor　of　a　slaveholder　to　a　slave!

To　this　good　grandmother　I　was　indebted　for　many　comforts.　My　brother　Willie　and　I　often　received　portions　of　the　crackers,　cakes,　and　preserves　she　made　to　sell;　and　after　we　ceased　to　be　children　we　were　indebted　to　her　for　many　more　important　services.

Such　were　the　unusually　fortunate　circumstances　of　my　early　childhood.　When　I　was　six　years　old,　my　mother　died;　and　then,　for　the　first　time,　I　learned,　by　the　talk　around　me,　that　I　was　a　slave.　My　mothers　mistress　was　the　daughter　of　my　grandmothers　mistress.　She　was　the　foster　sister　of　my　mother;　they　were　both　nourished　at　my　grandmothers　breast.　In　fact,　my　mother　had　been　weaned　at　three　months　old,　that　the　babe　of　the　mistress　might　obtain　sufficient　food.　They　played　together　as　children;　and,　when　they　became　women,　my　mother　was　a　most　faithful　servant　to　her　whiter　foster　sister.　On　her　deathbed　her　mistress　promised　that　her　children　should　never　suffer　for　anything;and　during　her　lifetime　she　kept　her　word.　They　all　spoke　kindly　of　my　dead　mother,　who　had　been　a　slave　merely　in　name,　but　in　nature　was　noble　and　womanly.　I　grieved　for　her,　and　my　young　mind　was　troubled　with　the　thought　of　who　would　now　take　care　of　me　and　my　little　brother.　I　was　told　that　my　home　was　now　to　be　with　her　mistress;　and　I　found　it　a　happy　one.　No　toilsome　or　disagreeable　duties　were　imposed　upon　me.　My　mistress　was　so　kind　to　me　that　I　was　always　glad　to　do　her　bidding,　and　proud　to　labor　for　her　as　much　as　my　young　years　would　permit.　I　would　sit　by　her　side　for　hours,　sewing　diligently,　with　a　heart　as　free　from　care　as　that　of　any　freeborn　white　child.　When　she　thought　I　was　tired,　she　would　send　me　out　to　run　and　jump;　and　away　I　bounded,　to　gather　berries　or　flowers　to　decorate　her　room.　Those　were　happy　days—too　happy　to　last.　The　slave　child　had　no　thought　for　the　morrow;　but　there　came　that　blight,　which　too　surely　waits　on　every　human　being　born　to　be　a　chattel.

When　I　was　nearly　twelve　years　old,　my　kind　mistress　sickened　and　died.　As　I　saw　the　cheek　grow　paler,　and　the　eye　more　glassy,　how　earnestly　I　prayed　in　my　heart　that　she　might　live!　I　loved　her;　for　she　had　been　almost　like　a　mother　to　me.　My　prayers　were　not　answered.　She　died,　and　they　buried　her　in　the　little　churchyard,　where,　day　after　day,　my　tears　fell　upon　her　grave.

I　was　sent　to　spend　a　week　with　my　grandmother.　I　was　now　old　enough　to　begin　to　think　of　the　future;　and　again　and　again　I　asked　myself　what　they　would　do　with　me.　I　felt　sure　I　should　never　find　another　mistress　so　kind　as　the　one　who　was　gone.　She　had　promised　my　dying　mother　that　her　children　should　never　suffer　for　anything;　and　when　I　remembered　that,　and　recalled　her　many　proofs　of　attachment　to　me,　I　could　not　help　having　some　hopes　that　she　had　left　me　free.　My　friends　were　almost　certain　it　would　be　so.　They　thought　she　would　be　sure　to　do　it,　on　account　of　my　mothers　love　and　faithful　service.　But,　alas!　we　all　know　that　the　memory　of　a　faithful　slave　does　not　avail　much　to　save　her　children　from　the　auction　block.

After　a　brief　period　of　suspense,　the　will　of　my　mistress　was　read,　and　we　learned　that　she　had　bequeathed　me　to　her　sisters　daughter,　a　child　of　five　years　old.　So　vanished　our　hopes.　My　mistress　had　taught　me　the　precepts　of　Gods　Word:　“Thou　shalt　love　thy　neighbor　as　thyself.”Thou　shalt　love　thy　neighbor　as　thyself:　爱人如己。　“Whatsoever　ye　would　that　men　should　do　unto　you,　do　ye　even　so　unto　them.”　But　I　was　her　slave,　and　I　suppose　she　did　not　recognize　me　as　her　neighbor.　I　would　give　much　to　blot　out　from　my　memory　that　one　great　wrong.　As　a　child,　I　loved　my　mistress;　and,　looking　back　on　the　happy　days　I　spent　with　her,　I　try　to　think　with　less　bitterness　of　this　act　of　injustice.　While　I　was　with　her,　she　taught　me　to　read　and　spell;　and　for　this　privilege,　which　so　rarely　falls　to　the　lot　of　a　slave,　I　bless　her　memory.

She　possessed　but　few　slaves;　and　at　her　death　those　were　all　distributed　among　her　relatives.　Five　of　them　were　my　grandmothers　children,　and　had　shared　the　same　milk　that　nourished　her　mothers　children.　Notwithstanding　my　grandmothers　long　and　faithful　service　to　her　owners,　not　one　of　her　children　escaped　the　auction　block.　These　Godbreathing　machines　are　no　more,　in　the　sight　of　their　masters,　than　the　cotton　they　plant,　or　the　horses　they　tend.

Chapter　2

The　New　Master　and　Mistress

Dr.　Flint,　a　physician　in　the　neighborhood,　had　married　the　sister　of　my　mistress,　and　I　was　now　the　property　of　their　little　daughter.　It　was　not　without　murmuring　that　I　prepared　for　my　new　home;　and　what　added　to　my　unhappiness,　was　the　fact　that　my　brother　William　was　purchased　by　the　same　family.　My　father,　by　his　nature,　as　well　as　by　the　habit　of　transacting　business　as　a　skilful　mechanic,　had　more　of　the　feelings　of　a　freeman　than　is　common　among　slaves.　My　brother　was　a　spirited　boy;　and　being　brought　up　under　such　influences,　he　early　detested　the　name　of　master　and　mistress.　One　day,　when　his　father　and　his　mistress　both　happened　to　call　him　at　the　same　time,　he　hesitated　between　the　two;　being　perplexed　to　know　which　had　the　strongest　claim　upon　his　obedience.　He　finally　concluded　to　go　to　his　mistress.　When　my　father　reproved　him　for　it,　he　said,　“You　both　called　me,　and　I　didnt　know　which　I　ought　to　go　to　first.”

“You　are　my　child,”　replied　our　father,　“and　when　I　call　you,　you　should　come　immediately,　if　you　have　to　pass　through　fire　and　water.”

Poor　Willie!　He　was　now　to　learn　his　first　lesson　of　obedience　to　a　master.　Grandmother　tried　to　cheer　us　with　hopeful　words,　and　they　found　an　echo　in　the　credulous　hearts　of　youth.

When　we　entered　our　new　home　we　encountered　cold　looks,　cold　words,　and　cold　treatment.　We　were　glad　when　the　night　came.　On　my　narrow　bed　I　moaned　and　wept,　I　felt　so　desolate　and　alone.

I　had　been　there　nearly　a　year,　when　a　dear　little　friend　of　mine　was　buried.　I　heard　her　mother　sob,　as　the　clods　fell　on　the　coffin　of　her　only　child,　and　I　turned　away　from　the　grave,　feeling　thankful　that　I　still　had　something　left　to　love.　I　met　my　grandmother,　who　said,　“Come　with　me,　Linda;”　and　from　her　tone　I　knew　that　something　sad　had　happened.　She　led　me　apart　from　the　people,　and　then　said,　“My　child,　your　father　is　dead.”　Dead!　How　could　I　believe　it?　He　had　died　so　suddenly　I　had　not　even　heard　that　he　was　sick.　I　went　home　with　my　grandmother.　My　heart　rebelled　against　God,　who　had　taken　from　me　mother,　father,　mistress,　and　friend.　The　good　grandmother　tried　to　comfort　me.　“Who　knows　the　ways　of　God?”　said　she.　“Perhaps　they　have　been　kindly　taken　from　the　evil　days　to　come.”　Years　afterwards　I　often　thought　of　this.　She　promised　to　be　a　mother　to　her　grandchildren,　so　far　as　she　might　be　permitted　to　do　so;　and　strengthened　by　her　love,　I　returned　to　my　masters.　I　thought　I　should　be　allowed　to　go　to　my　fathers　house　the　next　morning;　but　I　was　ordered　to　go　for　flowers,　that　my　mistresss　house　might　be　decorated　for　an　evening　party.　I　spent　the　day　gathering　flowers　and　weaving　them　into　festoons,　while　the　dead　body　of　my　father　was　lying　within　a　mile　of　me.　What　cared　my　owners　for　that?　he　was　merely　a　piece　of　property.　Moreover,　they　thought　he　had　spoiled　his　children,　by　teaching　them　to　feel　that　they　were　human　beings.　This　was　blasphemous　doctrine　for　a　slave　to　teach;　presumptuous　in　him,　and　dangerous　to　the　masters.

The　next　day　I　followed　his　remains　to　a　humble　grave　beside　that　of　my　dear　mother.　There　were　those　who　knew　my　fathers　worth,　and　respected　his　memory.

My　home　now　seemed　more　dreary　than　ever.　The　laugh　of　the　little　slavechildren　sounded　harsh　and　cruel.　It　was　selfish　to　feel　so　about　the　joy　of　others.　My　brother　moved　about　with　a　very　grave　face.　I　tried　to　comfort　him,　by　saying,　“Take　courage,　Willie;　brighter　days　will　come　by　and　by.”

“You　dont　know　anything　about　it,　Linda,”　he　replied.　“We　shall　have　to　stay　here　all　our　days;　we　shall　never　be　free.”

I　argued　that　we　were　growing　older　and　stronger,　and　that　perhaps　we　might,　before　long,　be　allowed　to　hire　our　own　time,　and　then　we　could　earn　money　to　buy　our　freedom.　William　declared　this　was　much　easier　to　say　than　to　do;　moreover,　he　did　not　intend　to　buy　his　freedom.　We　held　daily　controversies　upon　this　subject.

Little　attention　was　paid　to　the　slaves　meals　in　Dr.　Flints　house.　If　they　could　catch　a　bit　of　food　while　it　was　going,　well　and　good.　I　gave　myself　no　trouble　on　that　score,　for　on　my　various　errands　I　passed　my　grandmothers　house,　where　there　was　always　something　to　spare　for　me.　I　was　frequently　threatened　with　punishment　if　I　stopped　there;　and　my　grandmother,　to　avoid　detaining　me,　often　stood　at　the　gate　with　something　for　my　breakfast　or　dinner.　I　was　indebted　to　her　for　all　my　comforts,　spiritual　or　temporal.　It　was　her　labor　that　supplied　my　scanty　wardrobe.　I　have　a　vivid　recollection　of　the　linseywoolsey　dress　given　me　every　winter　by　Mrs.　Flint.　How　I　hated　it!　It　was　one　of　the　badges　of　slavery.

While　my　grandmother　was　thus　helping　to　support　me　from　her　hard　earnings,　the　three　hundred　dollars　she　had　lent　her　mistress　were　never　repaid.　When　her　mistress　died,　her　soninlaw,　Dr.　Flint,　was　appointed　executor.　When　grandmother　applied　to　him　for　payment,　he　said　the　estate　was　insolvent,　and　the　law　prohibited　payment.　It　did　not,　however,　prohibit　him　from　retaining　the　silver　candelabra,　which　had　been　purchased　with　that　money.　I　presume　they　will　be　handed　down　in　the　family,　from　generation　to　generation.

My　grandmothers　mistress　had　always　promised　her　that,　at　her　death,　she　should　be　free;　and　it　was　said　that　in　her　will　she　made　good　the　promise.　But　when　the　estate　was　settled,　Dr.　Flint　told　the　faithful　old　servant　that,　under　existing　circumstances,　it　was　necessary　she　should　be　sold.

On　the　appointed　day,　the　customary　advertisement　was　posted　up,　proclaiming　that　there　would　be　a　“public　sale　of　negroes,　horses,　&c.”　Dr.　Flint　called　to　tell　my　grandmother　that　he　was　unwilling　to　wound　her　feelings　by　putting　her　up　at　auction,　and　that　he　would　prefer　to　dispose　of　her　at　private　sale.　My　grandmother　saw　through　his　hypocrisy;　she　understood　very　well　that　he　was　ashamed　of　the　job.　She　was　a　very　spirited　woman,　and　if　he　was　base　enough　to　sell　her,　when　her　mistress　intended　she　should　be　free,　she　was　determined　the　public　should　know　it.　She　had　for　a　long　time　supplied　many　families　with　crackers　and　preserves;　consequently,　“Aunt　Marthy,”　as　she　was　called,　was　generally　known,　and　everybody　who　knew　her　respected　her　intelligence　and　good　character.　Her　long　and　faithful　service　in　the　family　was　also　well　known,　and　the　intention　of　her　mistress　to　leave　her　free.　When　the　day　of　sale　came,　she　took　her　place　among　the　chattels,　and　at　the　first　call　she　sprang　upon　the　auctionblock.　Many　voices　called　out,　“Shame!　Shame!　Who　is　going　to　sell　you,　Aunt　Marthy?　Dont　stand　there!　That　is　no　place　for　you.”　Without　saying　a　word,　she　quietly　awaited　her　fate.　No　one　bid　for　her.　At　last,　a　feeble　voice　said,　“Fifty　dollars.”　It　came　from　a　maiden　lady,　seventy　years　old,　the　sister　of　my　grandmothers　deceased　mistress.　She　had　lived　forty　years　under　the　same　roof　with　my　grandmother;　she　knew　how　faithfully　she　had　served　her　owners,　and　how　cruelly　she　had　been　defrauded　of　her　rights;　and　she　resolved　to　protect　her.　The　auctioneer　waited　for　a　higher　bid;　but　her　wishes　were　respected;　no　one　bid　above　her.　She　could　neither　read　nor　write;　and　when　the　bill　of　sale　was　made　out,　she　signed　it　with　a　cross.　But　of　what　consequence　was　that,　when　she　had　a　big　heart　overflowing　with　human　kindness?　She　gave　the　old　servant　her　freedom.

At　that　time,　my　grandmother　was　just　fifty　years　old.　Laborious　years　had　passed　since　then;　and　now　my　brother　and　I　were　slaves　to　the　man　who　had　defrauded　her　of　her　money,　and　tried　to　defraud　her　of　her　freedom.　One　of　my　mothers　sisters,　called　Aunt　Nancy,　was　also　a　slave　in　his　family.　She　was　a　kind,　good　aunt　to　me;　and　supplied　the　place　of　both　housekeeper　and　waiting　maid　to　her　mistress.　She　was,　in　fact,　at　the　beginning　and　end　of　everything.

Mrs.　Flint,　like　many　southern　women,　was　totally　deficient　in　energy.　She　had　not　strength　to　superintend　her　household　affairs;　but　her　nerves　were　so　strong　that　she　could　sit　in　her　easy　chair　and　see　a　woman　whipped　till　the　blood　trickled　from　every　stroke　of　the　lash.　She　was　a　member　of　the　church;　but　partaking　of　the　Lords　supper　did　not　seem　to　put　her　in　a　Christian　frame　of　mind.　If　dinner　was　not　served　at　the　exact　time　on　that　particular　Sunday,　she　would　station　herself　in　the　kitchen,　and　wait　till　it　was　dished,　and　then　spit　in　all　the　kettles　and　pans　that　had　been　used　for　cooking.　She　did　this　to　prevent　the　cook　and　her　children　from　eking　out　their　meagre　fare　with　the　remains　of　the　gravy　and　other　scrapings.　The　slaves　could　get　nothing　to　eat　except　what　she　chose　to　give　them.　Provisions　were　weighed　out　by　the　pound　and　ounce,　three　times　a　day.　I　can　assure　you　she　gave　them　no　chance　to　eat　wheat　bread　from　her　flour　barrel.　She　knew　how　many　biscuits　a　quart　of　flour　would　make,　and　exactly　what　size　they　ought　to　be.

Dr.　Flint　was　an　epicure.　The　cook　never　sent　a　dinner　to　his　table　without　fear　and　trembling;　for　if　there　happened　to　be　a　dish　not　to　his　liking,　he　would　either　order　her　to　be　whipped,　or　compel　her　to　eat　every　mouthful　of　it　in　his　presence.　The　poor,　hungry　creature　might　not　have　objected　to　eating　it;　but　she　did　object　to　having　her　master　cram　it　down　her　throat　till　she　choked.

They　had　a　pet　dog　that　was　a　nuisance　in　the　house.　The　cook　was　ordered　to　make　some　Indian　mush　for　him.　He　refused　to　eat,　and　when　his　head　was　held　over　it,　the　froth　flowed　from　his　mouth　into　the　basin.　He　died　a　few　minutes　after.　When　Dr.　Flint　came　in,　he　said　the　mush　had　not　been　well　cooked,　and　that　was　the　reason　the　animal　would　not　eat　it.　He　sent　for　the　cook,　and　compelled　her　to　eat　it.　He　thought　that　the　womans　stomach　was　stronger　than　the　dogs;　but　her　sufferings　afterwards　proved　that　he　was　mistaken.　This　poor　woman　endured　many　cruelties　from　her　master　and　mistress;　sometimes　she　was　locked　up,　away　from　her　nursing　baby,　for　a　whole　day　and　night.

When　I　had　been　in　the　family　a　few　weeks,　one　of　the　plantation　slaves　was　brought　to　town,　by　order　of　his　master.　It　was　near　night　when　he　arrived,　and　Dr.　Flint　ordered　him　to　be　taken　to　the　work　house,　and　tied　up　to　the　joist,　so　that　his　feet　would　just　escape　the　ground.　In　that　situation　he　was　to　wait　till　the　doctor　had　taken　his　tea.　I　shall　never　forget　that　night.　Never　before,　in　my　life,　had　I　heard　hundreds　of　blows　fall,　in　succession,　on　a　human　being.　His　piteous　groans,　and　his　“O,　pray　dont,　massa,”　rang　in　my　ear　for　months　afterwards.　There　were　many　conjectures　as　to　the　cause　of　this　terrible　punishment.　Some　said　master　accused　him　of　stealing　corn;　others　said　the　slave　had　quarrelled　with　his　wife,　in　presence　of　the　overseer,　and　had　accused　his　master　of　being　the　father　of　her　child.　They　were　both　black,　and　the　child　was　very　fair.

I　went　into　the　work　house　next　morning,　and　saw　the　cowhide　still　wet　with　blood,　and　the　boards　all　covered　with　gore.　The　poor　man　lived,　and　continued　to　quarrel　with　his　wife.　A　few　months　afterwards　Dr.　Flint　handed　them　both　over　to　a　slavetrader.　The　guilty　man　put　their　value　into　his　pocket,　and　had　the　satisfaction　of　knowing　that　they　were　out　of　sight　and　hearing.　When　the　mother　was　delivered　into　the　traders　hands,　she　said,　“You　promised　to　treat　me　well.”　To　which　he　replied,　“You　have　let　your　tongue　run　too　far;　damn　you!”　She　had　forgotten　that　it　was　a　crime　for　a　slave　to　tell　who　was　the　father　of　her　child.

From　others　than　the　master　persecution　also　comes　in　such　cases.　I　once　saw　a　young　slave　girl　dying　soon　after　the　birth　of　a　child　nearly　white.　In　her　agony　she　cried　out,　“O　Lord,　come　and　take　me!”　Her　mistress　stood　by,　and　mocked　at　her　like　an　incarnate　fiend.　“You　suffer,　do　you?”　she　exclaimed.　“I　am　glad　of　it.　You　deserve　it　all,　and　more　too.”

The　girls　mother　said,　“The　baby　is　dead,　thank　God;　and　I　hope　my　poor　child　will　soon　be　in　heaven,　too.”

“Heaven!”　retorted　the　mistress.　“There　is　no　such　place　for　the　like　of　her　and　her　bastard.”

The　poor　mother　turned　away,　sobbing.　Her　dying　daughter　called　her,　feebly,　and　as　she　bent　over　her,　I　heard　her　say,　“Dont　grieve　so,　mother;　God　knows　all　about　it;　and　he　will　have　mercy　upon　me.”

Her　sufferings,　afterwards,　became　so　intense,　that　her　mistress　felt　unable　to　stay;　but　when　she　left　the　room,　the　scornful　smile　was　still　on　her　lips.　Seven　children　called　her　mother.　The　poor　black　woman　had　but　the　one　child,　whose　eyes　she　saw　closing　in　death,　while　she　thanked　God　for　taking　her　away　from　the　greater　bitterness　of　life.

Chapter　3

The　Slaves　New　Years　Day

Dr.　Flint　owned　a　fine　residence　in　town,　several　farms,　and　about　fifty　slaves,　besides　hiring　a　number　by　the　year.

Hiringday　at　the　south　takes　place　on　the　1st　of　January.　On　the　2d,　the　slaves　are　expected　to　go　to　their　new　masters.　On　a　farm,　they　work　until　the　corn　and　cotton　are　laid.　They　then　have　two　holidays.　Some　masters　give　them　a　good　dinner　under　the　trees.　This　over,　they　work　until　Christmas　Eve.　If　no　heavy　charges　are　meantime　brought　against　them,　they　are　given　four　or　five　holidays,　whichever　the　master　or　overseer　may　think　proper.　Then　comes　New　Years　Eve;　and　they　gather　together　their　little　alls,　or　more　properly　speaking,　their　little　nothings,　and　wait　anxiously　for　the　dawning　of　day.　At　the　appointed　hour　the　grounds　are　thronged　with　men,　women,　and　children,　waiting,　like　criminals,　to　hear　their　doom　pronounced.　The　slave　is　sure　to　know　who　is　the　most　humane,　or　cruel　master,　within　forty　miles　of　him.

It　is　easy　to　find　out,　on　that　day,　who　clothes　and　feeds　his　slaves　well;　for　he　is　surrounded　by　a　crowd,　begging,　“Please,　massa,　hire　me　this　year.　I　will　work　very　hard,　massa.”

If　a　slave　is　unwilling　to　go　with　his　new　master,　he　is　whipped,　or　locked　up　in　jail,　until　he　consents　to　go,　and　promises　not　to　run　away　during　the　year.　Should　he　chance　to　change　his　mind,　thinking　it　justifiable　to　violate　an　extorted　promise,　woe　unto　him　if　he　is　caught!　The　whip　is　used　till　the　blood　flows　at　his　feet;　and　his　stiffened　limbs　are　put　in　chains,　to　be　dragged　in　the　field　for　days　and　days!

If　he　lives　until　the　next　year,　perhaps　the　same　man　will　hire　him　again,　without　even　giving　him　an　opportunity　of　going　to　the　hiringground.　After　those　for　hire　are　disposed　of,　those　for　sale　are　called　up.

O,　you　happy　free　women,　contrast　your　New　Years　Day　with　that　of　the　poor　bondwoman!　With　you　it　is　a　pleasant　season,　and　the　light　of　the　day　is　blessed.　Friendly　wishes　meet　you　everywhere,　and　gifts　are　showered　upon　you.　Even　hearts　that　have　been　estranged　from　you　soften　at　this　season,　and　lips　that　have　been　silent　echo　back,　“I　wish　you　a　happy　New　Year.”　Children　bring　their　little　offerings,　and　raise　their　rosy　lips　for　a　caress.　They　are　your　own,　and　no　hand　but　that　of　death　can　take　them　from　you.

But　to　the　slave　mother　New　Years　Day　comes　laden　with　peculiar　sorrows.　She　sits　on　her　cold　cabin　floor,　watching　the　children　who　may　all　be　torn　from　her　the　next　morning;　and　often　does　she　wish　that　she　and　they　might　die　before　the　day　dawns.　She　may　be　an　ignorant　creature,　degraded　by　the　system　that　has　brutalized　her　from　childhood;　but　she　has　a　mothers　instincts,　and　is　capable　of　feeling　a　mothers　agonies.

On　one　of　these　sale　days,　I　saw　a　mother　lead　seven　children　to　the　auctionblock.　She　knew　that　some　of　them　would　be　taken　from　her;　but　they　took　all.　The　children　were　sold　to　a　slavetrader,　and　their　mother　was　bought　by　a　man　in　her　own　town.　Before　night　her　children　were　all　far　away.　She　begged　the　trader　to　tell　her　where　he　intended　to　take　them;　this　he　refused　to　do.　How　could　he,　when　he　knew　he　would　sell　them,　one　by　one,　wherever　he　could　command　the　highest　price?　I　met　that　mother　in　the　street,　and　her　wild,　haggard　face　lives　today　in　my　mind.　She　wrung　her　hands　in　anguish,　and　exclaimed,　“Gone!　All　gone!　Why　dont　God　kill　me?”　I　had　no　words　wherewith　to　comfort　her.　Instances　of　this　kind　are　of　daily,　yea,　of　hourly　occurrence.

Slaveholders　have　a　method,　peculiar　to　their　institution,　of　getting　rid　of　old　slaves,　whose　lives　have　been　worn　out　in　their　service.　I　knew　an　old　woman,　who　for　seventy　years　faithfully　served　her　master.　She　had　become　almost　helpless,　from　hard　labor　and　disease.　Her　owners　moved　to　Alabama,　and　the　old　black　woman　was　left　to　be　sold　to　anybody　who　would　give　twenty　dollars　for　her.

Chapter　5

The　Trials　of　Girlhood

During　the　first　years　of　my　service　in　Dr.　Flints　family,　I　was　accustomed　to　share　some　indulgences　with　the　children　of　my　mistress.　Though　this　seemed　to　me　no　more　than　right,　I　was　grateful　for　it,　and　tried　to　merit　the　kindness　by　the　faithful　discharge　of　my　duties.　But　I　now　entered　on　my　fifteenth　year—a　sad　epoch　in　the　life　of　a　slave　girl.　My　master　began　to　whisper　foul　words　in　my　ear.　Young　as　I　was,　I　could　not　remain　ignorant　of　their　import.　I　tried　to　treat　them　with　indifference　or　contempt.　The　masters　age,　my　extreme　youth,　and　the　fear　that　his　conduct　would　be　reported　to　my　grandmother,　made　him　bear　this　treatment　for　many　months.　He　was　a　crafty　man,　and　resorted　to　many　means　to　accomplish　his　purposes.　Sometimes　he　had　stormy,　terrific　ways　that　made　his　victims　tremble;　sometimes　he　assumed　a　gentleness　that　he　thought　must　surely　subdue.　Of　the　two,　I　preferred　his　stormy　moods,　although　they　left　me　trembling.　He　tried　his　utmost　to　corrupt　the　pure　principles　my　grandmother　had　instilled.　He　peopled　my　young　mind　with　unclean　images,　such　as　only　a　vile　monster　could　think　of.　I　turned　from　him　with　disgust　and　hatred.　But　he　was　my　master.　I　was　compelled　to　live　under　the　same　roof　with　him—where　I　saw　a　man　forty　years　my　senior　daily　violating　the　most　sacred　commandments　of　nature.　He　told　me　I　was　his　property;　that　I　must　be　subject　to　his　will　in　all　things.　My　soul　revolted　against　the　mean　tyranny.　But　where　could　I　turn　for　protection?　No　matter　whether　the　slave　girl　be　as　black　as　ebony　or　as　fair　as　her　mistress.　In　either　case,　there　is　no　shadow　of　law　to　protect　her　from　insult,　from　violence,　or　even　from　death;　all　these　are　inflicted　by　fiends　who　bear　the　shape　of　men.　The　mistress,　who　ought　to　protect　the　helpless　victim,　has　no　other　feelings　towards　her　but　those　of　jealousy　and　rage.　The　degradation,　the　wrongs,　the　vices　that　grow　out　of　slavery,　are　more　than　I　can　describe.　They　are　greater　than　you　would　willingly　believe.　Surely,　if　you　credited　one　half　the　truths　that　are　told　you　concerning　the　helpless　millions　suffering　in　this　cruel　bondage,　you　at　the　north　would　not　help　to　tighten　the　yoke.　You　surely　would　refuse　to　do　for　the　master;　on　your　own　soil,　the　mean　and　cruel　work　which　trained　bloodhounds　and　the　lowest　class　of　whites　to　do　for　him　at　the　south.

Everywhere　the　years　bring　to　all　enough　of　sin　and　sorrow;　but　in　slavery　the　very　dawn　of　life　is　darkened　by　these　shadows.　Even　the　little　child,　who　is　accustomed　to　wait　on　her　mistress　and　her　children,　will　learn,　before　she　is　twelve　years　old,　why　it　is　that　her　mistress　hates　such　and　such　a　one　among　the　slaves.　Perhaps　the　childs　own　mother　is　among　those　hated　ones.　She　listens　to　violent　outbreaks　of　jealous　passion,　and　cannot　help　understanding　what　is　the　cause.　She　will　become　prematurely　knowing　in　evil　things.　Soon　she　will　learn　to　tremble　when　she　hears　her　masters　footfall.　She　will　be　compelled　to　realize　that　she　is　no　longer　a　child.　If　God　has　bestowed　beauty　upon　her,　it　will　prove　her　greatest　curse.　That　which　commands　admiration　in　the　white　woman　only　hastens　the　degradation　of　the　female　slave.　I　know　that　some　are　too　much　brutalized　by　slavery　to　feel　the　humiliation　of　their　position;　but　many　slaves　feel　it　most　acutely,　and　shrink　from　the　memory　of　it.　I　cannot　tell　how　much　I　suffered　in　the　presence　of　these　wrongs,　nor　how　I　am　still　pained　by　the　retrospect.　My　master　met　me　at　every　turn,　reminding　me　that　I　belonged　to　him,　and　swearing　by　heaven　and　earth　that　he　would　compel　me　to　submit　to　him.　If　I　went　out　for　a　breath　of　fresh　air,　after　a　day　of　unwearied　toil,　his　footsteps　dogged　me.　If　I　knelt　by　my　mothers　grave,　his　dark　shadow　fell　on　me　even　there.　The　light　heart　which　nature　had　given　me　became　heavy　with　sad　forebodings.　The　other　slaves　in　my　masters　house　noticed　the　change.　Many　of　them　pitied　me;　but　none　dared　to　ask　the　cause.　They　had　no　need　to　inquire.　They　knew　too　well　the　guilty　practices　under　that　roof;　and　they　were　aware　that　to　speak　of　them　was　an　offence　that　never　went　unpunished.

I　longed　for　someone　to　confide　in.　I　would　have　given　the　world　to　have　laid　my　head　on　my　grandmothers　faithful　bosom,　and　told　her　all　my　troubles.　But　Dr.　Flint　swore　he　would　kill　me,　if　I　was　not　as　silent　as　the　grave.　Then,　although　my　grandmother　was　all　in　all　to　me,　I　feared　her　as　well　as　loved　her.　I　had　been　accustomed　to　look　up　to　her　with　a　respect　bordering　upon　awe.　I　was　very　young,　and　felt　shamefaced　about　telling　her　such　impure　things,　especially　as　I　knew　her　to　be　very　strict　on　such　subjects.　Moreover,　she　was　a　woman　of　a　high　spirit.　She　was　usually　very　quiet　in　her　demeanor;　but　if　her　indignation　was　once　roused,　it　was　not　very　easily　quelled.　I　had　been　told　that　she　once　chased　a　white　gentleman　with　a　loaded　pistol,　because　he　insulted　one　of　her　daughters.　I　dreaded　the　consequences　of　a　violent　outbreak;　and　both　pride　and　fear　kept　me　silent.　But　though　I　did　not　confide　in　my　grandmother,　and　even　evaded　her　vigilant　watchfulness　and　inquiry,　her　presence　in　the　neighborhood　was　some　protection　to　me.　Though　she　had　been　a　slave,　Dr.　Flint　was　afraid　of　her.　He　dreaded　her　scorching　rebukes.　Moreover,　she　was　known　and　patronized　by　many　people;　and　he　did　not　wish　to　have　his　villany　made　public.　It　was　lucky　for　me　that　I　did　not　live　on　a　distant　plantation,　but　in　a　town　not　so　large　that　the　inhabitants　were　ignorant　of　each　others　affairs.　Bad　as　are　the　laws　and　customs　in　a　slaveholding　community,　the　doctor,　as　a　professional　man,　deemed　it　prudent　to　keep　up　some　outward　show　of　decency.

O,　what　days　and　nights　of　fear　and　sorrow　that　man　caused　me!　Reader,　it　is　not　to　awaken　sympathy　for　myself　that　I　am　telling　you　truthfully　what　I　suffered　in　slavery.　I　do　it　to　kindle　a　flame　of　compassion　in　your　hearts　for　my　sisters　who　are　still　in　bondage,　suffering　as　I　once　suffered.

I　once　saw　two　beautiful　children　playing　together.　One　was　a　fair　white　child;　the　other　was　her　slave,　and　also　her　sister.　When　I　saw　them　embracing　each　other,　and　heard　their　joyous　laughter,　I　turned　sadly　away　from　the　lovely　sight.　I　foresaw　the　inevitable　blight　that　would　fall　on　the　little　slaves　heart.　I　knew　how　soon　her　laughter　would　be　changed　to　sighs.　The　fair　child　grew　up　to　be　a　still　fairer　woman.　From　childhood　to　womanhood　her　pathway　was　blooming　with　flowers,　and　overarched　by　a　sunny　sky.　Scarcely　one　day　of　her　life　had　been　clouded　when　the　sun　rose　on　her　happy　bridal　morning.

How　had　those　years　dealt　with　her　slave　sister,　the　little　playmate　of　her　childhood?　She,　also,　was　very　beautiful;　but　the　flowers　and　sunshine　of　love　were　not　for　her.　She　drank　the　cup　of　sin,　and　shame,　and　misery,　whereof　her　persecuted　race　are　compelled　to　drink.

In　view　of　these　things,　why　are　ye　silent,　ye　free　men　and　women　of　the　north?　Why　do　your　tongues　falter　in　maintenance　of　the　right?　Would　that　I　had　more　ability!　But　my　heart　is　so　full,　and　my　pen　is　so　weak!　There　are　noble　men　and　women　who　plead　for　us,　striving　to　help　those　who　cannot　help　themselves.　God　bless　them!　God　give　them　strength　and　courage　to　go　on!　God　bless　those,　everywhere,　who　are　laboring　to　advance　the　cause　of　humanity!

Chapter　6

The　Jealous　Mistress

I　would　ten　thousand　times　rather　that　my　children　should　be　the　halfstarved　paupers　of　Ireland　than　to　be　the　most　pampered　among　the　slaves　of　America.　I　would　rather　drudge　out　my　life　on　a　cotton　plantation,　till　the　grave　opened　to　give　me　rest,　than　to　live　with　an　unprincipled　master　and　a　jealous　mistress.　The　felons　home　in　a　penitentiary　is　preferable.　He　may　repent,　and　turn　from　the　error　of　his　ways,　and　so　find　peace;　but　it　is　not　so　with　a　favorite　slave.　She　is　not　allowed　to　have　any　pride　of　character.　It　is　deemed　a　crime　in　her　to　wish　to　be　virtuous.

Mrs.　Flint　possessed　the　key　to　her　husbands　character　before　I　was　born.　She　might　have　used　this　knowledge　to　counsel　and　to　screen　the　young　and　the　innocent　among　her　slaves;　but　for　them　she　had　no　sympathy.　They　were　the　objects　of　her　constant　suspicion　and　malevolence.　She　watched　her　husband　with　unceasing　vigilance;　but　he　was　well　practised　in　means　to　evade　it.　What　he　could　not　find　opportunity　to　say　in　words　he　manifested　in　signs.　He　invented　more　than　were　ever　thought　of　in　a　deaf　and　dumb　asylum.　I　let　them　pass,　as　if　I　did　not　understand　what　he　meant;　and　many　were　the　curses　and　threats　bestowed　on　me　for　my　stupidity.　One　day　he　caught　me　teaching　myself　to　write.　He　frowned,　as　if　he　was　not　well　pleased;　but　I　suppose　he　came　to　the　conclusion　that　such　an　accomplishment　might　help　to　advance　his　favorite　scheme.　Before　long,　notes　were　often　slipped　into　my　hand.　I　would　return　them,　saying,　“I　cant　read　them,　sir.”　“Cant　you?”　he　replied;　“then　I　must　read　them　to　you.”　He　always　finished　the　reading　by　asking,　“Do　you　understand?”　Sometimes　he　would　complain　of　the　heat　of　the　tea　room,　and　order　his　supper　to　be　placed　on　a　small　table　in　the　piazza.　He　would　seat　himself　there　with　a　wellsatisfied　smile,　and　tell　me　to　stand　by　and　brush　away　the　flies.　He　would　eat　very　slowly,　pausing　between　the　mouthfuls.　These　intervals　were　employed　in　describing　the　happiness　I　was　so　foolishly　throwing　away,　and　in　threatening　me　with　the　penalty　that　finally　awaited　my　stubborn　disobedience.　He　boasted　much　of　the　forbearance　he　had　exercised　towards　me,　and　reminded　me　that　there　was　a　limit　to　his　patience.　When　I　succeeded　in　avoiding　opportunities　for　him　to　talk　to　me　at　home,　I　was　ordered　to　come　to　his　office,　to　do　some　errand.　When　there,　I　was　obliged　to　stand　and　listen　to　such　language　as　he　saw　fit　to　address　to　me.　Sometimes　I　so　openly　expressed　my　contempt　for　him　that　he　would　become　violently　enraged,　and　I　wondered　why　he　did　not　strike　me.　Circumstanced　as　he　was,　he　probably　thought　it　was　better　policy　to　be　forbearing.　But　the　state　of　things　grew　worse　and　worse　daily.　In　desperation　I　told　him　that　I　must　and　would　apply　to　my　grandmother　for　protection.　He　threatened　me　with　death,　and　worse　than　death,　if　I　made　any　complaint　to　her.　Strange　to　say,　I　did　not　despair.　I　was　naturally　of　a　buoyant　disposition,　and　always　I　had　a　hope　of　somehow　getting　out　of　his　clutches.　Like　many　a　poor,　simple　slave　before　me,　I　trusted　that　some　threads　of　joy　would　yet　be　woven　into　my　dark　destiny.

I　had　entered　my　sixteenth　year,　and　every　day　it　became　more　apparent　that　my　presence　was　intolerable　to　Mrs.　Flint.　Angry　words　frequently　passed　between　her　and　her　husband.　He　had　never　punished　me　himself,　and　he　would　not　allow　anybody　else　to　punish　me.　In　that　respect,　she　was　never　satisfied;　but,　in　her　angry　moods,　no　terms　were　too　vile　for　her　to　bestow　upon　me.　Yet　I,　whom　she　detested　so　bitterly,　had　far　more　pity　for　her　than　he　had,　whose　duty　it　was　to　make　her　life　happy.　I　never　wronged　her,　or　wished　to　wrong　her;　and　one　word　of　kindness　from　her　would　have　brought　me　to　her　feet.

After　repeated　quarrels　between　the　doctor　and　his　wife,　he　announced　his　intention　to　take　his　youngest　daughter,　then　four　years　old,　to　sleep　in　his　apartment.　It　was　necessary　that　a　servant　should　sleep　in　the　same　room,　to　be　on　hand　if　the　child　stirred.　I　was　selected　for　that　office,　and　informed　for　what　purpose　that　arrangement　had　been　made.　By　managing　to　keep　within　sight　of　people,　as　much　as　possible,　during　the　daytime,　I　had　hitherto　succeeded　in　eluding　my　master,　though　a　razor　was　often　held　to　my　throat　to　force　me　to　change　this　line　of　policy.　At　night　I　slept　by　the　side　of　my　great　aunt,　where　I　felt　safe.　He　was　too　prudent　to　come　into　her　room.　She　was　an　old　woman,　and　had　been　in　the　family　many　years.　Moreover,　as　a　married　man,　and　a　professional　man,　he　deemed　it　necessary　to　save　appearances　in　some　degree.　But　he　resolved　to　remove　the　obstacle　in　the　way　of　his　scheme;　and　he　thought　he　had　planned　it　so　that　he　should　evade　suspicion.　He　was　well　aware　how　much　I　prized　my　refuge　by　the　side　of　my　old　aunt,　and　he　determined　to　dispossess　me　of　it.　The　first　night　the　doctor　had　the　little　child　in　his　room　alone.　The　next　morning,　I　was　ordered　to　take　my　station　as　nurse　the　following　night.　A　kind　Providence　interposed　in　my　favor.　During　the　day,　Mrs.　Flint　heard　of　this　new　arrangement,　and　a　storm　followed.　I　rejoiced　to　hear　it　rage.

After　a　while　my　mistress　sent　for　me　to　come　to　her　room.　Her　first　question　was,　“Did　you　know　you　were　to　sleep　in　the　doctors　room?”

“Yes,　maam.”

“Who　told　you?”

“My　master.”

“Will　you　answer　truly　all　the　questions　I　ask?”

“Yes,　maam.”

“Tell　me,　then,　as　you　hope　to　be　forgiven,　are　you　innocent　of　what　I　have　accused　you?”

“I　am.”

She　handed　me　a　Bible,　and　said,　“Lay　your　hand　on　your　heart,　kiss　this　holy　book,　and　swear　before　God　that　you　tell　me　the　truth.”

I　took　the　oath　she　required,　and　I　did　it　with　a　clear　conscience.

“You　have　taken　Gods　holy　word　to　testify　your　innocence,”　said　she.　“If　you　have　deceived　me,　beware!　Now　take　this　stool,　sit　down,　look　me　directly　in　the　face,　and　tell　me　all　that　has　passed　between　your　master　and　you.”

I　did　as　she　ordered.　As　I　went　on　with　my　account　her　color　changed　frequently,　she　wept,　and　sometimes　groaned.　She　spoke　in　tones　so　sad,　that　I　was　touched　by　her　grief.　The　tears　came　to　my　eyes;　but　I　was　soon　convinced　that　her　emotions　arose　from　anger　and　wounded　pride.　She　felt　that　her　marriage　vows　were　desecrated,　her　dignity　insulted;　but　she　had　no　compassion　for　the　poor　victim　of　her　husbands　perfidy.She　pitied　herself　as　a　martyr;　but　she　was　incapable　of　feeling　for　the　condition　of　shame　and　misery　in　which　her　unfortunate,　helpless　slave　was　placed.

Yet　perhaps　she　had　some　touch　of　feeling　for　me;　for　when　the　conference　was　ended,　she　spoke　kindly,　and　promised　to　protect　me.　I　should　have　been　much　comforted　by　this　assurance　if　I　could　have　had　confidence　in　it;　but　my　experiences　in　slavery　had　filled　me　with　distrust.　She　was　not　a　very　refined　woman,　and　had　not　much　control　over　her　passions.　I　was　an　object　of　her　jealousy,　and,　consequently,　of　her　hatred;　and　I　knew　I　could　not　expect　kindness　or　confidence　from　her　under　the　circumstances　in　which　I　was　placed.　I　could　not　blame　her.　Slaveholders　wives　feel　as　other　women　would　under　similar　circumstances.　The　fire　of　her　temper　kindled　from　small　sparks,　and　now　the　flame　became　so　intense　that　the　doctor　was　obliged　to　give　up　his　intended　arrangement.

I　knew　I　had　ignited　the　torch,　and　I　expected　to　suffer　for　it　afterwards;　but　I　felt　too　thankful　to　my　mistress　for　the　timely　aid　she　rendered　me　to　care　much　about　that.　She　now　took　me　to　sleep　in　a　room　adjoining　her　own.　There　I　was　an　object　of　her　especial　care,　though　not　of　her　especial　comfort,　for　she　spent　many　a　sleepless　night　to　watch　over　me.　Sometimes　I　woke　up,　and　found　her　bending　over　me.　At　other　times　she　whispered　in　my　ear,　as　though　it　was　her　husband　who　was　speaking　to　me,　and　listened　to　hear　what　I　would　answer.　If　she　startled　me,　on　such　occasions,　she　would　glide　stealthily　away;　and　the　next　morning　she　would　tell　me　I　had　been　talking　in　my　sleep,　and　ask　who　I　was　talking　to.　At　last,　I　began　to　be　fearful　for　my　life.　It　had　been　often　threatened;　and　you　can　imagine,　better　than　I　can　describe,　what　an　unpleasant　sensation　it　must　produce　to　wake　up　in　the　dead　of　night　and　find　a　jealous　woman　bending　over　you.　Terrible　as　this　experience　was,　I　had　fears　that　it　would　give　place　to　one　more　terrible.

My　mistress　grew　weary　of　her　vigils;　they　did　not　prove　satisfactory.　She　changed　her　tactics.　She　now　tried　the　trick　of　accusing　my　master　of　crime,　in　my　presence,　and　gave　my　name　as　the　author　of　the　accusation.　To　my　utter　astonishment,　he　replied,　“I　dont　believe　it;　but　if　she　did　acknowledge　it,　you　tortured　her　into　exposing　me.”　Tortured　into　exposing　him!　Truly,　Satan　had　no　difficulty　in　distinguishing　the　color　of　his　soul!　I　understood　his　object　in　making　this　false　representation.　It　was　to　show　me　that　I　gained　nothing　by　seeking　the　protection　of　my　mistress;　that　the　power　was　still　all　in　his　own　hands.　I　pitied　Mrs.　Flint.　She　was　a　second　wife,　many　years　the　junior　of　her　husband;　and　the　hoaryheaded　miscreant　was　enough　to　try　the　patience　of　a　wiser　and　better　woman.　She　was　completely　foiled,　and　knew　not　how　to　proceed.　She　would　gladly　have　had　me　flogged　for　my　supposed　false　oath;　but,　as　I　have　already　stated,　the　doctor　never　allowed　anyone　to　whip　me.　The　old　sinner　was　politic.　The　application　of　the　lash　might　have　led　to　remarks　that　would　have　exposed　him　in　the　eyes　of　his　children　and　grandchildren.How　often　did　I　rejoice　that　I　lived　in　a　town　where　all　the　inhabitants　knew　each　other!　If　I　had　been　on　a　remote　plantation,　or　lost　among　the　multitude　of　a　crowded　city,　I　should　not　be　a　living　woman　at　this　day.

The　secrets　of　slavery　are　concealed　like　those　of　the　Inquisition.　My　master　was,　to　my　knowledge,　the　father　of　eleven　slaves.　But　did　the　mothers　dare　to　tell　who　was　the　father　of　their　children?　Did　the　other　slaves　dare　to　allude　to　it,　except　in　whispers　among　themselves?　No,　indeed!　They　knew　too　well　the　terrible　consequences.

My　grandmother　could　not　avoid　seeing　things　which　excited　her　suspicions.　She　was　uneasy　about　me,　and　tried　various　ways　to　buy　me;　but　the　neverchanging　answer　was　always　repeated:　“Linda　does　not　belong　to　me.　She　is　my　daughters　property,　and　I　have　no　legal　right　to　sell　her.”　The　conscientious　man!　He　was　too　scrupulous　to　sell　me;　but　he　had　no　scruples　whatever　about　committing　a　much　greater　wrong　against　the　helpless　young　girl　placed　under　his　guardianship,　as　his　daughters　property.　Sometimes　my　persecutor　would　ask　me　whether　I　would　like　to　be　sold.　I　told　him　I　would　rather　be　sold　to　anybody　than　to　lead　such　a　life　as　I　did.　On　such　occasions　he　would　assume　the　air　of　a　very　injured　individual,　and　reproach　me　for　my　ingratitude.　“Did　I　not　take　you　into　the　house,　and　make　you　the　companion　of　my　own　children?”　he　would　say.　“Have　I　ever　treated　you　like　a　negro?　I　have　never　allowed　you　to　be　punished,　not　even　to　please　your　mistress.　And　this　is　the　recompense　I　get,　you　ungrateful　girl!”　I　answered　that　he　had　reasons　of　his　own　for　screening　me　from　punishment,　and　that　the　course　he　pursued　made　my　mistress　hate　me　and　persecute　me.　If　I　wept,　he　would　say,　“Poor　child!　Dont　cry!　dont　cry!　I　will　make　peace　for　you　with　your　mistress.　Only　let　me　arrange　matters　in　my　own　way.　Poor,　foolish　girl!　you　dont　know　what　is　for　your　own　good.　I　would　cherish　you.　I　would　make　a　lady　of　you.　Now　go,　and　think　of　all　I　have　promised　you.”

I　did　think　of　it.

Reader,　I　draw　no　imaginary　pictures　of　southern　homes.　I　am　telling　you　the　plain　truth.　Yet　when　victims　make　their　escape　from　this　wild　beast　of　Slavery,　northerners　consent　to　act　the　part　of　bloodhounds,　and　hunt　the　poor　fugitive　back　into　his　den,　“full　of　dead　mens　bones,　and　all　uncleanness.”　Nay,　more,　they　are　not　only　willing,　but　proud,　to　give　their　daughters　in　marriage　to　slaveholders.　The　poor　girls　have　romantic　notions　of　a　sunny　clime,　and　of　the　flowering　vines　that　all　the　year　round　shade　a　happy　home.　To　what　disappointments　are　they　destined!　The　young　wife　soon　learns　that　the　husband　in　whose　hands　she　has　placed　her　happiness　pays　no　regard　to　his　marriage　vows.　Children　of　every　shade　of　complexion　play　with　her　own　fair　babies,　and　too　well　she　knows　that　they　are　born　unto　him　of　his　own　household.　Jealousy　and　hatred　enter　the　flowery　home,　and　it　is　ravaged　of　its　loveliness.

Southern　women　often　marry　a　man　knowing　that　he　is　the　father　of　many　little　slaves.　They　do　not　trouble　themselves　about　it.　They　regard　such　children　as　property,　as　marketable　as　the　pigs　on　the　plantation;　and　it　is　seldom　that　they　do　not　make　them　aware　of　this　by　passing　them　into　the　slavetraders　hands　as　soon　as　possible,　and　thus　getting　them　out　of　their　sight.　I　am　glad　to　say　there　are　some　honorable　exceptions.

I　have　myself　known　two　southern　wives　who　exhorted　their　husbands　to　free　those　slaves　towards　whom　they　stood　in　a　“parental　relation”;　and　their　request　was　granted.　These　husbands　blushed　before　the　superior　nobleness　of　their　wives　natures.　Though　they　had　only　counselled　them　to　do　that　which　it　was　their　duty　to　do,　it　commanded　their　respect,　and　rendered　their　conduct　more　exemplary.　Concealment　was　at　an　end,　and　confidence　took　the　place　of　distrust.

Though　this　bad　institution　deadens　the　moral　sense,　even　in　white　women,　to　a　fearful　extent,　it　is　not　altogether　extinct.　I　have　heard　southern　ladies　say　of　Mr.　Such　a　one,　“He　not　only　thinks　it　no　disgrace　to　be　the　father　of　those　little　niggers,　but　he　is　not　ashamed　to　call　himself　their　master.　I　declare,　such　things　ought　not　to　be　tolerated　in　any　decent　society!”

Chapter　41

Free　at　Last

Mrs.　Bruce,　and　every　member　of　her　family,　were　exceedingly　kind　to　me.　I　was　thankful　for　the　blessings　of　my　lot,　yet　I　could　not　always　wear　a　cheerful　countenance.　I　was　doing　harm　to　no　one;　on　the　contrary,　I　was　doing　all　the　good　I　could　in　my　small　way;　yet　I　could　never　go　out　to　breathe　Gods　free　air　without　trepidation　at　my　heart.　This　seemed　hard;　and　I　could　not　think　it　was　a　right　state　of　things　in　any　civilized　country.

From　time　to　time　I　received　news　from　my　good　old　grandmother.　She　could　not　write;　but　she　employed　others　to　write　for　her.　The　following　is　an　extract　from　one　of　her　last　letters:　—

“Dear　Daughter:　I　cannot　hope　to　see　you　again　on　earth;　but　I　pray　to　God　to　unite　us　above,　where　pain　will　no　more　rack　this　feeble　body　of　mine;　where　sorrow　and　parting　from　my　children　will　be　no　more.　God　has　promised　these　things　if　we　are　faithful　unto　the　end.　My　age　and　feeble　health　deprive　me　of　going　to　church　now;　but　God　is　with　me　here　at　home.　Thank　your　brother　for　his　kindness.　Give　much　love　to　him,　and　tell　him　to　remember　the　Creator　in　the　days　of　his　youth,　and　strive　to　meet　me　in　the　Fathers　kingdom.　Love　to　Ellen　and　Benjamin.　Dont　neglect　him.　Tell　him　for　me,　to　be　a　good　boy.　Strive,　my　child,　to　train　them　for　Gods　children.　May　he　protect　and　provide　for　you,　is　the　prayer　of　your　loving　old　mother.”

These　letters　both　cheered　and　saddened　me.　I　was　always　glad　to　have　tidings　from　the　kind,　faithful　old　friend　of　my　unhappy　youth;　but　her　messages　of　love　made　my　heart　yearn　to　see　her　before　she　died,　and　I　mourned　over　the　fact　that　it　was　impossible.　Some　months　after　I　returned　from　my　flight　to　New　England,　I　received　a　letter　from　her,　in　which　she　wrote,　“Dr.　Flint　is　dead.　He　has　left　a　distressed　family.　Poor　old　man!　I　hope　he　made　his　peace　with　God.”

I　remembered　how　he　had　defrauded　my　grandmother　of　the　hard　earnings　she　had　loaned;　how　he　had　tried　to　cheat　her　out　of　the　freedom　her　mistress　had　promised　her,　and　how　he　had　persecuted　her　children;　and　I　thought　to　myself　that　she　was　a　better　Christian　than　I　was,　if　she　could　entirely　forgive　him.　I　cannot　say,　with　truth,　that　the　news　of　my　old　masters　death　softened　my　feelings　towards　him.　There　are　wrongs　which　even　the　grave　does　not　bury.　The　man　was　odious　to　me　while　he　lived,　and　his　memory　is　odious　now.

His　departure　from　this　world　did　not　diminish　my　danger.　He　had　threatened　my　grandmother　that　his　heirs　should　hold　me　in　slavery　after　he　was　gone;　that　I　never　should　be　free　so　long　as　a　child　of　his　survived.　As　for　Mrs.　Flint,　I　had　seen　her　in　deeper　afflictions　than　I　supposed　the　loss　of　her　husband　would　be,　for　she　had　buried　several　children;　yet　I　never　saw　any　signs　of　softening　in　her　heart.　The　doctor　had　died　in　embarrassed　circumstances,　and　had　little　to　will　to　his　heirs,　except　such　property　as　he　was　unable　to　grasp.　I　was　well　aware　what　I　had　to　expect　from　the　family　of　Flints;　and　my　fears　were　confirmed　by　a　letter　from　the　south,　warning　me　to　be　on　my　guard,　because　Mrs.　Flint　openly　declared　that　her　daughter　could　not　afford　to　lose　so　valuable　a　slave　as　I　was.

I　kept　close　watch　of　the　newspapers　for　arrivals;　but　one　Saturday　night,　being　much　occupied,　I　forgot　to　examine　the　Evening　Express　as　usual.　I　went　down　into　the　parlor　for　it,early　in　the　morning,　and　found　the　boy　about　to　kindle　a　fire　with　it.　I　took　it　from　him　and　examined　the　list　of　arrivals.　Reader,　if　you　have　never　been　a　slave,　you　cannot　imagine　the　acute　sensation　of　suffering　at　my　heart,　when　I　read　the　names　of　Mr.　and　Mrs.　Dodge,　at　a　hotel　in　Courtland　Street.　It　was　a　thirdrate　hotel,　and　that　circumstance　convinced　me　of　the　truth　of　what　I　had　heard,　that　they　were　short　of　funds　and　had　need　of　my　value,　as　they　valued　me;　and　that　was　by　dollars　and　cents.　I　hastened　with　the　paper　to　Mrs.　Bruce.　Her　heart　and　hand　were　always　open　to　every　one　in　distress,　and　she　always　warmly　sympathized　with　mine.　It　was　impossible　to　tell　how　near　the　enemy　was.　He　might　have　passed　and　repassed　the　house　while　we　were　sleeping.　He　might　at　that　moment　be　waiting　to　pounce　upon　me　if　I　ventured　out　of　doors.　I　had　never　seen　the　husband　of　my　young　mistress,　and　therefore　I　could　not　distinguish　him　from　any　other　stranger.　A　carriage　was　hastily　ordered;　and,　closely　veiled,　I　followed　Mrs.　Bruce,　taking　the　baby　again　with　me　into　exile.　After　various　turnings　and　crossings,　and　returnings,　the　carriage　stopped　at　the　house　of　one　of　Mrs.　Bruces　friends,　where　I　was　kindly　received.　Mrs.　Bruce　returned　immediately,　to　instruct　the　domestics　what　to　say　if　any　one　came　to　inquire　for　me.

It　was　lucky　for　me　that　the　evening　paper　was　not　burned　up　before　I　had　a　chance　to　examine　the　list　of　arrivals.　It　was　not　long　after　Mrs.　Bruces　return　to　her　house,　before　several　people　came　to　inquire　for　me.　One　inquired　for　me,　another　asked　for　my　daughter　Ellen,　and　another　said　he　had　a　letter　from　my　grandmother,　which　he　was　requested　to　deliver　in　person.

They　were　told,　“She　has　lived　here,　but　she　has　left.”

“How　long　ago?”

“I　dont　know,　sir.”

“Do　you　know　where　she　went?”

“I　do　not,　sir.”　And　the　door　was　closed.

This　Mr.　Dodge,　who　claimed　me　as　his　property,　was　originally　a　Yankee　pedler　in　the　south;　then　he　became　a　merchant,　and　finally　a　slaveholder.　He　managed　to　get　introduced　into　what　was　called　the　first　society,　and　married　Miss　Emily　Flint.　A　quarrel　arose　between　him　and　her　brother,　and　the　brother　cowhided　him.　This　led　to　a　family　feud,　and　he　proposed　to　remove　to　Virginia.　Dr.　Flint　left　him　no　property,　and　his　own　means　had　become　circumscribed,　while　a　wife　and　children　depended　upon　him　for　support.　Under　these　circumstances,　it　was　very　natural　that　he　should　make　an　effort　to　put　me　into　his　pocket.

I　had　a　colored　friend,　a　man　from　my　native　place,　in　whom　I　had　the　most　implicit　confidence.　I　sent　for　him,　and　told　him　that　Mr.　and　Mrs.　Dodge　had　arrived　in　New　York.　I　proposed　that　he　should　call　upon　them　to　make　inquiries　about　his　friends　at　the　south,　with　whom　Dr.　Flints　family　were　well　acquainted.　He　thought　there　was　no　impropriety　in　his　doing　so,　and　he　consented.　He　went　to　the　hotel,　and　knocked　at　the　door　of　Mr.　Dodges　room,　which　was　opened　by　the　gentleman　himself,　who　gruffly　inquired,　“What　brought　you　here?　How　came　you　to　know　I　was　in　the　city?”

“Your　arrival　was　published　in　the　evening　papers,　sir;　and　I　called　to　ask　Mrs.　Dodge　about　my　friends　at　home.　I　didnt　suppose　it　would　give　any　offence.”

“Wheres　that　negro　girl,　that　belongs　to　my　wife?”

“What　girl,　sir?”

“You　know　well　enough.　I　mean　Linda,　that　ran　away　from　Dr.　Flints　plantation,　some　years　ago.　I　dare　say　youve　seen　her,　and　know　where　she　is.

“Yes,　sir,　Ive　seen　her,　and　know　where　she　is.　She　is　out　of　your　reach,　sir.”

“Tell　me　where　she　is,　or　bring　her　to　me,　and　I　will　give　her　a　chance　to　buy　her　freedom.”

“　I　dont　think　it　would　be　of　any　use,　sir.　I　have　heard　her　say　she　would　go　to　the　ends　of　the　earth,　rather　than　pay　any　man　or　woman　for　her　freedom,　because　she　thinks　she　has　a　right　to　it.　Besides,　she　couldnt　do　it,　if　she　would,　for　she　has　spent　her　earnings　to　educate　her　children.”

This　made　Mr.　Dodge　very　angry,　and　some　high　words　passed　between　them.　My　friend　was　afraid　to　come　where　I　was;　but　in　the　course　of　the　day　I　received　a　note　from　him.　I　supposed　they　had　not　come　from　the　south,　in　the　winter,　for　a　pleasure　excursion;　and　now　the　nature　of　their　business　was　very　plain.

Mrs.　Bruce　came　to　me　and　entreated　me　to　leave　the　city　the　next　morning.　She　said　her　house　was　watched,　and　it　was　possible　that　some　clew　to　me　might　be　obtained.　I　refused　to　take　her　advice.　She　pleaded　with　an　earnest　tenderness,　that　ought　to　have　moved　me;　but　I　was　in　a　bitter,　disheartened　mood.　I　was　weary　of　flying　from　pillar　to　post.　I　had　been　chased　during　half　my　life,　and　it　seemed　as　if　the　chase　was　never　to　end.　There　I　sat,　in　that　great　city,　guiltless　of　crime,　yet　not　daring　to　worship　God　in　any　of　the　churches.　I　heard　the　bells　ringing　for　afternoon　service,　and,　with　contemptuous　sarcasm,　I　said,　“Will　the　preachers　take　for　their　text,　‘Proclaim　liberty　to　the　captive,　and　the　opening　of　prison　doors　to　them　that　are　bound’?　or　will　they　preach　from　the　text,　‘Do　unto　others　as　ye　would　they　should　do　unto　you’?”　Oppressed　Poles　and　Hungarians　could　find　a　safe　refuge　in　that　city;　John　Mitchell　was　free　to　proclaim　in　the　City　Hall　his　desire　for　“a　plantation　well　stocked　with　slaves;”　but　there　I　sat,　an　oppressed　American,　not　daring　to　show　my　face.　God　forgive　the　black　and　bitter　thoughts　I　indulged　on　that　Sabbath　day!　The　Scripture　says,　“Oppression　makes　even　a　wise　man　mad;”　and　I　was　not　wise.

I　had　been　told　that　Mr.　Dodge　said　his　wife　had　never　signed　away　her　right　to　my　children,　and　if　he　could　not　get　me,　he　would　take　them.　This　it　was,　more　than　any　thing　else,　that　roused　such　a　tempest　in　my　soul.　Benjamin　was　with　his　uncle　William　in　California,　but　my　innocent　young　daughter　had　come　to　spend　a　vacation　with　me.　I　thought　of　what　I　had　suffered　in　slavery　at　her　age,　and　my　heart　was　like　a　tigers　when　a　hunter　tries　to　seize　her　young.

Dear　Mrs.　Bruce!　I　seem　to　see　the　expression　of　her　face,　as　she　turned　away　discouraged　by　my　obstinate　mood.　Finding　her　expostulations　unavailing,　she　sent　Ellen　to　entreat　me.　When　ten　oclock　in　the　evening　arrived　and　Ellen　had　not　returned,　this　watchful　and　unwearied　friend　became　anxious.　She　came　to　us　in　a　carriage,　bringing　a　wellfilled　trunk　for　my　journey—trusting　that　by　this　time　I　would　listen　to　reason.　I　yielded　to　her,　as　I　ought　to　have　done　before.

The　next　day,　baby　and　I　set　out　in　a　heavy　snow　storm,　bound　for　New　England　again.　I　received　letters　from　the　City　of　Iniquity,　addressed　to　me　under　an　assumed　name.　In　a　few　days　one　came　from　Mrs.　Bruce,　informing　me　that　my　new　master　was　still　searching　for　me,　and　that　she　intended　to　put　an　end　to　this　persecution　by　buying　my　freedom.　I　felt　grateful　for　the　kindness　that　prompted　this　offer,　but　the　idea　was　not　so　pleasant　to　me　as　might　have　been　expected.　The　more　my　mind　had　become　enlightened,　the　more　difficult　it　was　for　me　to　consider　myself　an　article　of　property;　and　to　pay　money　to　those　who　had　so　grievously　oppressed　me　seemed　like　taking　from　my　sufferings　the　glory　of　triumph.　I　wrote　to　Mrs.　Bruce,　thanking　her,　but　saying　that　being　sold　from　one　owner　to　another　seemed　too　much　like　slavery;　that　such　a　great　obligation　could　not　be　easily　cancelled;　and　that　I　preferred　to　go　to　my　brother　in　California.

Without　my　knowledge,　Mrs.　Bruce　employed　a　gentleman　in　New　York　to　enter　into　negotiations　with　Mr.　Dodge.　He　proposed　to　pay　three　hundred　dollars　down,　if　Mr.　Dodge　would　sell　me,　and　enter　into　obligations　to　relinquish　all　claim　to　me　or　my　children　forever　after.　He　who　called　himself　my　master　said　he　scorned　so　small　an　offer　for　such　a　valuable　servant.　The　gentleman　replied,　“You　can　do　as　you　choose,　sir.　If　you　reject　this　offer　you　will　never　get　any　thing;　for　the　woman　has　friends　who　will　convey　her　and　her　children　out　of　the　country.”

Mr.　Dodge　concluded　that　“half　a　loaf　was　better　than　no　bread,”　and　he　agreed　to　the　proffered　terms.　By　the　next　mail　I　received　this　brief　letter　from　Mrs.　Bruce:　“I　am　rejoiced　to　tell　you　that　the　money　for　your　freedom　has　been　paid　to　Mr.　Dodge.　Come　home　tomorrow.　I　long　to　see　you　and　my　sweet　babe.”

My　brain　reeled　as　I　read　these　lines.　A　gentleman　near　me　said,　“Its　true;　I　have　seen　the　bill　of　sale.”　“The　bill　of　sale!　”　Those　words　struck　me　like　a　blow.　So　I　was　sold　at　last!　A　human　being　sold　in　the　free　city　of　New　York!　The　bill　of　sale　is　on　record,　and　future　generations　will　learn　from　it　that　women　were　articles　of　traffic　in　New　York,　late　in　the　nineteenth　century　of　the　Christian　religion.　It　may　hereafter　prove　a　useful　document　to　antiquaries,　who　are　seeking　to　measure　the　progress　of　civilization　in　the　United　States.　I　well　know　the　value　of　that　bit　of　paper;　but　much　as　I　love　freedom,　I　do　not　like　to　look　upon　it.　I　am　deeply　grateful　to　the　generous　friend　who　procured　it,　but　I　despise　the　miscreant　who　demanded　payment　for　what　never　rightfully　belonged　to　him　or　his.

I　had　objected　to　having　my　freedom　bought,　yet　I　must　confess　that　when　it　was　done　I　felt　as　if　a　heavy　load　had　been　lifted　from　my　weary　shoulders.　When　I　rode　home　in　the　cars　I　was　no　longer　afraid　to　unveil　my　face　and　look　at　people　as　they　passed.　I　should　have　been　glad　to　have　met　Daniel　Dodge　himself;　to　have　had　him　seen　me　and　known　me,　that　he　might　have　mourned　over　the　untoward　circumstances　which　compelled　him　to　sell　me　for　three　hundred　dollars.

When　I　reached　home,　the　arms　of　my　benefactress　were　thrown　round　me,　and　our　tears　mingled.　As　soon　as　she　could　speak,　she　said,　“O　Linda,　Im　so　glad　its　all　over!　You　wrote　to　me　as　if　you　thought　you　were　going　to　be　transferred　from　one　owner　to　another.　But　I　did　not　buy　you　for　your　services.　I　should　have　done　just　the　same,　if　you　had　been　going　to　sail　for　California　tomorrow.　I　should,　at　least,　have　the　satisfaction　of　knowing　that　you　left　me　a　free　woman.”

My　heart　was　exceedingly　full.　I　remembered　how　my　poor　father　had　tried　to　buy　me,　when　I　was　a　small　child,　and　how　he　had　been　disappointed.　I　hoped　his　spirit　was　rejoicing　over　me　now.　I　remembered　how　my　good　old　grandmother　had　laid　up　her　earnings　to　purchase　me　in　later　years,　and　how　often　her　plans　had　been　frustrated.　How　that　faithful,　loving　old　heart　would　leap　for　joy,　if　she　could　look　on　me　and　my　children　now　that　we　were　free!　My　relatives　had　been　foiled　in　all　their　efforts,　but　God　had　raised　me　up　a　friend　among　strangers,　who　had　bestowed　on　me　the　precious,　longdesired　boon.　Friend!　It　is　a　common　word,　often　lightly　used.　Like　other　good　and　beautiful　things,　it　may　be　tarnished　by　careless　handling;　but　when　I　speak　of　Mrs.　Bruce　as　my　friend,　the　word　is　sacred.

My　grandmother　lived　to　rejoice　in　my　freedom;　but　not　long　after,　a　letter　came　with　a　black　seal.　She　had　gone　“where　the　wicked　cease　from　troubling,　and　the　weary　are　at　rest.”

Time　passed　on,　and　a　paper　came　to　me　from　the　south,　containing　an　obituary　notice　of　my　uncle　Phillip.　It　was　the　only　case　I　ever　knew　of　such　an　honor　conferred　upon　a　colored　person.It　was　written　by　one　of　his　friends,　and　contained　these　words:　“Now　that　death　has　laid　him　low,　they　call　him　a　good　man　and　a　useful　citizen;　but　what　are　eulogies　to　the　black　man,　when　the　world　has　faded　from　his　vision?　It　does　not　require　mans　praise　to　obtain　rest　in　Gods　kingdom.”　So　they　called　a　colored　man　a　citizen!　Strange　words　to　be　uttered　in　that　region!

Reader,　my　story　ends　with　freedom;　not　in　the　usual　way,　with　marriage.　I　and　my　children　are　now　free!　We　are　as　free　from　the　power　of　slaveholders　as　are　the　white　people　of　the　north;　and　though　that,　according　to　my　ideas,　is　not　saying　a　great　deal,　it　is　a　vast　improvement　in　my　condition.　The　dream　of　my　life　is　not　yet　realized.　I　do　not　sit　with　my　children　in　a　home　of　my　own.　I　still　long　for　a　hearthstone　of　my　own,　however　humble.　I　wish　it　for　my　childrens　sake　far　more　than　for　my　own.　But　God　so　orders　circumstances　as　to　keep　me　with　my　friend　Mrs.　Rruce.　Love,　duty,　gratitude,　also　bind　me　to　her　side.　It　is　a　privilege　to　serve　her　who　pities　my　oppressed　people,　and　who　has　bestowed　the　inestimable　boon　of　freedom　on　me　and　my　children.

It　has　been　painful　to　me,　in　many　ways,　to　recall　the　dreary　years　I　passed　in　bondage.　I　would　gladly　forget　them　if　I　could.　Yet　the　retrospection　is　not　altogether　without　solace;　for　with　those　gloomy　recollections　come　tender　memories　of　my　good　old　grandmother,　like　light,　fleecy　clouds　floating　over　a　dark　and　troubled　sea.

1861

Questions　for　discussion

1.　Who　was　Aunt　Marthy?　What　happened　to　her　when　she　was　brought　to　auction　block　and　why?

2.　In　what　way　were　those　masters　hypocritical　in　the　eyes　of　the　slaves?

3.　Why　is　family　so　important　to　slaves?

4.　How　does　Incidents　show　religion　being　used　to　justify　slavery?　And　how　is　it　used　to　condemn　slavery?

4.　Up　from　Slavery

作者简介

布克·华盛顿（Booker　Taliaferro　Washington）（1856—1915）是美国最著名也最具争议的黑人领袖之一。他所持的准种族隔离主义论调，他作为依靠自身努力和意志力实现自我的典范，以及他在亚特兰大博览会发表演说后的声名鹊起，因而成为继道格拉斯之后美国黑人代言人的经历，都让人们，无论是他的同代人，还是后世之人，对他众说纷纭，褒贬不一，其身后名也随之起起伏伏。

华盛顿出生于弗吉尼亚（现西弗吉尼亚）州弗兰克林县，母亲是奴隶，父亲是白人。9岁那年华盛顿和其他黑奴一起获得解放。他边在煤矿等地做苦工，边上夜校勤奋学习，16岁考上弗吉尼亚汉普顿师范农业学校。毕业后边工作边进修，于1877年回到母校任教。该校创始人阿姆斯特朗上校提倡黑人应学习谋生手段自立自救，受其影响，华盛顿于1881年在亚拉巴马创立的塔斯克基师范工业学院照搬了阿姆斯特朗的教育理念和办学模式。从1882年起华盛顿为给学校募集资金开始去北方大城市做巡回演讲，其中最著名的一次是1895年他在亚特兰大博览会代表黑人所做的演讲。他温和的种族主义观念——黑人白人团结合作，黑人在打下经济基础之前不应急于争取政治权利——的观点，使得这次演讲深受赞誉，尤其深受白人听众的欢迎。他的声誉由此达至顶点，1895至1915年被称为“华盛顿时代”。1900年华盛顿发表了第一部自传《我的生活和工作》，1901年3月出版的第二部自传《从奴役中奋起》引起轰动。主流刊物如《大西洋月刊》《民族》《北美评论》等纷纷撰文，将它与富兰克林的《自传》媲美。《从奴役中奋起》被翻译成20多种语言，其影响持续了一个世纪。但华盛顿的社会同化主义立场让大部分人视他为以牺牲政治权利换取经济利益的妥协者。1915年华盛顿去世后，大多数美国黑人转而投向他的反对者杜波依斯。当代批评界则主张应避免对他进行简单化的批评。尽管遭人诟病，他的观点却在无形中影响着数代黑人，尤其是各种黑人改革运动。他提倡的自力更生、提高道德修养的理想则鼓舞着全世界的黑人。

作品简介与赏析

华盛顿的第二部自传《从奴役中奋起》与第一部有所不同，它的读者不再是黑人，而是白人有产阶级。因而对黑人悲惨生活的描写没有上升到种族的高度，尽可能不涉及种族冲突和种族暴行，避免刺激南方。他把奴隶制比作一所学校，教会黑人成长并珍视未来。奴隶主则与黑人一样成为奴隶制的牺牲品。同时他指责黑人民权运动妨碍民族和解及黑人自身的利益。

这部自传的时间跨度从19世纪60年代直到20世纪初。华盛顿在该书的前言中提到,《从奴役中奋起》是上一年“在《了望》杂志上连续发表的、有关我一生中重要事件的一系列文章的集大成者”。作者所讲述的主要故事大都围绕这样几件事情展开：1）　早年在奴隶制压迫下遭受的苦难和为上学而做的种种努力；2）　在汉普顿学院的求学经历；3）　塔斯克基师范工业学院的筹建过程；4）　在亚特兰大博览会上所做的演讲；5）　在哈佛大学接受荣誉学位；6）　去欧洲度假等。概言之，这部自传主要讲述华盛顿的个人奋斗史及最终的成功。杜波依斯认为华盛顿的崛起“是自1876年以来美国黑人历史上最引人注目的事件”。自传《从奴役中奋起》也成为早期美国黑人的代表性文本。它延续了美国黑人文学的奴隶自传传统，突出事实和事件，风格上直接简洁，避免情感化和政治说教。传统的批评主要关注的是该书的政治意义以及它在美国和非裔美国人自传历史上的地位，近期则注重意识形态批评与形式研究的有机结合。

他在亚特兰大博览会上的演说开宗明义，明确指出演说主旨在于“加强黑白种族之间的友谊，推进双方的诚挚合作”。他呼吁黑人抓住博览会带来的商业发展机会，脚踏实地从事农业、机械、商业、家政服务等行业，从底层而非顶层开始自己的新生活。对种族关系的阐发则强调合作互惠、共同进步：“共同发展是唯一确保我们中任何人安全无虞的方式”。在演说中和演说后，华盛顿都一再重申自己的观点：政治权利的获得对黑人而言是一个缓慢而渐进的过程，黑人应等待时机成熟，做好在财产、智力和人品上的充分准备。人们对此次演说反应不一。有人认为它出卖了美国黑人民权，其中最具代表性的是杜波依斯，他把华盛顿的演说称为“亚特兰大妥协”；也有人认为它是为今后种族间合作做准备的务实演说。华盛顿的传记作家路易斯·哈兰就认为它是“及时的”，因为它表述的正是美国白人想听的话。

美国学术界普遍认为，华盛顿是世纪之交最重要的美国黑人公众人物，与杜波依斯齐名。人们也往往把二者相提并论。两人都致力于黑人种族自身的进步与发展，但采取的方法判然有别。华盛顿提倡发展经济、自我提升，由下而上、依靠大众，这与杜波依斯坚持争取黑人政治权利，由上而下、基于精英的想法相左。有论者认为他是讲求实际的道德理想主义者，寄希望于调和民主和种族隔离之间冲突的价值观来解决黑人问题，达成自己对美国种族关系的美好设想。

《从奴役中奋起》，特别是在亚特兰大博览会上的演说这一片段，集中体现了华盛顿对美国黑人未来和美国种族关系的思考。

Chapter　14The　Atlanta　Exposition　Address

The　Atlanta　Exposition,　at　which　I　had　been　asked　to　make　an　address　as　a　representative　of　the　Negro　race,　as　stated　in　the　last　chapter,　was　opened　with　a　short　address　from　Governor　Bullock.　After　other　interesting　exercises,　including　an　invocation　from　Bishop　Nelson,　of　Georgia,　a　dedicatory　ode　by　Albert　Howell,　Jr.,　and　addresses　by　the　President　of　the　Exposition　and　Mrs.　Joseph　Thompson,　the　President　of　the　Womans　Board,　Governor　Bullock　introduced　me　with　the　words,　“We　have　with　us　today　a　representative　of　Negro　enterprise　and　Negro　civilization.”

When　I　arose　to　speak,　there　was　considerable　cheering,　especially　from　the　coloured　people.　As　I　remember　it　now,　the　thing　that　was　uppermost　in　my　mind　was　the　desire　to　say　something　that　would　cement　the　friendship　of　the　races　and　bring　about　hearty　cooperation　between　them.　So　far　as　my　outward　surroundings　were　concerned,　the　only　thing　that　I　recall　distinctly　now　is　that　when　I　got　up,　I　saw　thousands　of　eyes　looking　intently　into　my　face.　The　following　is　the　address　which　I　delivered:　—

Mr.　President　and　Gentlemen　of　the　Board　of　Directors　and　Citizens.

Onethird　of　the　population　of　the　South　is　of　the　Negro　race.　No　enterprise　seeking　the　material,　civil,　or　moral　welfare　of　this　section　can　disregard　this　element　of　our　population　and　reach　the　highest　success.　I　but　convey　to　you,　Mr.　President　and　Directors,　the　sentiment　of　the　masses　of　my　race　when　I　say　that　in　no　way　have　the　value　and　manhood　of　the　American　Negro　been　more　fittingly　and　generously　recognized　than　by　the　managers　of　this　magnificent　Exposition　at　every　stage　of　its　progress.　It　is　a　recognition　that　will　do　more　to　cement　the　friendship　of　the　two　races　than　any　occurrence　since　the　dawn　of　our　freedom.

Not　only　this,　but　the　opportunity　here　afforded　will　awaken　among　us　a　new　era　of　industrial　progress.　Ignorant　and　inexperienced,　it　is　not　strange　that　in　the　first　years　of　our　new　life　we　began　at　the　top　instead　of　at　the　bottom;　that　a　seat　in　Congress　or　the　state　legislature　was　more　sought　than　real　estate　or　industrial　skill;　that　the　political　convention　or　stump　speakingstump　speaking:　巡回演说。　had　more　attractions　than　starting　a　dairy　farm　or　truck　garden.

A　ship　lost　at　sea　for　many　days　suddenly　sighted　a　friendly　vessel.　From　the　mast　of　the　unfortunate　vessel　was　seen　a　signal,　“Water,　water;　we　die　of　thirst!”　The　answer　from　the　friendly　vessel　at　once　came　back,　“Cast　down　your　bucket　where　you　are.”　A　second　time　the　signal,　“Water,　water;　send　us　water!”　ran　up　from　the　distressed　vessel,　and　was　answered,　“Cast　down　your　bucket　where　you　are.”　And　a　third　and　fourth　signal　for　water　was　answered,　“Cast　down　your　bucket　where　you　are.”　The　captain　of　the　distressed　vessel,　at　last　heeding　the　injunction,　cast　down　his　bucket,　and　it　came　up　full　of　fresh,　sparkling　water　from　the　mouth　of　the　Amazon　River.　To　those　of　my　race　who　depend　on　bettering　their　condition　in　a　foreign　land　or　who　underestimate　the　importance　of　cultivating　friendly　relations　with　the　Southern　white　man,　who　is　their　nextdoor　neighbour,　I　would　say:　“Cast　down　your　bucket　where　you　are”—cast　it　down　in　making　friends　in　every　manly　way　of　the　people　of　all　races　by　whom　we　are　surrounded.

Cast　it　down　in　agriculture,　mechanics,　in　commerce,　in　domestic　service,　and　in　the　professions.　And　in　this　connection　it　is　well　to　bear　in　mind　that　whatever　other　sins　the　South　may　be　called　to　bear,　when　it　comes　to　business,　pure　and　simple,　it　is　in　the　South　that　the　Negro　is　given　a　mans　chance　in　the　commercial　world,　and　in　nothing　is　this　Exposition　more　eloquent　than　in　emphasizing　this　chance.　Our　greatest　danger　is　that　in　the　great　leap　from　slavery　to　freedom　we　may　overlook　the　fact　that　the　masses　of　us　are　to　live　by　the　productions　of　our　hands,　and　fail　to　keep　in　mind　that　we　shall　prosper　in　proportion　as　we　learn　to　dignify　and　glorify　common　labour　and　put　brains　and　skill　into　the　common　occupations　of　life;　shall　prosper　in　proportion　as　we　learn　to　draw　the　line　between　the　superficial　and　the　substantial,　the　ornamental　gewgaws　of　life　and　the　useful.　No　race　can　prosper　till　it　learns　that　there　is　as　much　dignity　in　tilling　a　field　as　in　writing　a　poem.　It　is　at　the　bottom　of　life　we　must　begin,　and　not　at　the　top.　Nor　should　we　permit　our　grievances　to　overshadow　our　opportunities.

To　those　of　the　white　race　who　look　to　the　incoming　of　those　of　foreign　birth　and　strange　tongue　and　habits　for　the　prosperity　of　the　South,　were　I　permitted　I　would　repeat　what　I　say　to　my　own　race,　“Cast　down　your　bucket　where　you　are.”　Cast　it　down　among　the　eight　millions　of　Negroes　whose　habits　you　know,　whose　fidelity　and　love　you　have　tested　in　days　when　to　have　proved　treacherous　meant　the　ruin　of　your　firesides.　Cast　down　your　bucket　among　these　people　who　have,　without　strikes　and　labour　wars,　tilled　your　fields,　cleared　your　forests,　builded　your　railroads　and　cities,　and　brought　forth　treasures　from　the　bowels　of　the　earth,　and　helped　make　possible　this　magnificent　representation　of　the　progress　of　the　South.　Casting　down　your　bucket　among　my　people,　helping　and　encouraging　them　as　you　are　doing　on　these　grounds,　and　to　education　of　head,　hand,　and　heart,　you　will　find　that　they　will　buy　your　surplus　land,　make　blossom　the　waste　places　in　your　fields,　and　run　your　factories.　While　doing　this,　you　can　be　sure　in　the　future,　as　in　the　past,　that　you　and　your　families　will　be　surrounded　by　the　most　patient,　faithful,　lawabiding,　and　unresentful　people　that　the　world　has　seen.　As　we　have　proved　our　loyalty　to　you　in　the　past,　in　nursing　your　children,　watching　by　the　sickbed　of　your　mothers　and　fathers,　and　often　following　them　with　teardimmed　eyes　to　their　graves,　so　in　the　future,　in　our　humble　way,　we　shall　stand　by　you　with　a　devotion　that　no　foreigner　can　approach,　ready　to　lay　down　our　lives,　if　need　be,　in　defence　of　yours,　interlacing　our　industrial,　commercial,　civil,　and　religious　life　with　yours　in　a　way　that　shall　make　the　interests　of　both　races　one.　In　all　things　that　are　purely　social　we　can　be　as　separate　as　the　fingers,　yet　one　as　the　hand　in　all　things　essential　to　mutual　progress.

There　is　no　defence　or　security　for　any　of　us　except　in　the　highest　intelligence　and　development　of　all.　If　anywhere　there　are　efforts　tending　to　curtail　the　fullest　growth　of　the　Negro,　let　these　efforts　be　turned　into　stimulating,　encouraging,　and　making　him　the　most　useful　and　intelligent　citizen.　Effort　or　means　so　invested　will　pay　a　thousand　per　cent　interest.　These　efforts　will　be　twice　blessed—“blessing　him　that　gives　and　him　that　takes.”These　efforts　will　be　twice　blessed—“blessing　him　that　gives　and　him　that　takes”：这种努力将为双方造福，既有利于提供帮助的一方，也有利于被帮助的一方。

There　is　no　escape　through　law　of　man　or　God　from　the　inevitable:　—

The　laws　of　changeless　justice　bind

Oppressor　with　oppressed;

And　close　as　sin　and　suffering　joined

We　march　to　fate　abreast.这几句诗歌出自美国诗人约翰·格林利夫·惠蒂尔的《黑人船夫之歌》。

Nearly　sixteen　millions　of　hands　will　aid　you　in　pulling　the　load　upward,　or　they　will　pull　against　you　the　load　downward.　We　shall　constitute　onethird　and　more　of　the　ignorance　and　crime　of　the　South,　or　onethird　its　intelligence　and　progress;　we　shall　contribute　onethird　to　the　business　and　industrial　prosperity　of　the　South,　or　we　shall　prove　a　veritable　body　of　death,　stagnating,　depressing,　retarding　every　effort　to　advance　the　body　politic.

Gentlemen　of　the　Exposition,　as　we　present　to　you　our　humble　effort　at　an　exhibition　of　our　progress,　you　must　not　expect　overmuch.　Starting　thirty　years　ago　with　ownership　here　and　there　in　a　few　quilts　and　pumpkins　and　chickens　(gathered　from　miscellaneous　sources),　remember　the　path　that　has　led　from　these　to　the　inventions　and　production　of　agricultural　implements,　buggies,　steamengines,　newspapers,　books,　statuary,　carving,　paintings,　the　management　of　drugstores　and　banks,　has　not　been　trodden　without　contact　with　thorns　and　thistles.　While　we　take　pride　in　what　we　exhibit　as　a　result　of　our　independent　efforts,　we　do　not　for　a　moment　forget　that　our　part　in　this　exhibition　would　fall　far　short　of　your　expectations　but　for　the　constant　help　that　has　come　to　our　educational　life,　not　only　from　the　Southern　states,　but　especially　from　Northern　philanthropists,　who　have　made　their　gifts　a　constant　stream　of　blessing　and　encouragement.

The　wisest　among　my　race　understand　that　the　agitation　of　questions　of　social　equality　is　the　extremest　folly,　and　that　progress　in　the　enjoyment　of　all　the　privileges　that　will　come　to　us　must　be　the　result　of　severe　and　constant　struggle　rather　than　of　artificial　forcing.　No　race　that　has　anything　to　contribute　to　the　markets　of　the　world　is　long　in　any　degree　ostracized.　It　is　important　and　right　that　all　privileges　of　the　law　be　ours,　but　it　is　vastly　more　important　that　we　be　prepared　for　the　exercises　of　these　privileges.　The　opportunity　to　earn　a　dollar　in　a　factory　just　now　is　worth　infinitely　more　than　the　opportunity　to　spend　a　dollar　in　an　operahouse.

In　conclusion,　may　I　repeat　that　nothing　in　thirty　years　has　given　us　more　hope　and　encouragement,　and　drawn　us　so　near　to　you　of　the　white　race,　as　this　opportunity　offered　by　the　Exposition;　and　here　bending,　as　it　were,　over　the　altar　that　represents　the　results　of　the　struggles　of　your　race　and　mine,　both　starting　practically　emptyhanded　three　decades　ago,　I　pledge　that　in　your　effort　to　work　out　the　great　and　intricate　problem　which　God　has　laid　at　the　doors　of　the　South,　you　shall　have　at　all　times　the　patient,　sympathetic　help　of　my　race;　only　let　this　be　constantly　in　mind,　that,　while　from　representations　in　these　buildings　of　the　product　of　field,　of　forest,　of　mine,　of　factory,　letters,　and　art,　much　good　will　come,　yet　far　above　and　beyond　material　benefits　will　be　that　higher　good,　that,　let　us　pray　God,　will　come,　in　a　blotting　out　of　sectional　differences　and　racial　animosities　and　suspicions,　in　a　determination　to　administer　absolute　justice,　in　a　willing　obedience　among　all　classes　to　the　mandates　of　law.　This,　this,　coupled　with　our　material　prosperity,　will　bring　into　our　beloved　South　a　new　heaven　and　a　new　earth.

The　first　thing　that　I　remember,　after　I　had　finished　speaking,　was　that　Governor　Bullock　rushed　across　the　platform　and　took　me　by　the　hand,　and　that　others　did　the　same.　I　received　so　many　and　such　hearty　congratulations　that　I　found　it　difficult　to　get　out　of　the　building.　I　did　not　appreciate　to　any　degree,　however,　the　impression　which　my　address　seemed　to　have　made,　until　the　next　morning,　when　I　went　into　the　business　part　of　the　city.　As　soon　as　I　was　recognized,　I　was　surprised　to　find　myself　pointed　out　and　surrounded　by　a　crowd　of　men　who　wished　to　shake　hands　with　me.　This　was　kept　up　on　every　street　on　to　which　I　went,　to　an　extent　which　embarrassed　me　so　much　that　I　went　back　to　my　boardingplace.　The　next　morning　I　returned　to　Tuskegee.　At　the　station　in　Atlanta,　and　at　almost　all　of　the　stations　at　which　the　train　stopped　between　that　city　and　Tuskegee,　I　found　a　crowd　of　people　anxious　to　shake　hands　with　me.

The　papers　in　all　parts　of　the　United　States　published　the　address　in　full,　and　for　months　afterward　there　were　complimentary　editorial　references　to　it.　Mr.　Clark　Howell,　the　editor　of　the　Atlanta　Constitution,　telegraphed　to　a　New　York　paper,　among　other　words,　the　following,　“I　do　not　exaggerate　when　I　say　that　Professor　Booker　T.　Washingtons　address　yesterday　was　one　of　the　most　notable　speeches,　both　as　to　character　and　as　to　the　warmth　of　its　reception,　ever　delivered　to　a　Southern　audience.　The　address　was　a　revelation.　The　whole　speech　is　a　platform　upon　which　blacks　and　whites　can　stand　with　full　justice　to　each　other.”

The　Boston　Transcript　said　editorially:　“The　speech　of　Booker　T.　Washington　at　the　Atlanta　Exposition,　this　week,　seems　to　have　dwarfed　all　the　other　proceedings　and　the　Exposition　itself.　The　sensation　that　it　has　caused　in　the　press　has　never　been　equalled.”

I　very　soon　began　receiving　all　kinds　of　propositions　from　lecture　bureaus,　and　editors　of　magazines　and　papers,　to　take　the　lecture　platform,　and　to　write　articles.　One　lecture　bureau　offered　me　fifty　thousand　dollars,　or　two　hundred　dollars　a　night　and　expenses,　if　I　would　place　my　services　at　its　disposal　for　a　given　period.　To　all　these　communications　I　replied　that　my　lifework　was　at　Tuskegee;　and　that　whenever　I　spoke　it　must　be　in　the　interests　of　the　Tuskegee　school　and　my　race,　and　that　I　would　enter　into　no　arrangements　that　seemed　to　place　a　mere　commercial　value　upon　my　services.

Some　days　after　its　delivery　I　sent　a　copy　of　my　address　to　the　President　of　the　United　States,　the　Hon.　Grover　Cleveland.Hon.：Honorable，阁下。　I　received　from　him　the　following　autograph　reply:　—

Gray　Gables,　Buzzards　Bay,　Mass.,

October　6,　1895.

Booker　T.　Washington,　Esq.Esq.：Esquire，先生。:

My　Dear　Sir:　I　thank　you　for　sending　me　a　copy　of　your　address　delivered　at　the　Atlanta　Exposition.

I　thank　you　with　much　enthusiasm　for　making　the　address.　I　have　read　it　with　intense　interest,　and　I　think　the　Exposition　would　be　fully　justified　if　it　did　not　do　more　than　furnish　the　opportunity　for　its　delivery.　Your　words　cannot　fail　to　delight　and　encourage　all　who　wish　well　for　your　race;　and　if　our　coloured　fellowcitizens　do　not　from　your　utterances　gather　new　hope　and　form　new　determinations　to　gain　every　valuable　advantage　offered　them　by　their　citizenship,　it　will　be　strange　indeed.

Yours　very　truly,

Grover　Cleveland.

Later　I　met　Mr.　Cleveland,　for　the　first　time,　when,　as　President,　he　visited　the　Atlanta　Exposition.　At　the　request　of　myself　and　others　he　consented　to　spend　an　hour　in　the　Negro　Building,　for　the　purpose　of　inspecting　the　Negro　exhibit　and　of　giving　the　coloured　people　in　attendance　an　opportunity　to　shake　hands　with　him.　As　soon　as　I　met　Mr.　Cleveland　I　became　impressed　with　his　simplicity,　greatness,　and　rugged　honesty.　I　have　met　him　many　times　since　then,　both　at　public　functions　and　at　his　private　residence　in　Princeton,　and　the　more　I　see　of　him　the　more　I　admire　him.　When　he　visited　the　Negro　Building　in　Atlanta　he　seemed　to　give　himself　up　wholly,　for　that　hour,　to　the　coloured　people.　He　seemed　to　be　as　careful　to　shake　hands　with　some　old　coloured　“auntie”　clad　partially　in　rags,　and　to　take　as　much　pleasure　in　doing　so,　as　if　he　were　greeting　some　millionaire.　Many　of　the　coloured　people　took　advantage　of　the　occasion　to　get　him　to　write　his　name　in　a　book　or　on　a　slip　of　paper.　He　was　as　careful　and　patient　in　doing　this　as　if　he　were　putting　his　signature　to　some　great　state　document.

Mr.　Cleveland　has　not　only　shown　his　friendship　for　me　in　many　personal　ways,　but　has　always　consented　to　do　anything　I　have　asked　of　him　for　our　school.　This　he　has　done,　whether　it　was　to　make　a　personal　donation　or　to　use　his　influence　in　securing　the　donations　of　others.　Judging　from　my　personal　acquaintance　with　Mr.　Cleveland,　I　do　not　believe　that　he　is　conscious　of　possessing　any　colour　prejudice.　He　is　too　great　for　that.　In　my　contact　with　people　I　find　that,　as　a　rule,　it　is　only　the　little,　narrow　people　who　live　for　themselves,　who　never　read　good　books,　who　do　not　travel,　who　never　open　up　their　souls　in　a　way　to　permit　them　to　come　into　contact　with　other　souls—with　the　great　outside　world.　No　man　whose　vision　is　bounded　by　colour　can　come　into　contact　with　what　is　highest　and　best　in　the　world.　In　meeting　men,　in　many　places,　I　have　found　that　the　happiest　people　are　those　who　do　the　most　for　others;　the　most　miserable　are　those　who　do　the　least.　I　have　also　found　that　few　things,　if　any,　are　capable　of　making　one　so　blind　and　narrow　as　race　prejudice.　I　often　say　to　our　students,　in　the　course　of　my　talks　to　them　on　Sunday　evenings　in　the　chapel,　that　the　longer　I　live　and　the　more　experience　I　have　of　the　world,　the　more　I　am　convinced　that,　after　all,　the　one　thing　that　is　most　worth　living　for—and　dying　for,　if　need　be—is　the　opportunity　of　making　someone　else　more　happy　and　more　useful.

The　coloured　people　and　the　coloured　newspapers　at　first　seemed　to　be　greatly　pleased　with　the　character　of　my　Atlanta　address,　as　well　as　with　its　reception.　But　after　the　first　burst　of　enthusiasm　began　to　die　away,　and　the　coloured　people　began　reading　the　speech　in　cold　type,　some　of　them　seemed　to　feel　that　they　had　been　hypnotized.　They　seemed　to　feel　that　I　had　been　too　liberal　in　my　remarks　toward　the　Southern　whites,　and　that　I　had　not　spoken　out　strongly　enough　for　what　they　termed　the　“rights”　of　the　race.　For　a　while　there　was　a　reaction,　so　far　as　a　certain　element　of　my　own　race　was　concerned,　but　later　these　reactionary　ones　seemed　to　have　been　won　over　to　my　way　of　believing　and　acting.

While　speaking　of　changes　in　public　sentiment,　I　recall　that　about　ten　years　after　the　school　at　Tuskegee　was　established,　I　had　an　experience　that　I　shall　never　forget.　Dr.　Lyman　Abbott,　then　the　pastor　of　Plymouth　Church,　and　also　editor　of　the　Outlook　(then　the　Christian　Union),　asked　me　to　write　a　letter　for　his　paper　giving　my　opinion　of　the　exact　condition,　mental　and　moral,　of　the　coloured　ministers　in　the　South,　as　based　upon　my　observations.　I　wrote　the　letter,　giving　the　exact　facts　as　I　conceived　them　to　be.　The　picture　painted　was　a　rather　black　one—or,　since　I　am　black,　shall　I　say　“white”?　It　could　not　be　otherwise　with　a　race　but　a　few　years　out　of　slavery,　a　race　which　had　not　had　time　or　opportunity　to　produce　a　competent　ministry.

What　I　said　soon　reached　every　Negro　minister　in　the　country,　I　think,　and　the　letters　of　condemnation　which　I　received　from　them　were　not　few.　I　think　that　for　a　year　after　the　publication　of　this　article　every　association　and　every　conference　or　religious　body　of　any　kind,　of　my　race,　that　met,　did　not　fail　before　adjourning　to　pass　a　resolution　condemning　me,　or　calling　upon　me　to　retract　or　modify　what　I　had　said.　Many　of　these　organizations　went　so　far　in　their　resolutions　as　to　advise　parents　to　cease　sending　their　children　to　Tuskegee.　One　association　even　appointed　a　“missionary”　whose　duty　it　was　to　warn　the　people　against　sending　their　children　to　Tuskegee.　This　missionary　had　a　son　in　the　school,　and　I　noticed　that,　whatever　the　“missionary”　might　have　said　or　done　with　regard　to　others,　he　was　careful　not　to　take　his　son　away　from　the　institution.　Many　of　the　coloured　papers,　especially　those　that　were　the　organs　of　religious　bodies,　joined　in　the　general　chorus　of　condemnation　or　demands　for　retraction.

During　the　whole　time　of　the　excitement,　and　through　all　the　criticism,　I　did　not　utter　a　word　of　explanation　or　retraction.　I　knew　that　I　was　right,　and　that　time　and　the　sober　second　thought　of　the　people　would　vindicate　me.　It　was　not　long　before　the　bishops　and　other　church　leaders　began　to　make　a　careful　investigation　of　the　conditions　of　the　ministry,　and　they　found　out　that　I　was　right.　In　fact,　the　oldest　and　most　influential　bishop　in　one　branch　of　the　Methodist　Church　said　that　my　words　were　far　too　mild.　Very　soon　public　sentiment　began　making　itself　felt,　in　demanding　a　purifying　of　the　ministry.　While　this　is　not　yet　complete　by　any　means,　I　think　I　may　say,　without　egotism,　and　I　have　been　told　by　many　of　our　most　influential　ministers,　that　my　words　had　much　to　do　with　starting　a　demand　for　the　placing　of　a　higher　type　of　men　in　the　pulpit.　I　have　had　the　satisfaction　of　having　many　who　once　condemned　me　thank　me　heartily　for　my　frank　words.

The　change　of　the　attitude　of　the　Negro　ministry,　so　far　as　regards　myself,　is　so　complete　that　at　the　present　time　I　have　no　warmer　friends　among　any　class　than　I　have　among　the　clergymen.　The　improvement　in　the　character　and　life　of　the　Negro　ministers　is　one　of　the　most　gratifying　evidences　of　the　progress　of　the　race.　My　experience　with　them,　as　well　as　other　events　in　my　life,　convinces　me　that　the　thing　to　do,　when　one　feels　sure　that　he　has　said　or　done　the　right　thing,　and　is　condemned,　is　to　stand　still　and　keep　quiet.　If　he　is　right,　time　will　show　it.

In　the　midst　of　the　discussion　which　was　going　on　concerning　my　Atlanta　speech,　I　received　the　letter　which　I　give　below,　from　Dr.　Gilman,　the　President　of　Johns　Hopkins　University,　who　had　been　made　chairman　of　the　judges　of　award　in　connection　with　the　Atlanta　Exposition:　—

Johns　Hopkins　University,　Baltimore,

Presidents　Office,　September　30,　1895.

Dear　Mr.　Washington:

Would　it　be　agreeable　to　you　to　be　one　of　the　Judges　of　Award　in　the　Department　of　Education　at　Atlanta?　If　so,　I　shall　be　glad　to　place　your　name　upon　the　list.　A　line　by　telegraph　will　be　welcomed.

Yours　very　truly,

D.　C.　Gilman.

I　think　I　was　even　more　surprised　to　receive　this　invitation　than　I　had　been　to　receive　the　invitation　to　speak　at　the　opening　of　the　Exposition.　It　was　to　be　a　part　of　my　duty,　as　one　of　the　jurors,　to　pass　not　only　upon　the　exhibits　of　the　coloured　schools,　but　also　upon　those　of　the　white　schools.　I　accepted　the　position,　and　spent　a　month　in　Atlanta　in　performance　of　the　duties　which　it　entailed.　The　board　of　jurors　was　a　large　one,　consisting　in　all　of　sixty　members.　It　was　about　equally　divided　between　Southern　white　people　and　Northern　white　people.　Among　them　were　college　presidents,　leading　scientists　and　men　of　letters,　and　specialists　in　many　subjects.　When　the　group　of　jurors　to　which　I　was　assigned　met　for　organization,　Mr.　Thomas　Nelson　Page,　who　was　one　of　the　number,　moved　that　I　be　made　secretary　of　that　division,　and　the　motion　was　unanimously　adopted.　Nearly　half　of　our　division　were　Southern　people.　In　performing　my　duties　in　the　inspection　of　the　exhibits　of　white　schools　I　was　in　every　case　treated　with　respect,　and　at　the　close　of　our　labours　I　parted　from　my　associates　with　regret.

I　am　often　asked　to　express　myself　more　freely　than　I　do　upon　the　political　condition　and　the　political　future　of　my　race.　These　recollections　of　my　experience　in　Atlanta　give　me　the　opportunity　to　do　so　briefly.　My　own　belief　is,　although　I　have　never　before　said　so　in　so　many　words,　that　the　time　will　come　when　the　Negro　in　the　South　will　be　accorded　all　the　political　rights　which　his　ability,　character,　and　material　possessions　entitle　him　to.　I　think,　though,　that　the　opportunity　to　freely　exercise　such　political　rights　will　not　come　in　any　large　degree　through　outside　or　artificial　forcing,　but　will　be　accorded　to　the　Negro　by　the　Southern　white　people　themselves,　and　that　they　will　protect　him　in　the　exercise　of　those　rights.　Just　as　soon　as　the　South　gets　over　the　old　feeling　that　it　is　being　forced　by　“foreigners,”　or　“aliens,”　to　do　something　which　it　does　not　want　to　do,　I　believe　that　the　change　in　the　direction　that　I　have　indicated　is　going　to　begin.　In　fact,　there　are　indications　that　it　is　already　beginning　in　a　slight　degree.

Let　me　illustrate　my　meaning.　Suppose　that　some　months　before　the　opening　of　the　Atlanta　Exposition　there　had　been　a　general　demand　from　the　press　and　public　platform　outside　the　South　that　a　Negro　be　given　a　place　on　the　opening　programme,　and　that　a　Negro　be　placed　upon　the　board　of　jurors　of　award.　Would　any　such　recognition　of　the　race　have　taken　place?　I　do　not　think　so.　The　Atlanta　officials　went　as　far　as　they　did　because　they　felt　it　to　be　a　pleasure,　as　well　as　a　duty,　to　reward　what　they　considered　merit　in　the　Negro　race.　Say　what　we　will,　there　is　something　in　human　nature　which　we　cannot　blot　out,　which　makes　one　man,　in　the　end,　recognize　and　reward　merit　in　another,　regardless　of　colour　or　race.

I　believe　it　is　the　duty　of　the　Negro—as　the　greater　part　of　the　race　is　already　doing—to　deport　himself　modestly　in　regard　to　political　claims,　depending　upon　the　slow　but　sure　influences　that　proceed　from　the　possession　of　property,　intelligence,　and　high　character　for　the　full　recognition　of　his　political　rights.　I　think　that　the　according　of　the　full　exercise　of　political　rights　is　going　to　be　a　matter　of　natural,　slow　growth,　not　an　overnight,　gourdvine　affair.　I　do　not　believe　that　the　Negro　should　cease　voting,　for　a　man　cannot　learn　the　exercise　of　selfgovernment　by　ceasing　to　vote,　any　more　than　a　boy　can　learn　to　swim　by　keeping　out　of　the　water,　but　I　do　believe　that　in　his　voting　he　should　more　and　more　be　influenced　by　those　of　intelligence　and　character　who　are　his　nextdoor　neighbours.

I　know　coloured　men　who,　through　the　encouragement,　help,　and　advice　of　Southern　white　people,　have　accumulated　thousands　of　dollars　worth　of　property,　but　who,　at　the　same　time,　would　never　think　of　going　to　those　same　persons　for　advice　concerning　the　casting　of　their　ballots.　This,　it　seems　to　me,　is　unwise　and　unreasonable,　and　should　cease.　In　saying　this　I　do　not　mean　that　the　Negro　should　truckle,　or　not　vote　from　principle,　for　the　instant　he　ceases　to　vote　from　principle　he　loses　the　confidence　and　respect　of　the　Southern　white　man　even.

I　do　not　believe　that　any　state　should　make　a　law　that　permits　an　ignorant　and　povertystricken　white　man　to　vote,　and　prevents　a　black　man　in　the　same　condition　from　voting.　Such　a　law　is　not　only　unjust,　but　it　will　react,　as　all　unjust　laws　do,　in　time;　for　the　effect　of　such　a　law　is　to　encourage　the　Negro　to　secure　education　and　property,　and　at　the　same　time　it　encourages　the　white　man　to　remain　in　ignorance　and　poverty.　I　believe　that　in　time,　through　the　operation　of　intelligence　and　friendly　race　relations,　all　cheating　at　the　ballotbox　in　the　South　will　cease.　It　will　become　apparent　that　the　white　man　who　begins　by　cheating　a　Negro　out　of　his　ballot　soon　learns　to　cheat　a　white　man　out　of　his,　and　that　the　man　who　does　this　ends　his　career　of　dishonesty　by　the　theft　of　property　or　by　some　equally　serious　crime.　In　my　opinion,　the　time　will　come　when　the　South　will　encourage　all　of　its　citizens　to　vote.　It　will　see　that　it　pays　better,　from　every　standpoint,　to　have　healthy,　vigorous　life　than　to　have　that　political　stagnation　which　always　results　when　onehalf　of　the　population　has　no　share　and　no　interest　in　the　Government.

As　a　rule,　I　believe　in　universal,　free　suffrage,　but　I　believe　that　in　the　South　we　are　confronted　with　peculiar　conditions　that　justify　the　protection　of　the　ballot　in　many　of　the　states,　for　a　while　at　least,　either　by　an　educational　test,　a　property　test,　or　by　both　combined;　but　whatever　tests　are　required,　they　should　be　made　to　apply　with　equal　and　exact　justice　to　both　races.

1901

Questions　for　Discussion

1.　Booker　T.　Washingtons　most　famous　speech,　the　Atlanta　Exposition　address,　came　to　be　called　his　“Atlanta　Compromise”　address.　In　what　way　do　you　think　it　is　a　compromise?

2.　What　does　Washington　mean　when　he　repeats　the　statement　“cast　down　your　bucket　where　you　are”　?

3.　What　does　Washington　mean　by　stating　that　both　races　could　“be　as　separate　as　the　fingers,　yet　one　as　the　hand　in　all　things　essential　to　mutual　progress”?

5.　The　Big　Sea

作者简介

休斯（Langston　Hughes）（1902—1967），著名非裔美国诗人、剧作家、传记家与小说家，一生共创作了50多部作品，涵盖诗歌、小说、戏剧、儿童文学、传记与自传等文类，是哈莱姆文艺复兴运动中的重要人物，是与惠特曼齐名的美国著名诗人，其成名作《黑人说河》（1921）发表在杜波伊斯主编的重要黑人刊物《危机》上。

休斯初中二年级就开始写诗，1922年到位于纽约市的哥伦比亚大学读书，虽然因为囊中羞涩，未能读完大学，但是他在哈莱姆的经历对他非裔美国身份意识的塑造，以及用诗歌表达黑人的经历的表现手法，产生了重要影响；其间，他结识当时著名非裔美国学者、作家，如杜波伊斯、洛克、福赛特、卡伦及赫斯顿等人，进一步丰富了自己的文学世界。1922—1926年间，他打过很多零工，利用在船上打工的机会游历非洲与巴黎，形成了很强的泛非意识，这反映在1926年出版的诗集《疲惫的布鲁斯》中，该诗集不仅体现了美国著名诗人惠特曼与桑德堡对他的影响，更显示出哈莱姆街头生活与夜总会的影响。

休斯以诗歌见长，注重借鉴非裔美国民间文化，如布鲁斯音乐的韵律与节奏，同时他利用诗歌直接抨击资本主义美国的种族歧视与经济剥削。20世纪30年代，他为黑人左翼刊物《新大众》与《黑人工人》供稿；50年代冷战时期，他与杜波伊斯等人一道被指责为同情共产主义。他的《三首关于私刑的诗歌》、《三K党》等诗歌直接揭露美国社会对黑人的不公正，他的第二部诗集《犹太人的好衣服》（1927）被誉为黑人世界的《草叶集》，《单程车票》（1949）描绘美国南方的吉姆·克劳种族隔离与歧视，以及对远离故土、另谋新生的渴望，《延误了的梦的蒙太奇》（1951）在主题与形式方面，反映了爵士乐时代哈莱姆的生活；1961年出版的诗集《问你妈去》则运用非裔美国民俗中的“骂娘”修辞，极具实验色彩，显示出作者高超的语言驾驭能力。

无论在诗歌、戏剧还是小说创作中，休斯始终关注非裔美国民族承受的苦难，以及他们秉持乐观心态，对梦想的追寻和对美好生活的向往；作为多产作家，他对美国理想的坚持及其对美国种族歧视的反思，很好地反映在他的两部回忆录《大海》（1940）与《我漂泊，我彷徨》（1956）中，为我们全面认识（非裔）美国社会与文化提供了第一手的资料。

作品简介与赏析

休斯共创作两部自传：《大海》与《我漂泊，我彷徨》，涵盖了他前35年的人生岁月，讲述了他1902年出生于密苏里州的乔普林到作为西班牙内战时期的战地记者回到美国的生活。《大海》的第一部分“21岁”讲述了他从出生到离开纽约港的一些重要事件；第二部分“大海”描绘了他的非洲与欧洲之旅；第三部分“黑人文艺复兴”重点介绍了1925—1930年间与哈莱姆文艺复兴有关的事件与人物，及其对哈莱姆文艺复兴的认识与反思，为我们更加客观地认识这次重要的黑人文艺运动提供了第一手的资料。

休斯的《大海》没有采取普通自传中平铺直叙的套路，没有从他的出生开始讲起，而是从他的“新生”开始介绍：他把在“哥伦比亚大学学习时买的书”扔进大海，准备作为商船餐室的侍应生离开纽约港去非洲，开启新的生活。休斯以倒叙的方式，补叙了因父母离异，外婆把自己抚养到12岁的成长经历，也提到自己早在初中二年级就显露诗才与诗情，为高中杂志撰稿的故事。此外，第一部分也讲到他去墨西哥与生父相处的一段时间，以及到哥伦比亚大学读书的经历，因为害怕会沦落于平庸的生活、需要从事繁重的体力劳动谋生，他登上开往非洲的商船，远离故土。

第二部分“大海”主要讲述1923—1924年休斯一边在去非洲与荷兰的船上工作，一边进行创作的经历，其间，他在法国巴黎的夜总会洗过碗，在意大利的海滩打过零工。回到美国后，他利用在旅馆打工的机会，把三首诗歌放在当时著名诗人林赛的桌上，得其赏识，成为所谓“餐馆诗人”的传奇经历。

第三部分“哈莱姆文艺复兴”记述了休斯1925—1930年间的四件重要大事。首先，他虽然住在华盛顿特区，但是经常去纽约，正逢哈莱姆文艺复兴繁荣鼎盛期，结识许多黑人作家，如图默、卡伦、赫斯顿等人。其次，他参加《机遇》杂志的文学竞赛，获得诗歌奖，在获奖宴会上，得遇维克腾，在他的帮助下，出版第一部诗集《疲惫的布鲁斯》。再次，他获得奖学金，得以在宾夕法尼亚州的林肯大学完成本科学业，1929年获得学士学位，而且有缘获得纽约的老夫人赏识。最后，他完成第一部小说《不是没有笑声》（1930），获得哈蒙文学奖，虽然与“恩主”不和，但是休斯更加坚定了以写作为生的志向，所以才有了《大海》中“文学是一个满是鱼群的大海。我撒下网儿再用力拉”的比喻。

休斯的《大海》记述了作者的生平，为我们了解作者的创作与特定时期的美国社会与文化提供了丰富的史料，他对很多文化现象如“哈莱姆文艺复兴”运动的真实描绘与反思，如1929年开始的美国经济大萧条，客观上造成曾经风光无限的美国黑人文艺创作不再“时尚”等，为后人重新客观认识这一重要时段增添了许多翔实的资料。

When　the　Negro　Was　in　Vogue

The　1920s　were　the　years　of　Manhattans　black　Renaissance20世纪20年代，美国黑人文学出现第一次勃兴，史称哈莱姆文艺复兴。但是休斯以自己的个人经历，个性化地表明，哈莱姆文艺复兴对普通黑人民众没有产生太大影响，哈莱姆的酒吧、夜总会等仿佛也只是吸引外来好奇游客的所在。.　It　began　with　Shuffle　Along,　Running　Wild,　and　the　Charleston.　Perhaps　some　people　would　say　even　with　The　Emperor　Jones,　Charles　Gilpin,　and　the　tomtoms　at　the　Provincetown.　But　certainly　it　was　the　musical　revue,　Shuffle　Along,　that　gave　a　scintillating　sendoff　to　that　Negro　vogue　in　Manhattan,　which　reached　its　peak　just　before　the　crash　of　1929,　the　crash　that　sent　Negroes,　white　folks,　and　all　rolling　down　the　hill　toward　the　Works　Progress　Administration.

Shuffle　Along　was　a　honey　of　a　show.　Swift,　bright,　funny,　rollicking,　and　gay,　with　a　dozen　danceable,　singable　tunes.　Besides,　look　who　were　in　it:　The　now　famous　choir　director,　Hall　Johnson,　and　the　composer,　William　Grant　Still,　were　a　part　of　the　orchestra.　Eubie　Blake　and　Noble　Sissle　wrote　the　music　and　played　and　acted　in　the　show.　Miller　and　Lyles　were　the　comics.　Florence　Mills　skyrocketed　to　fame　in　the　second　act.　Trixie　Smith　sang　“He　May　Be　Your　Man　But　He　Comes　to　See　Me　Sometimes.”　And　Caterina　Jarboro,　now　a　European　prima　donna,　and　the　internationally　celebrated　Josephine　Baker　were　merely　in　the　chorus.　Everybody　was　in　the　audience—including　me.　People　came　back　to　see　it　innumerable　times.　It　was　always　packed.

To　see　Shuffle　Along　was　the　main　reason　I　wanted　to　go　to　Columbia.　When　I　saw　it,　I　was　thrilled　and　delighted.　From　then　on　I　was　in　the　gallery　of　the　Cort　Theatre　every　time　I　got　a　chance.　That　year,　too,　I　saw　Katharine　Cornell　in　A　Bill　of　Divorcement,　Margaret　Wycherly　in　The　Verge,　Maughams　The　Circle　with　Mrs.　Leslie　Carter,　and　the　Theatre　Guild　production　of　Kaisers　From　Morn　Till　Midnight.　But　I　remember　Shuffle　Along　best　of　all.　It　gave　just　the　proper　push—a　preCharleston　kick—to　that　Negro　vogue　of　the　20s,　that　spread　to　books,　African　sculpture,　music,　and　dancing.

Put　down　the　1920s　for　the　rise　of　Roland　Hayes,　who　packed　Carnegie　Hall,　the　rise　of　Paul　RobesonPaul　Robeson:著名美国黑人。　in　New　York　and　London,　of　Florence　Mills　over　two　continents,　of　Rose　McClendon　in　Broadway　parts　that　never　measured　up　to　her,　the　booming　voice　of　Bessie　Smith　and　the　low　moan　of　Clara　on　thousands　of　records,　and　the　rise　of　that　grand　comedienne　of　song,　Ethel　Waters,　singing:　“Charlies　elected　now!　Hes　in　right　for　sure!”　Put　down　the　1920s　for　Louis　Armstrong　and　Gladys　Bentley　and　Josephine　Baker.

White　people　began　to　come　to　Harlem　in　droves.　For　several　years　they　packed　the　expensive　Cotton　Club　on　Lenox　Avenue.　But　I　was　never　there,　because　the　Cotton　Club　was　a　Jim　Crow　club　for　gangsters　and　monied　whites.　They　were　not　cordial　to　Negro　patronage,　unless　you　were　a　celebrity　like　Bojangles.　So　Harlem　Negroes　did　not　like　the　Cotton　Club　and　never　appreciated　its　Jim　Crow　policy　in　the　very　heart　of　their　dark　community.　Nor　did　ordinary　Negroes　like　the　growing　influx　of　whites　toward　Harlem　after　sundown,　flooding　the　little　cabarets　and　bars　where　formerly　only　colored　people　laughed　and　sang,　and　where　now　the　strangers　were　given　the　best　ringside　tables　to　sit　and　stare　at　the　Negro　customers—like　amusing　animals　in　a　zoo.

The　Negroes　said:　“We　cant　go　downtown　and　sit　and　stare　at　you　in　your　clubs.　You　wont　even　let　us　in　your　clubs.”　But　they　didnt　say　it　out　loud—for　Negroes　are　practically　never　rude　to　white　people.　So　thousands　of　whites　came　to　Harlem　night　after　night,　thinking　the　Negroes　loved　to　have　them　there,　and　firmly　believing　that　all　Harlemites　left　their　houses　at　sundown　to　sing　and　dance　in　cabarets,　because　most　of　the　whites　saw　nothing　but　the　cabarets,　not　the　houses.

Some　of　the　owners　of　Harlem　clubs,　delighted　at　the　flood　of　white　patronage,　made　the　grievous　error　of　barring　their　own　race,　after　the　manner　of　the　famous　Cotton　Club.　But　most　of　these　quickly　lost　business　and　folded　up,　because　they　failed　to　realize　that　a　large　part　of　the　Harlem　attraction　for　downtown　New　Yorkers　lay　in　simply　watching　the　colored　customers　amuse　themselves.　And　the　smaller　clubs,　of　course,　had　no　big　floor　shows　or　a　name　band　like　the　Cotton　Club,　where　Duke　Ellington　usually　held　forth,　so,　without　black　patronage,　they　were　not　amusing　at　all.

Some　of　the　small　clubs,　however,　had　people　like　Gladys　Bentley,　who　was　something　worth　discovering　in　those　days,　before　she　got　famous,　acquired　an　accompanist,　specially　written　material,　and　conscious　vulgarity.　But　for　two　or　three　amazing　years,　Miss　Bentley　sat,　and　played　a　big　piano　all　night　long,　literally　all　night,　without　stopping—singing　songs　like　“The　St.　James　Infirmary,”　from　ten　in　the　evening　until　dawn,　with　scarcely　a　break　between　the　notes,　sliding　from　one　song　to　another,　with　a　powerful　and　continuous　underbeat　of　jungle　rhythm.　Miss　Bentley　was　an　amazing　exhibition　of　musical　energy—a　large,　dark,　masculine　lady,　whose　feet　pounded　the　floor　while　her　fingers　pounded　the　keyboard—a　perfect　piece　of　African　sculpture,　animated　by　her　own　rhythm.

But　when　the　place　where　she　played　became　too　well　known,　she　began　to　sing　with　an　accompanist,　became　a　star,　moved　to　a　larger　place,　then　downtown,　and　is　now　in　Hollywood.　The　old　magic　of　the　woman　and　the　piano　and　the　night　and　the　rhythm　being　one　is　gone.　But　everything　goes,　one　way　or　another.　The　’20s　are　gone　and　lots　of　fine　things　in　Harlem　night　life　have　disappeared　like　snow　in　the　sun—since　it　became　utterly　commercial,　planned　for　the　downtown　tourist　trade,　and　therefore　dull.

The　lindyhoppers　at　the　Savoy　even　began　to　practise　acrobatic　routines,　and　to　do　absurd　things　for　the　entertainment　of　the　whites,　that　probably　never　would　have　entered　their　heads　to　attempt　merely　for　their　own　effortless　amusement.　Some　of　the　lindyhoppers　had　cards　printed　with　their　names　on　them　and　became　dance　professors　teaching　the　tourists.　Then　Harlem　nights　became　show　nights　for　the　Nordics.

Some　critics　say　that　that　is　what　happened　to　certain　Negro　writers,　too—that　they　ceased　to　write　to　amuse　themselves　and　began　to　write　to　amuse　and　entertain　white　people,　and　in　so　doing　distorted　and　overcolored　their　material,　and　left　out　a　great　many　things　they　thought　would　offend　their　American　brothers　of　a　lighter　complexion.　Maybe—since　Negroes　have　writerracketeers,　as　has　any　other　race.　But　I　have　known　almost　all　of　them,　and　most　of　the　good　ones　have　tried　to　be　honest,　write　honestly,　and　express　their　world　as　they　saw　it.

All　of　us　know　that　the　gay　and　sparkling　life　of　the　socalled　Negro　Renaissance　of　the　’20s　was　not　so　gay　and　sparkling　beneath　the　surface　as　it　looked.　Carl　Van　VechtenCarl　Van　Vechten:　哈莱姆文艺复兴时期著名白人作家，非常欣赏当时的很多年轻黑人作家。,　in　the　character　of　Byron　in　Nigger　Heaven,　captured　some　of　the　bitterness　and　frustration　of　literary　Harlem　that　Wallace　Thurman　later　so　effectively　poured　into　his　Infants　of　the　Spring—the　only　novel　by　a　Negro　about　that　fantastic　period　when　Harlem　was　in　vogue.

It　was　a　period　when,　at　almost　every　Harlem　uppercrust　dance　or　party,　one　would　be　introduced　to　various　distinguished　white　celebrities　there　as　guests.　It　was　a　period　when　almost　any　Harlem　Negro　of　any　social　importance　at　all　would　be　likely　to　say　casually:　“As　I　was　remarking　the　other　day　to　Heywood—,”　meaning　Heywood　Broun.　Or:　“As　I　said　to　George—,”　referring　to　George　Gershwin.　It　was　a　period　when　local　and　visiting　royalty　were　not　at　all　uncommon　in　Harlem.　And　when　the　parties　of　ALelia　Walker,　the　Negro　heiress,　were　filled　with　guests　whose　names　would　turn　any　Nordic　social　climber　green　with　envy.　It　was　a　period　when　Harold　Jackman,　a　handsome　young　Harlem　school　teacher　of　modest　means,　calmly　announced　one　day　that　he　was　sailing　for　the　Riviera　for　a　fortnight,　to　attend　Princess　Murats　yachting　party.　It　was　a　period　when　Charleston　preachers　opened　up　shouting　churches　as　sideshows　for　white　tourists.　It　was　a　period　when　at　least　one　charming　colored　chorus　girl,　amber　enough　to　pass　for　a　Latin　American,　was　living　in　a　pent　house,　with　all　her　bills　paid　by　a　gentleman　whose　name　was　bankers　magic　on　Wall　Street.　It　was　a　period　when　every　season　there　was　at　least　one　hit　play　on　Broadway　acted　by　a　Negro　cast.　And　when　books　by　Negro　authors　were　being　published　with　much　greater　frequency　and　much　more　publicity　than　ever　before　or　since　in　history.　It　was　a　period　when　white　writers　wrote　about　Negroes　more　successfully　(commercially　speaking)　than　Negroes　did　about　themselves.　It　was　the　period　(God　help　us!)　when　Ethel　Barrymore　appeared　in　blackface　in　Scarlet　Sister　Mary!　It　was　the　period　when　the　Negro　was　in　vogue.

I　was　there.　I　had　a　swell　time　while　it　lasted.　But　I　thought　it　wouldnt　last　long.　(I　remember　the　vogue　for　things　Russian,　the　season　the　ChauveSouris　first　came　to　town.)　For　how　could　a　large　and　enthusiastic　number　of　people　be　crazy　about　Negroes　forever?　But　some　Harlemites　thought　the　millennium　had　come.　They　thought　the　race　problem　had　at　last　been　solved　through　Art　plus　Gladys　Bentley.　They　were　sure　the　New　Negro　would　lead　a　new　life　from　then　on　in　green　pastures　of　tolerance　created　by　Countee　Cullen,　Ethel　Waters,　Claude　McKay,　Duke　Ellington,　Bojangles,　and　Alain　LockeAlain　Locke:　有哈莱姆文艺复兴助产士之称，他所主编的《新黑人》（1925）开启“新黑人”的文化模式。　.

I　dont　know　what　made　any　Negroes　think　that—except　that　they　were　mostly　intellectuals　doing　the　thinking.　The　ordinary　Negroes　hadnt　heard　of　the　Negro　Renaissance.　And　if　they　had,　it　hadnt　raised　their　wages　any.　As　for　all　those　white　folks　in　the　speakeasies　and　night　clubs　of　Harlem—well,　maybe　a　colored　man　could　find　some　place　to　have　a　drink　that　the　tourists　hadnt　yet　discovered.

Then　it　was　that　houserent　parties　began　to　flourish—and　not　always　to　raise　the　rent　either.　But,　as　often　as　not,　to　have　a　gettogether　of　ones　own,　where　you　could　do　the　blackbottom　with　no　stranger　behind　you　trying　to　do　it,　too.　Nontheatrical,　nonintellectual　Harlem　was　an　unwilling　victim　of　its　own　vogue.　It　didnt　like　to　be　stared　at　by　white　folks.　But　perhaps　the　downtowners　never　knew　this—for　the　cabaret　owners,　the　entertainers,　and　the　speakeasy　proprietors　treated　them　fine—as　long　as　they　paid.

The　Saturday　night　rent　parties　that　I　attended　were　often　more　amusing　than　any　night　club,　in　small　apartments　where　God　knows　who　lived—because　the　guests　seldom　did—but　where　the　piano　would　often　be　augmented　by　a　guitar,　or　an　odd　cornet,　or　somebody　with　a　pair　of　drums　walking　in　off　the　street.　And　where　awful　bootleg　whiskey　and　good　fried　fish　or　steaming　chitterling　were　sold　at　very　low　prices.　And　the　dancing　and　singing　and　impromptu　entertaining　went　on　until　dawn　came　in　at　the　windows.

These　parties,　often　termed　whist　parties　or　dances,　were　usually　announced　by　brightly　colored　cards　stuck　in　the　grille　of　apartment　house　elevators.　Some　of　the　cards　were　highly　entertaining　in　themselves:

Almost　every　Saturday　night　when　I　was　in　Harlem　I　went　to　a　houserent　party.　I　wrote　lots　of　poems　about　houserent　parties,　and　ate　thereat　many　a　fried　fish　and　pigs　foot—with　liquid　refreshments　on　the　side.　I　met　ladies　maids　and　truck　drivers,　laundry　workers　and　shoe　shine　boys,　seamstresses　and　porters.　I　can　still　hear　their　laughter　in　my　ears,　hear　the　soft　slow　music,　and　feel　the　floor　shaking　as　the　dancers　danced.

Harlem　Literati　休斯介绍了很多黑人艺术家，为我们全面、深入地了解那个时代提供了第一手的信息。

The　summer　of　1926,　I　lived　in　a　rooming　house　on　137th　Street,　where　Wallace　Thurman　and　Harcourt　Tynes　also　lived.　Thurman　was　then　managing　editor　of　the　Messenger,　a　Negro　magazine　that　had　a　curious　career.　It　began　by　being　very　radical,　racial,　and　socialistic,　just　after　the　war.　I　believe　it　received　a　grant　from　the　Garland　Fund　in　its　early　days.　Then　it　later　became　a　kind　of　Negro　society　magazine　and　a　plugger　for　Negro　business,　with　photographs　of　prominent　colored　ladies　and　their　nice　homes　in　it.　A.　Philip　Randolph,　now　President　of　the　Brotherhood　of　Sleeping　Car　Porters,　Chandler　Owen,　and　George　S.　Schuyler　were　connected　with　it.　Schuylers　editorials,　a　la　Mencken,　were　the　most　interesting　things　in　the　magazine,　verbal　brickbats　that　said　sometimes　one　thing,　sometimes　another,　but　always　vigorously.　I　asked　Thurman　what　kind　of　magazine　the　Messenger　was,　and　he　said　it　reflected　the　policy　of　whoever　paid　off　best　at　the　time.

Anyway,　the　Messenger　bought　my　first　short　stories.　They　paid　me　ten　dollars　a　story.　Wallace　Thurman　wrote　me　that　they　were　very　bad　stories,　but　better　than　any　others　they　could　find,　so　he　published　them.

Thurman　had　recently　come　from　California　to　New　York.　He　was　a　strangely　brilliant　black　boy,　who　had　read　everything,　and　whose　critical　mind　could　find　something　wrong　with　everything　he　read.　I　have　no　critical　mind,　so　I　usually　either　like　a　book　or　dont.　But　I　am　not　capable　of　liking　a　book　and　then　finding　a　million　things　wrong　with　it,　too—as　Thurman　was　capable　of　doing.

Thurman　had　read　so　many　books　because　he　could　read　eleven　lines　at　a　time.　He　would　get　from　the　library　a　great　pile　of　volumes　that　would　have　taken　me　a　year　to　read.　But　he　would　go　through　them　in　less　than　a　week,　and　be　able　to　discuss　each　one　at　great　length　with　anybody.　That　was　why,　I　suppose,　he　was　later　given　a　job　as　a　reader　at　Macaulays—the　only　Negro　reader,　so　far　as　I　know,　to　be　employed　by　any　of　the　larger　publishing　firms.

Later　Thurman　became　a　ghost　writer　for　True　Story,　and　other　publications,　writing　under　all　sorts　of　fantastic　names,　like　Ethel　Belle　Mandrake　or　Patrick　Casey.　He　did　Irish　and　Jewish　and　Catholic　“true　confessions.”　He　collaborated　with　William　Jordan　Rapp　on　plays　and　novels.　Later　he　ghosted　books.　In　fact,　this　quite　dark　young　Negro　is　said　to　have　written　Men,　Women,　and　Checks.

Wallace　Thurman　wanted　to　be　a　great　writer,　but　none　of　his　own　work　ever　made　him　happy.　The　Blacker　the　Berry,　his　first　book,　was　an　important　novel　on　a　subject　little　dwelt　upon　in　Negro　fiction—the　plight　of　the　very　dark　Negro　woman,　who　encounters　in　some　communities　a　double　wall　of　color　prejudice　within　and　without　the　race.　His　play　Harlem,　considerably　distorted　for　box　office　purposes,　was,　nevertheless,　a　compelling　study—and　the　only　one　in　the　theater—of　the　impact　of　Harlem　on　a　Negro　family　fresh　from　the　South.　And　his　Infants　of　the　Spring,　a　superb　and　bitter　study　of　the　bohemian　fringe　of　Harlems　literary　and　artistic　life,　is　a　compelling　book.

But　none　of　these　things　pleased　Wallace　Thurman.　He　wanted　to　be　a　very　great　writer,　like　Gorki　or　Thomas　Mann,　and　he　felt　that　he　was　merely　a　journalistic　writer.　His　critical　mind,　comparing　his　pages　to　the　thousands　of　other　pages　he　had　read,　by　Proust,　Melville,　Tolstoy,　Galsworthy,　Dostoyevski,　Henry　James,　SainteBeauve,　Taine,　Anatole　France,　found　his　own　pages　vastly　wanting.　So　he　contented　himself　by　writing　a　great　deal　for　money,　laughing　bitterly　at　his　fabulously　concocted　“true　stories,”　creating　two　bad　motion　pictures　of　the　“Adults　Only”　type　for　Hollywood,　drinking　more　and　more　gin,　and　then　threatening　to　jump　out　of　windows　at　peoples　parties　and　kill　himself.

During　the　summer　of　1926,　Wallace　Thurman,　Zora　Neale　Hurston,　Aaron　Douglas,　John　P.　Davis,　Bruce　Nugent,　Gwendolyn　Bennett,　and　I　decided　to　publish　“a　Negro　quarterly　of　the　arts”　to　be　called　Fire—the　idea　being　that　it　would　burn　up　a　lot　of　the　old,　dead　conventional　Negrowhite　ideas　of　the　past,　épater　le　bourgeois　into　a　realization　of　the　existence　of　the　younger　Negro　writers　and　artists,　and　provide　us　with　an　outlet　for　publication　not　available　in　the　limited　pages　of　the　small　Negro　magazines　then　existing,　the　Crisis,　Opportunity,　and　the　Messenger哈莱姆文艺复兴时期的重要黑人杂志，特别是《危机》和《机遇》杂志，发表了很多年轻黑人作者的诗歌、短篇小说等，成为促成哈莱姆文艺复兴产生的直接媒介。　—the　first　two　being　house　organs　of　interracial　organizations,　and　the　latter　being　God　knows　what.

Sweltering　summer　evenings　we　met　to　plan　Fire.　Each　of　the　seven　of　us　agreed　to　give　fifty　dollars　to　finance　the　first　issue.　Thurman　was　to　edit　it,　John　P.　Davis　to　handle　the　business　end,　and　Bruce　Nugent　to　take　charge　of　distribution.　The　rest　of　us　were　to　serve　as　an　editorial　board　to　collect　material,　contribute　our　own　work,　and　act　in　any　useful　way　that　we　could.　For　artists　and　writers,　we　got　along　fine　and　there　were　no　quarrels.　But　October　came　before　we　were　ready　to　go　to　press.　I　had　to　return　to　Lincoln,　John　Davis　to　Law　School　at　Harvard,　Zora　Hurston　to　her　studies　at　Barnard,　from　whence　she　went　about　Harlem　with　an　anthropologists　ruler,　measuring　heads　for　Franz　Boas.

Only　three　of　the　seven　had　contributed　their　fifty　dollars,　but　the　others　faithfully　promised　to　send　theirs　out　of　tuition　checks,　wages,　or　begging.　Thurman　went　on　with　the　work　of　preparing　the　magazine.　He　got　a　printer.　He　planned　the　layout.　It　had　to　be　on　good　paper,　he　said,　worthy　of　the　drawings　of　Aaron　Douglas.　It　had　to　have　beautiful　type,　worthy　of　the　first　Negro　art　quarterly.　It　had　to　be　what　we　seven　young　Negroes　dreamed　our　magazine　would　be—so　in　the　end　it　cost　almost　a　thousand　dollars,　and　nobody　could　pay　the　bills.

I　dont　know　how　Thurman　persuaded　the　printer　to　let　us　have　all　the　copies　to　distribute,　but　he　did.　I　think　Alain　Locke,　among　others,　signed　notes　guaranteeing　payments.　But　since　Thurman　was　the　only　one　of　the　seven　of　us　with　a　regular　job,　for　the　next　three　or　four　years　his　checks　were　constantly　being　attached　and　his　income　seized　to　pay　for　Fire.　And　whenever　I　sold　a　poem,　mine　went　there,　too—to　Fire.

None　of　the　older　Negro　intellectuals　would　have　anything　to　do　with　Fire.　Dr.　Du　Bois　in　the　Crisis　roasted　it.　The　Negro　press　called　it　all　sorts　of　bad　names,　largely　because　of　a　green　and　purple　story　by　Bruce　Nugent,　in　the　Oscar　Wilde　tradition,　which　we　had　included.　Rean　Graves,　the　critic　for　the　Baltimore　AfroAmerican,　began　his　review　by　saying:　“I　have　just　tossed　the　first　issue　of　Fire　into　the　fire.”　Commenting　upon　various　of　our　contributors,　he　said:　“Aaron　Douglas　who,　in　spite　of　himself　and　the　meaningless　grotesqueness　of　his　creations,　has　gained　a　reputation　as　an　artist,　is　permitted　to　spoil　three　perfectly　good　pages　and　a　cover　with　his　pen　and　ink　hudge　pudge.　Countee　Cullen　has　written　a　beautiful　poem　in　his　‘From　a　Dark　Tower,’　but　tries　his　best　to　obscure　the　thought　in　superfluous　sentences.　Langston　Hughes　displays　his　usual　ability　to　say　nothing　in　many　words.”

So　Fire　had　plenty　of　cold　water　thrown　on　it　by　the　colored　critics.　The　white　critics　(except　for　an　excellent　editorial　in　the　Bookman　for　November,　1926)　scarcely　noticed　it　at　all.　We　had　no　way　of　getting　it　distributed　to　bookstands　or　news　stands.　Bruce　Nugent　took　it　around　New　York　on　foot　and　some　of　the　Greenwich　Village　bookshops　put　it　on　display,　and　sold　it　for　us.　But　then　Bruce,　who　had　no　job,　would　collect　the　money　and,　on　account　of　salary,　eat　it　up　before　he　got　back　to　Harlem.

Finally,　irony　of　ironies,　several　hundred　copies　of　Fire　were　stored　in　the　basement　of　an　apartment　where　an　actual　fire　occurred　and　the　bulk　of　the　whole　issue　was　burned　up.　Even　after　that　Thurman　had　to　go　on　paying　the　printer.

Now　Fire　is　a　collectors　item,　and　very　difficult　to　get,　being　mostly　ashes.

That　taught　me　a　lesson　about　little　magazines.　But　since　white　folks　had　them,　we　Negroes　thought　we　could　have　one,　too.　But　we　didnt　have　the　money.

Wallace　Thurman　laughed　a　long　bitter　laugh.　He　was　a　strange　kind　of　fellow,　who　liked　to　drink　gin,　but　didnt　like　to　drink　gin;　who　liked　being　a　Negro,　but　felt　it　a　great　handicap;　who　adored　bohemianism,　but　thought　it　wrong　to　be　a　bohemian.　He　liked　to　waste　a　lot　of　time,　but　he　always　felt　guilty　wasting　time.　He　loathed　crowds,　yet　he　hated　to　be　alone.　He　almost　always　felt　bad,　yet　he　didnt　write　poetry.

Once　I　told　him　if　I　could　feel　as　bad　as　he　did　all　the　time,　I　would　surely　produce　wonderful　books.　But　he　said　you　had　to　know　how　to　write,　as　well　as　how　to　feel　bad.　I　said　I　didnt　have　to　know　how　to　feel　bad,　because,　every　so　often,　the　blues　just　naturally　overtook　me,　like　a　blind　beggar　with　an　old　guitar:

You　dont　know,

You　dont　know　my　mind—

When　you　see　me　laughin’,

Im　laughin’　to　keep　from　cryin’.

About　the　future　of　Negro　literature　Thurman　was　very　pessimistic.　He　thought　the　Negro　vogue　had　made　us　all　too　conscious　of　ourselves,　had　flattered　and　spoiled　us,　and　had　provided　too　many　easy　opportunities　for　some　of　us　to　drink　gin　and　more　gin,　on　which　he　thought　we　would　always　be　drunk.　With　his　bitter　sense　of　humor　he　called　the　Harlem　literati　the　“niggerati.”

Of　this　“niggerati,”　Zora　Neale　Hurston　was　certainly　the　most　amusing.　Only　to　reach　a　wider　audience,　need　she　ever　write　books—because　she　is　a　perfect　book　of　entertainment　in　herself.　In　her　youth　she　was　always　getting　scholarships　and　things　from　wealthy　white　people,　some　of　whom　simply　paid　her　just　to　sit　around　and　represent　the　Negro　race　for　them,　she　did　it　in　such　a　racy　fashion.　She　was　full　of　sidesplitting　anecdotes,　humorous　tales,　and　tragicomic　stories,　remembered　out　of　her　life　in　the　South　as　a　daughter　of　a　travelling　minister　of　God.　She　could　make　you　laugh　one　minute　and　cry　the　next.　To　many　of　her　white　friends,　no　doubt,　she　was　a　perfect　“darkie,”　in　the　nice　meaning　they　give　the　term—that　is　a　naive,　childlike,　sweet,　humorous,　and　highly　colored　Negro.

But　Miss　Hurston　was　clever,　too—a　student　who　didnt　let　college　give　her　a　broad　a　and　who　had　great　scorn　for　all　pretensions,　academic　or　otherwise.　That　is　why　she　was　such　a　fine　folklore　collector,　able　to　go　among　the　people　and　never　act　as　if　she　had　been　to　school　at　all.　Almost　nobody　else　could　stop　the　average　Harlemite　on　Lenox　Avenue　and　measure　his　head　with　a　strange　looking,　anthropological　device　and　not　get　bawled　out　for　the　attempt,　except　Zora,　who　used　to　stop　anyone　whose　head　looked　interesting,　and　measure　it.

When　Miss　Hurston　graduated　from　Barnard　she　took　an　apartment　In　West　66th　Street　near　the　park,　in　that　row　of　Negro　houses　there.　She　moved　in　with　no　furniture　at　all　and　no　money,　but　in　a　few　days　friends　had　given　her　everything,　from　decorative　silver　birds,　perched　atop　the　linen　cabinet,　down　to　a　footstool.　And　on　Saturday　night,　to　christen　the　place,　she　had　a　handchicken　dinner,　since　she　had　forgotten　to　say　she　needed　forks.

She　seemed　to　know　almost　everybody　in　New　York.　She　had　been　a　secretary　to　Fannie　Hurst,　and　had　met　dozens　of　celebrities　whose　friendship　she　retained.　Yet　she　was　always　having　terrific　upsanddowns　about　money.　She　tells　this　story　on　herself,　about　needing　a　nickel　to　go　downtown　one　day　and　wondering　where　on　earth　she　would　get　it.　As　she　approached　the　subway,　she　was　stopped　by　a　blind　beggar　holding　out　his　cup.

“Please　help　the　blind!　Help　the　blind!　A　nickel　for　the　blind!”

“I　need　money　worse　than　you　today,”　said　Miss　Hurston,　taking　five　cents　out　of　his　cup.　“Lend　me　this!　Next　time,　Ill　give　it　back.”　And　she　went　on　downtown.

Harlem　was　like　a　great　magnet　for　the　Negro　intellectual,　pulling　him　from　everywhere.　Or　perhaps　the　magnet　was　New　York—but　once　in　New　York,　he　had　to　live　in　Harlem,　for　rooms　were　hardly　to　be　found　elsewhere　unless　one　could　pass　for　white　or　Mexican　or　Eurasian　and　perhaps　live　in　the　Village—which　always　seemed　to　me　a　very　arty　locale,　in　spite　of　the　many　real　artists　and　writers　who　lived　there.　Only　a　few　of　the　New　Negroes　lived　in　the　Village,　Harlem　being　their　real　stamping　ground.

The　wittiest　of　these　New　Negroes　of　Harlem,　whose　tongue　was　flavored　with　the　sharpest　and　saltiest　humor,　was　Rudolph　Fisher,　whose　stories　appeared　in　the　Atlantic　Monthly.　His　novel　Walls　of　Jericho　captures　but　slightly　the　raciness　of　his　own　conversation.　He　was　a　young　medical　doctor　and　Xray　specialist,　who　always　frightened　me　a　little,　because　he　could　think　of　the　most　incisively　clever　things　to　say—and　I　could　never　think　of　anything　to　answer.　He　and　Alain　Locke　together　were　great　for　intellectual　wisecracking.　The　two　would　fling　big　and　witty　words　about　with　such　swift　and　punning　innuendo　that　an　ordinary　mortal　just　sat　and　looked　wary　for　fear　of　being　caught　in　a　net　of　witticisms　beyond　his　cultural　ken.　I　used　to　wish　I　could　talk　like　Rudolph　Fisher.　Besides　being　a　good　writer,　he　was　an　excellent　singer,　and　had　sung　with　Paul　Robeson　during　their　college　days.　But　I　guess　Fisher　was　too　brilliant　and　too　talented　to　stay　long　on　this　earth.　During　the　same　week,　in　December,　1934,　he　and　Wallace　Thurman　both　died.

Thurman　died　of　tuberculosis　in　the　charity　ward　at　Bellevue　Hospital,　having　just　flown　back　to　New　York　from　Hollywood.

Questions　for　Discussion

1.　Please　comment　on　Langston　Hughes　views　of　the　1920s　and　the　Harlem　Renaissance.

2.　White　people　flooded　to　Harlems　cabarets,　and　believed　that　all　Harlemites　left　their　houses　at　sundown　to　sing　and　dance　in　cabarets,　what　does　this　suggest?

3.　There　are　many　young　black　artists　and　writers　mentioned　in　The　Big　Sea,　and　in　the　selection　of　“Harlem　Literati”,　among　which　Wallace　Thurman　was　given　detailed　descriptions,　do　you　think　that　Wallace　Thurman　is　a　typical　character　in　the　Harlem　Renaissance?　And　how?

6.　Black　Boy

作者简介

赖特（Richard　Wright）（1908—1960）是20世纪美国著名黑人小说家、剧作家，也是一位自传作者。1940年出版的《土生子》为他赢得广泛赞誉，奠定了他在美国文学史上的重要地位。著名批评家欧文·豪甚至有所谓“《土生子》出版之日，即美国文化从此改变之时”之说。而其自传《黑孩子》（1945）的出版，进一步巩固了他在美国文坛的地位。

1908年，赖特出生于美国密西西比州的纳其兹——密西西比州属于种族歧视与种族隔离比较严重的地方。6岁时父亲弃家出走，他与母亲相依为命，后因母亲多病，不得不与笃信宗教的外婆生活，赖特的童年生活非常凄苦。因为经常搬家，他无法完成正规学业，但是他阅读兴趣广泛，深受美国作家门肯、德莱塞、安德森以及俄国作家陀思妥耶夫斯基等人的影响。

为改善自己的处境，他1927年离开南方，来到芝加哥谋生，打过很多零工。美国经济大萧条时期，他参与美国联邦作家项目，得以结识美国左翼作家，为左翼刊物撰稿，继而加入美国共产党；但是因不满其他人的偏颇、狭隘，他1944年退出美共，但是这段“激情燃烧的岁月”成为他创作的底色与背景，深刻地影响着他的思想与创作。

1938年，赖特的第一部短篇小说集《汤姆叔叔的孩子》问世，该书重点关注美国南方黑人遭受的种族歧视与暴力；1940年出版的小说《土生子》主要聚焦芝加哥南岸黑人区的黑人生活，塑造了新的黑人形象——与美国主流社会熟悉的汤姆叔叔形象截然相反的黑人主人公别格·托马斯，挑战了美国社会的种族主义，以及自由主义者的“伪善”，但是其不加修饰的残忍与赤裸裸的暴力也引发很多人的反感。赖特1945出版的自传《黑孩子》进一步巩固了他在美国文坛的地位，把他的声誉推至顶峰。应出版社要求，本书只保留了赖特在南方生活的部分，直到1992年，他来到芝加哥以后的岁月才被收录在美国图书馆新出版的《黑孩子》自传中。

赖特不仅是位小说家，也具有明确的批评意识，他的论文“黑人文学的蓝图”（1937）和“美国的黑人文学”（1957）等反映了20世纪30年代美国文坛的左翼倾向以及50年代的融合诗学，体现了他对（非裔）美国文学传统及其发展趋势的准确把握与认识，成为非裔美国文学批评中的重要文献。

因为无法忍受美国社会对黑人的种族歧视与偏见，1947年，赖特举家迁居法国，他与萨特、波伏娃、加缪等法国著名作家为友，创作了存在主义小说《局外人》（1953），以及注重心理探索的《野蛮的假日》（1954）与《伟大的梦想》（1958）等作品，但是遗憾的是，这些作品都未能达到他早期作品的社会影响力与接受度。此外，赖特还出版了多部游记类作品，如《黑人权力》（1954）、《有色窗帘》（1956）、《异教的西班牙》（1957）和《听着，白人！》（1957）等，其中《黑人权力》描绘了1953年加纳的独立及其反殖民政策，《听着，白人！》则表达了赖特尝试打破帝国主义话语，重点书写西方的黑人历史的愿望。

赖特的创作旨在解构美国的种族主义意识形态，揭露其对美国黑人族群的歧视与压迫，尝试消除其对黑人心灵的腐蚀作用，至今仍有不容忽视的现实意义。

作品简介与赏析

饱受饥饿之苦的赖特，在其成名作《土生子》中重点描绘了北方城市黑人青年别格的愤怒、恐惧与逃亡；在其自传《黑孩子》中，他详细描绘了自己悲惨的童年经历，以及穷苦的黑人家庭成员相依为命的艰难，以具体的事例，揭露美国南方的种族歧视，特别是白人对黑人政治上的压迫、经济上的剥削，以及文化上的偏见，成为与道格拉斯的《自述》（1845）、布克·华盛顿的《力争上游》（1901）、马尔科姆·艾克斯的《马尔科姆·艾克斯自传》（1965）以及安吉洛的《我知道笼中鸟为何歌唱》（1970）等齐名的非裔美国自传杰作，对非裔美国自传创作以及非裔美国文学均产生了比较大的影响。

《黑孩子》第一版以4岁的赖特放火烧自己家的帘子开始，以他勇敢地离开南方到芝加哥谋生结束，比较详细地描绘了敏感、孤独的黑人少年的成长历程。如果自传开始部分叙述自己烧家里帘子的破坏举动预示了他的反叛性格与抗争精神，那么他长大后北上寻找新生活的举动则不仅是其个人选择，也反映了许多南方黑人迁徙北方寻求自由的历史，与传统奴隶叙事的承继关系一目了然。更为重要的是，像许多杰出的奴隶叙事作品一样，赖特的《黑孩子》虽然讲述的是其个人的成长经历，但是却反映黑人族群在美国的社会经历与生命状态，具有比较普适的意义。

读罢此书，读者不仅了解了其父亲的佃农身份及其悲苦处境，更意识到内战后被解放的黑人与内战前的奴隶并没有本质上的区别，寻求自由依然是他们生活中的最高目标；此外，他观察到自己父母对外界的粗暴反应，他们漫无目的地发泄自己的愤怒，表明某些黑人已经内化对他们受到的压迫，并施加到自己的孩子或其他弱小者身上。对孩子的心灵伤害预示着孩子们长大成人后的愤怒与反叛——这种恶性循环的毒素始终在黑人社区弥漫，造成更多的黑人之间的相互伤害。

作为传主，赖特非常真诚，在这部自传中对自己外婆近乎迂腐的虔信宗教不无调侃，对自己小姨的莫名愤怒既反映了青春期少年的敏感多疑，也反映了寄人篱下者的心理上的不平衡及其极端表现，但是，这种对美国黑人家庭的“病理性”描绘也遭到杜波伊斯等杰出黑人学者的批判，认为这有违黑人文艺应该正面“宣传”的功能。

当然，《黑孩子》中揭示最多的还是赖特面临或遭遇的种族歧视。他描绘了白人因觊觎姨父霍斯金利润可观的酒水生意，就对其处以私刑，害得他们家人连夜逃亡的经历；以及他们无论在南方的哪个地方生活，都几乎随处可见黑人遭遇的各种不公与歧视，几乎随处可见白人警察的残暴，白人的强奸、私刑、羞辱与无端指责。在此环境下，他被迫学会了保护自己的策略，压低自己的声音，不让白人感到受到挑衅或冒犯。

《黑孩子》的力量在于，赖特不仅发现了文学的世界，也以文学的方式向世界呈现美国黑人族群的生活，让黑人自传见证美国社会的不公与歧视，让美国文学感受一种新的来自黑人族群的声音。

Chapter　13　本章重点叙述赖特通过借阅门肯等人的著作，进一步扩大眼界，并认识到文字的解放力量，预示着他后来的创作之路。

One　morning　I　arrived　early　at　work　and　went　into　the　bank　lobby　where　the　Negro　porter　was　mopping.　I　stood　at　a　counter　and　picked　up　the　Memphis　Commercial　Appeal　and　began　my　free　reading　of　the　press.　I　came　finally　to　the　editorial　page　and　saw　an　article　dealing　with　one　H.　L.　Mencken.H.L.　Mencken:门肯（1880—1956），20世纪初美国著名文化批评家。　I　knew　by　hearsay　that　he　was　the　editor　of　the　American　Mercury,　but　aside　from　that　I　knew　nothing　about　him.　The　article　was　a　furious　denunciation　of　Mencken,　concluding　with　one,　hot,　short　sentence:　Mencken　is　a　fool.

I　wondered　what　on　earth　this　Mencken　had　done　to　call　down　upon　him　the　scorn　of　the　South.　The　only　people　I　had　ever　heard　denounced　in　the　South　were　Negroes,　and　this　man　was　not　a　Negro.　Then　what　ideas　did　Mencken　hold　that　made　a　newspaper　like　the　Commercial　Appeal　castigate　him　publicly?　Undoubtedly　he　must　be　advocating　ideas　that　the　South　did　not　like.　Were　there,　then,　people　other　than　Negroes　who　criticized　the　South?　I　knew　that　during　the　Civil　War　the　South　had　hated　northern　whites,　but　I　had　not　encountered　such　hate　during　my　life.　Knowing　no　more　of　Mencken　than　I　did　at　that　moment,　I　felt　a　vague　sympathy　for　him.　Had　not　the　South,　which　had　assigned　me　the　role　of　a　nonman,　cast　at　him　its　hardest　words.

Now,　how　could　I　find　out　about　this　Mencken?There　was　a　huge　library　near　the　riverfront,　but　I　knew　that　Negroes　were　not　allowed　to　patronize　its　shelves　any　more　than　they　were　the　parks　and　playgrounds　of　the　city.　I　had　gone　into　the　library　several　times　to　get　books　for　the　white　men　on　the　job.　Which　of　them　would　now　help　me　to　get　books?　And　how　could　I　read　them　without　causing　concern　to　the　white　men　with　whom　I　worked?　I　had　so　far　been　success　in　hiding　my　thoughts　and　feelings　from　them,　but　I　knew　that　I　would　create　hostility　if　I　went　about　this　business　of　reading　in　a　clumsy　way.

I　weighed　the　personalities　of　the　men　on　the　job.　There　was　Don,　a　Jew;　but　I　distrusted　him.　His　position　was　not　much　better　than　mine　and　I　knew　that　he　was　uneasy　and　insecure;　he　had　always　treated　me　in　an　offhand,　bantering　way　that　barely　concealed　his　contempt.　I　was　afraid　to　ask　him　to　help　me　to　get　books;　his　frantic　desire　to　demonstrate　a　racial　solidarity　with　the　whites　against　Negroes　might　make　him　betray　me.

Then　how　about　the　boss?　No,　he　was　a　Baptist　and　I　had　the　suspicion　that　he　would　not　be　quite　able　to　comprehend　why　a　black　boy　would　want　to　read　Mencken.　There　were　other　white　men　on　the　job　whose　attitudes　showed　clearly　that　they　were　Kluxers　or　sympathizers,　and　they　were　out　of　the　question.

There　remained　only　one　man　whose　attitude　did　not　fit　into　an　antiNegro　category,　for　I　had　heard　the　white　men　refer　to　him　as　a　“Pope　lover.”　He　was　an　Irish　Catholic　and　was　hated　by　the　white　Southerners.　I　knew　that　he　read　books,　because　I　had　got　him　volumes　from　the　library　several　times.　Since　he,　too,　was　an　object　of　hatred,　I　felt　that　he　might　refuse　me　but　would　hardly　betray　me.　I　hesitated,　weighing　and　balancing　the　imponderable　realities.

One　morning　I　paused　before　the　Catholic　fellows　desk.

“I　want　to　ask　you　a　favor,”　I　whispered　to　him.

“What　is　it?”

“I　want　to　read.　I　cant　get　books　from　the　library.　I　wonder　if　youd　let　me　use　your　card?”

He　looked　at　me　suspiciously.

“My　card　is　full　most　of　the　time,”　he　said.

“I　see,”　I　said　and　waited,　posing　my　question　silently.

“Youre　not　trying　to　get　me　into　trouble,　are　you,　boy?”　he　asked,　staring　at　me.

“Oh,　no,　sir.”

“What　book　do　you　want?”

“A　book　by　H.　L.　Mencken.”

“Which　one?”

“I　dont　know.　Has　he　written　more　than　one?”

“He　has　written　several.”

“I　didnt　know　that.”

“What　makes　you　want　to　read　Mencken?”

“Oh,　I　just　saw　his　name　in　the　newspaper,”　I　said.

“Its　good　of　you　to　want　to　read,”　he　said.　“But　you　ought　to　read　the　right　things.”

I　said　nothing.　Would　he　want　to　supervise　my　reading?

“Let　me　think,”　he　said.　“Ill　figure　out　something.”

I　turned　from　him　and　he　called　me　back.　He　stared　at　me　quizzically.

“Richard,　dont　mention　this　to　the　other　white　men,”　he　said.

“I　understand,”　I　said.　“I　wont　say　a　word.”

A　few　days　later　he　called　me　to　him.

“Ive　got　a　card　in　my　wifes　name,”　he　said.　“Heres　mine.”

“Thank　you,　sir.”

“Do　you　think　you　can　manage　it?”

“Ill　manage　fine,”　I　said.

“If　they　suspect　you,　youll　get　in　trouble,”　he　said.

“Ill　write　the　same　kind　of　notes　to　the　library　that　you　wrote　when　you　sent　me　for　books,”　I　told　him.　“Ill　sign　your　name.”

He　laughed.

“Go　ahead.　Let　me　see　what　you　get,”　he　said.

That　afternoon　I　addressed　myself　to　forging　a　note.　Now,　what　were　the　names　of　books　written　by　H.　L.　Mencken?　I　did　not　know　any　of　them.　I　finally　wrote　what　I　thought　would　be　a　foolproof　note:　Dear　Madam:　Will　you　please　let　this　nigger　boy—I　used　the　word　“nigger”　to　make　the　librarian　feel　that　I　could　not　possibly　be　the　author　of　the　note—have　some　books　by　H.　L.　Mencken?　I　forged　the　white　mans　name.

I　entered　the　library　as　I　had　always　done　when　on　errands　for　whites,　but　I　felt　that　I　would　somehow　slip　up　and　betray　myself.　I　doffed　my　hat,　stood　a　respectful　distance　from　the　desk,　looked　as　unbookish　as　possible,　and　waited　for　the　white　patrons　to　be　taken　care　of.　When　the　desk　was　clear　of　people,　I　still　waited.　The　white　librarian　looked　at　me.

“What　do　you　want,　boy?”

As　though　I　did　not　possess　the　power　of　speech,　I　stepped　forward　and　simply　handed　her　the　forged　note,　not　parting　my　lips.

“What　books　by　Mencken　does　he　want?”　she　asked.

“I　dont　know,　maam,”　I　said,　avoiding　her　eyes.

“Who　gave　you　this　card?”

“Mr.　Falk,”　I　said.

“Where　is　he?”

“Hes　at　work,　at　the　M—Optical　Company,”　I　said.　“Ive　been　in　here　for　him　before.”

“I　remember,”　the　woman　said.　“But　he　never　wrote　notes　like　this.”

Oh,　God,　shes　suspicious.　Perhaps　she　would　not　let　me　have　the　books?　If　she　had　turned　her　back　at　that　moment,　I　would　have　ducked　out　the　door　and　never　gone　back.　Then　I　thought　of　a　bold　idea.

“You　can　call　him　up,　maam,”　I　said,　my　heart　pounding.

“Youre　not　using　these　books,　are　you?”　she　asked　pointedly.

“Oh,　no,　maam.　I　cant　read.”

“I　dont　know　what　he　wants　by　Mencken,”　she　said　under　her　breath.

I　knew　now　that　I　had　won;　she　was　thinking　of　other　things　and　the　race　question　had　gone　out　of　her　mind.　She　went　to　the　shelves.　Once　or　twice　she　looked　over　her　shoulder　at　me,　as　though　she　was　still　doubtful.　Finally　she　came　forward　with　two　books　in　her　hand.

“Im　sending　him　two　books,”　she　said.　“But　tell　Mr.　Falk　to　come　in　next　time,　or　send　me　the　names　of　the　books　he　wants.　I　dont　know　what　he　wants　to　read.”

I　said　nothing.　She　stamped　the　card　and　handed　me　the　books.　Not　daring　to　glance　at　them,　I　went　out　of　the　library,fearing　that　the　woman　would　call　me　back　for　further　questioning.　A　block　away　from　the　library　I　opened　one　of　the　books　and　read　a　title:　A　Book　of　Prefaces.　I　was　nearing　my　nineteenth　birthday　and　I　did　not　know　how　to　pronounce　the　word　“preface.”　I　thumbed　the　pages　and　saw　strange　words　and　strange　names.　I　shook　my　head,　disappointed.　I　looked　at　the　other　book;　it　was　called　Prejudices.　I　knew　what　that　word　meant;　I　had　heard　it　all　my　life.　And　right　off　I　was　on　guard　against　Menckens　books.　Why　would　a　man　want　to　call　a　book　Prejudices?　The　word　was　so　stained　with　all　my　memories　of　racial　hate　that　I　could　not　conceive　of　anybody　using　it　for　a　title.　Perhaps　I　had　made　a　mistake　about　Mencken?　A　man　who　had　prejudices　must　be　wrong.

When　I　showed　the　books　to　Mr.　Falk,　he　looked　at　me　and　frowned.

“That　librarian　might　telephone　you,”　I　warned　him.

“Thats　all　right,”　he　said.　“But　when　youre　through　reading　those　books,　I　want　you　to　tell　me　what　you　get　out　of　them.”

That　night　in　my　rented　room,　while　letting　the　hot　water　run　over　my　can　of　pork　and　beans　in　the　sink,　I　opened　A　Book　of　Prefaces　and　began　to　read.　I　was　jarred　and　shocked　by　the　style,　the　clear,　clean,　sweeping　sentences.　Why　did　he　write　like　that?　And　how　did　one　write　like　that?　I　pictured　the　man　as　a　raging　demon,　slashing　with　his　pen,　consumed　with　hate,　denouncing　everything　American,　extolling　everything　European　or　German,　laughing　at　the　weaknesses　of　people,　mocking　God,　authority.　What　was　this?　I　stood　up,　trying　to　realize　what　reality　lay　behind　the　meaning　of　the　words...Yes,　this　man　was　fighting,　fighting　with　words.　He　was　using　words　as　a　weapon,　using　them　as　one　would　use　a　club.　Could　words　be　weapons?　Well,　yes,　for　here　they　were.　Then,　maybe,　perhaps,　I　could　use　them　as　a　weapon?　No.　It　frightened　me.　I　read　on　and　what　amazed　me　was　not　what　he　said,　but　how　on　earth　anybody　had　the　courage　to　say　it.

Occasionally　I　glanced　up　to　reassure　myself　that　I　was　alone　in　the　room.　Who　were　these　men　about　whom　Mencken　was　talking　so　passionately?　Who　was　Anatole　France?　Joseph　Conrad?　Sinclair　Lewis,　Sherwood　Anderson,　Dostoevski,　George　Moor,　Gustave　Flaubert,　Maupassant,　Tolstoy,　Frank　Harris,　Mark　Twain,　Thomas　Hardy,　Arnold　Bennett,　Stephen　Crane,　Zola,　Norris,　Gorky,　Bergson,　Ibsen,　Balzac,　Bernard　Shaw,　Dumas,　Poe,　Thomas　Mann,　O.　Henry,　Dreiser,　H.　G.　Wells,　Gogol,　T.　S.　Eliot,　Gide,　Baudelaire,　Edgar　Lee　Masters,　Stendhal,　Turgenev,　Huneker,　Nietzsche,　and　scores　of　others?　Were　these　men　real?　Did　they　exist　or　had　they　existed?　And　how　did　one　pronounce　their　names?

I　ran　across　many　words　whose　meanings　I　did　not　know,　and　I　either　looked　them　up　in　a　dictionary　or,　before　I　had　a　chance　to　do　that,　encountered　the　word　in　a　context　that　made　its　meaning　clear.　But　what　strange　world　was　this?　I　concluded　the　book　with　the　conviction　that　I　had　somehow　overlooked　something　terribly　important　in　life.　I　had　once　tried　to　write,　had　once　reveled　in　feeling,　had　let　my　crude　imagination　roam,　but　the　impulse　to　dream　had　been　slowly　beaten　out　of　me　by　experience.　Now　it　surged　up　again　and　I　hungered　for　books,　new　ways　of　looking　and　seeing.　It　was　not　a　matter　of　believing　or　disbelieving　what　I　read,　but　of　feeling　something　new,　of　being　affected　by　something　that　made　the　look　of　the　world　different.

As　dawn　broke　I　ate　my　pork　and　beans,　feeling　dopey,　sleepy.　I　went　to　work,　but　the　mood　of　the　book　would　not　die;　it　lingered,　coloring　everything　I　saw,　heard,　did.　I　now　felt　that　I　knew　what　the　white　men　were　feeling.　Merely　because　I　had　read　a　book　that　had　spoken　of　how　they　lived　and　thought,　I　identified　myself　with　that　book.　I　felt　vaguely　guilty.　Would　I,　filled　with　bookish　notions,　act　in　a　manner　that　would　make　the　whites　dislike　me?

I　forged　more　notes　and　my　trips　to　the　library　became　frequent.　Reading　grew　into　a　passion.　My　first　serious　novel　was　Sinclair　Lewiss　Main　Street.　Sinclair　Lewis：辛克莱·刘易斯（1885—1951），美国第一位获得诺贝尔文学奖的小说家，对美国中产阶级生活的描绘入木三分，代表作品有《大街》和《巴比特》等。It　made　me　see　my　boss,　Mr.　Gerald,　and　identify　him　as　an　American　type.　I　would　smile　when　I　saw　him　lugging　his　golf　bags　into　the　office.　I　had　always　felt　a　vast　distance　separating　me　from　the　boss,　and　now　I　felt　closer　to　him,　though　still　distant.　I　felt　now　that　I　knew　him,　that　I　could　feel　the　very　limits　of　his　narrow　life.　And　this　had　happened　because　I　had　read　a　novel　about　a　mythical　man　called　George　F.　Babbitt.

The　plots　and　stories　in　the　novels　did　not　interest　me　so　much　as　the　point　of　view　revealed.　I　gave　myself　over　to　each　novel　without　reserve,　without　trying　to　criticize　it;　it　was　enough　for　me　to　see　and　feel　something　different.　And　for　me,　everything　was　something　different.　Reading　was　like　a　drug,　a　dope.　The　novels　created　moods　in　which　I　lived　for　days.　But　I　could　not　conquer　my　sense　of　guilt,　my　feeling　that　the　white　men　around　me　knew　that　I　was　changing,　that　I　had　begun　to　regard　them　differently.

Whenever　I　brought　a　book　to　the　job,　I　wrapped　it　in　newspaper—a　habit　that　was　to　persist　for　years　in　other　cities　and　under　other　circumstances.　But　some　of　the　white　men　pried　into　my　packages　when　I　was　absent　and　they　questioned　me.

“Boy,what　are　you　reading　those　books　for?”

“Oh,　I　dont　know,　sir.”

“Thats　deep　stuff　youre　reading,　boy.”

“Im　just　killing　time,　sir.”

“Youll　addle　your　brains　if　you　dont　watch　out.”

I　read　Dreisers　Jennie　Gerhardt　and　Sister　CarrieDreiser:德莱塞（Theodore　Dreiser），美国著名自然主义作家，重要作品有《嘉莉妹妹》（1900）和《美国悲剧》（1925）等。and　they　revived　in　me　a　vivid　sense　of　my　mothers　suffering;　I　was　overwhelmed.　I　grew　silent,　wondering　about　the　life　around　me.　It　would　have　been　impossible　for　me　to　have　told　anyone　what　I　derived　from　these　novels,　for　it　was　nothing　less　than　a　sense　of　life　itself.　All　my　life　had　shaped　me　for　the　realism,　the　naturalism　of　the　modern　novel,　and　I　could　not　read　enough　of　them.

Steeped　in　new　moods　and　ideas,　I　bought　a　ream　of　paper　and　tried　to　write;　but　nothing　would　come,　or　what　did　come　was　flat　beyond　telling.　I　discovered　that　more　than　desire　and　feeling　were　necessary　to　write　and　I　dropped　the　idea.　Yet　I　still　wondered　how　it　was　possible　to　know　people　sufficiently　to　write　about　them?　Could　I　ever　learn　about　life　and　people?　To　me,　with　my　vast　ignorance,　my　Jim　Crow　station　in　life,　it　seemed　a　task　impossible　of　achievement.　I　now　knew　what　being　a　Negro　meant.　I　could　endure　the　hunger.　I　had　learned　to　live　with　hate.　But　to　feel　that　there　were　feelings　denied　me,　that　the　very　breath　of　life　itself　was　beyond　my　reach,　that　more　than　anything　else　hurt,　wounded　me.　I　had　a　new　hunger.

In　buoying　me　up,　reading　also　cast　me　down,　made　me　see　what　was　possible,　what　I　had　missed.　My　tension　returned,　new,　terrible,　bitter,　surging,　almost　too　great　to　be　contained.　I　no　longer　felt　that　the　world　about　me　was　hostile,　killing;　I　knew　it.　A　million　times　I　asked　myself　what　I　could　do　to　save　myself,　and　there　were　no　answers.　I　seemed　forever　condemned,　ringed　by　walls.

I　did　not　discuss　my　reading　with　Mr.　Falk,　who　had　lent　me　his　library　card;　it　would　have　meant　talking　about　myself　and　that　would　have　been　too　painful.　I　smiled　each　day,　fighting　desperately　to　maintain　my　old　behavior,　to　keep　my　disposition　seemingly　sunny.　But　some　of　the　white　men　discerned　that　I　had　begun　to　brood.

“Wake　up　there,　boy!”　Mr.　Olin　said　one　day.

“Sir!”　I　answered　for　the　lack　of　a　better　word.

“You　act　like　youve　stolen　something,”　he　said.

I　laughed　in　the　way　I　knew　he　expected　me　to　laugh,　but　I　resolved　to　be　more　conscious　of　myself,　to　watch　my　every　act,　to　guard　and　hide　the　new　knowledge　that　was　dawning　within　me.

If　I　went　north,　would　it　be　possible　for　me　to　build　a　new　life　then?　But　how　could　a　man　build　a　life　upon　vague,　unformed　yearnings?I　wanted　to　write　and　I　did　not　even　know　the　English　language.　I　bought　English　grammars　and　found　them　dull.　I　felt　that　I　was　getting　a　better　sense　of　the　language　from　novels　than　from　grammars.　I　read　hard,　discarding　a　writer　as　soon　as　I　felt　that　I　had　grasped　his　point　of　view.　At　night　the　printed　page　stood　before　my　eyes　in　sleep.

Mrs.　Moss,　my　landlady,　asked　me　one　Sunday　morning:

“Son,　what　is　this　you　keep　on　reading?”

“Oh,　nothing.　Just　novels.”

“What　you　get　out　of　’em?”

“Im　just　killing　time,”　I　said.

“I　hope　you　know　your　own　mind,”　she　said　in　a　tone　which　implied　that　she　doubted　if　I　had　a　mind.

I　knew　of　no　Negroes　who　read　the　books　I　liked　and　I　wondered　if　any　Negroes　ever　thought　of　them.　I　knew　that　there　were　Negro　doctors,　lawyers,　newspapermen,　but　I　never　saw　any　of　them.　When　I　read　a　Negro　newspaper　I　never　caught　the　faintest　echo　of　my　preoccupation　in　its　pages.　I　felt　trapped　and　occasionally,　for　a　few　days,　I　would　stop　reading.　But　a　vague　hunger　would　come　over　me　for　books,　books　that　opened　up　new　avenues　of　feeling　and　seeing,　and　again　I　would　forge　another　note　to　the　white　librarian.　Again　I　would　read　and　wonder　as　only　the　nave　and　unlettered　can　read　and　wonder,　feeling　that　I　carried　a　secret,　criminal　burden　about　with　me　each　day.

That　winter　my　mother　and　brother　came　and　we　set　up　housekeeping,　buying　furniture　on　the　installment　plan,　being　cheated　and　yet　knowing　no　way　to　avoid　it.　I　began　to　eat　warm　food　and　to　my　surprise　found　that　regular　meals　enabled　me　to　read　faster.　I　may　have　lived　through　many　illnesses　and　survived　them,　never　suspecting　that　I　was　ill.　My　brother　obtained　a　job　and　we　began　to　save　toward　the　trip　north,　plotting　our　time,　setting　tentative　dates　for　departure.　I　told　none　of　the　white　men　on　the　job　that　I　was　planning　to　go　north;　I　knew　that　the　moment　they　felt　I　was　thinking　of　the　North　they　would　change　toward　me.　It　would　have　made　them　feel　that　I　did　not　like　the　life　I　was　living,　and　because　my　life　was　completely　conditioned　by　what　they　said　or　did,　it　would　have　been　tantamount　to　challenging　them.

I　could　calculate　my　chances　for　life　in　the　South　as　a　Negro　fairly　clearly　now.

I　could　fight　the　southern　whites　by　organizing　with　other　Negroes,　as　my　grandfather　had　done.　But　I　knew　that　I　could　never　win　that　way;　there　were　many　whites　and　there　were　but　few　blacks.　They　were　strong　and　we　were　weak.　Outright　black　rebellion　could　never　win.　If　I　fought　openly　I　would　die　and　I　did　not　want　to　die.　News　of　lynchingslynching:　美国内战结束后，南方白人至上主义的信奉者，成立3K党，经常不经过法律程序，私自处死敢于反抗或有反抗精神的黑人。　were　frequent.

I　could　submit　and　live　the　life　of　a　genial　slave,　but　that　was　impossible.　All　of　my　life　had　shaped　me　to　live　by　my　own　feelings　and　thoughts.　I　could　make　up　to　Bess　and　marry　her　and　inherit　the　house.　But　that,　too,　would　be　the　life　of　a　slave;　if　I　did　that,　I　would　crush　to　death　something　within　me,　and　I　would　hate　myself　as　much　as　I　knew　the　whites　already　hated　those　who　had　submitted.　Neither　could　I　ever　willingly　present　myself　to　be　kicked,　as　Shorty　had　done.　I　would　rather　have　died　than　do　that.

I　could　drain　off　my　restlessness　by　fighting　with　Shorty　and　Harrison.　I　had　seen　many　Negroes　solve　the　problem　of　being　black　by　transferring　their　hatred　of　themselves　to　others　with　a　black　skin　and　fighting　them.　I　would　have　to　be　cold　to　do　that,　and　I　was　not　cold　and　I　could　never　be.

I　could,　of　course,forget　what　I　had　read,　thrust　the　whites　out　of　my　mind,　forget　them;　and　find　release　from　anxiety　and　longing　in　sex　and　alcohol.　But　the　memory　of　how　my　father　had　conducted　himself　made　that　course　repugnant.　If　I　did　not　want　others　to　violate　my　life,　how　could　I　voluntarily　violate　it　myself?

I　had　no　hope　whatever　of　being　a　professional　man.　Not　only　had　I　been　so　conditioned　that　I　did　not　desire　it,　but　the　fulfillment　of　such　an　ambition　was　beyond　my　capabilities.　Welltodo　Negroes　lived　in　a　world　that　was　almost　as　alien　to　me　as　the　world　inhabited　by　whites.

What,　then,　was　there?　I　held　my　life　in　my　mind,　in　my　consciousness　each　day,　feeling　at　times　that　I　would　stumble　and　drop　it,　spill　it　forever.My　reading　had　created　a　vast　sense　of　distance　between　me　and　the　world　in　which　I　lived　and　tried　to　make　a　living,　and　that　sense　of　distance　was　increasing　each　day.　My　days　and　nights　were　one　long,　quiet,　continuously　contained　dream　of　terror,　tension,　and　anxiety.　I　wondered　how　long　I　could　bear　it.

Chapter　16

In　the　spring　I　took　the　postal　examination　again.　Time　had　somewhat　repaired　the　ravages　of　hunger　and　I　was　able　to　meet　the　required　physical　weight.　We　moved　to　a　larger　apartment.　My　increased　pay　made　better　food　possible.　I　was　happy　in　my　own　way.

Working　nights,　I　spent　my　days　in　experimental　writing,　filling　endless　pages　with　streamofconsciousness　Negro　dialect,　trying　to　depict　the　dwellers　of　the　Black　Belt　as　I　felt　and　saw　them.　My　reading　in　sociology　had　enabled　me　to　discern　many　strange　types　of　Negro　characters,　to　identify　many　modes　of　Negro　behavior;　and　what　moved　me　above　all　was　the　frequency　of　mental　illness,　that　tragic　toll　that　the　urban　environment　exacted　of　the　black　peasant.　Perhaps　my　writing　was　more　an　attempt　at　understanding　than　selfexpression.　A　need　that　I　did　not　comprehend　made　me　use　words　to　create　religious　types,　criminal　types,　the　warped,　the　lost,　the　baffled;　my　pages　were　full　of　tension,　frantic　poverty,　and　death.

But　something　was　missing　in　my　imaginative　efforts;　my　flights　of　imagination　were　too　subjective,　too　lacking　in　reference　to　social　action.　I　hungered　for　a　grasp　of　the　framework　of　contemporary　living,　for　a　knowledge　of　the　forms　of　life　about　me,　for　eyes　to　see　the　bony　structures　of　personality,　for　theories　to　light　up　the　shadows　of　conduct.

While　sorting　mail　in　the　post　office,　I　met　a　young　Irish　chap　whose　sensibilities　amazed　me.　We　would　take　a　batch　of　mail　in　our　fingers　and,　while　talking　in　low　monotones　out　of　the　sides　of　our　mouths,　toss　them　correctly　into　their　designated　holes　and　suddenly　our　hands　would　be　empty　and　we　would　have　no　memory　of　having　worked.　Most　of　the　clerks　could　work　in　this　automatic　manner.　The　Irish　chap　and　I　had　read　a　lot　in　common　and　we　laughed　at　the　same　sacred　things.　He　was　as　cynical　as　I　was　regarding　uplift　and　hope,　and　we　were　proud　of　having　escaped　what　we　called　the　“childhood　disease　of　metaphysical　fear.”　I　was　introduced　to　the　Irish　chaps　friends　and　we　formed　a　“gang”　of　Irish,　Jewish,　and　Negro　wits　who　poked　fun　at　government,　the　masses,　statesmen,　and　political　parties.　We　assumed　that　all　people　were　good　to　the　degree　to　which　they　amused　us,　or　to　the　extent　to　which　we　could　make　them　objects　of　laughter.　We　ridiculed　all　ideas　of　protest,　of　organized　rebellion　or　revolution.　We　felt　that　all　businessmen　were　thoroughly　stupid　and　that　no　other　group　was　capable　of　rising　to　challenge　them.　We　sneered　at　voting,　for　we　felt　that　the　choice　between　one　political　crook　and　another　was　too　small　for　serious　thought.　We　believed　that　man　should　live　by　hard　facts　alone,　and　we　had　so　long　ago　put　God　out　of　our　minds　that　we　did　not　even　discuss　Him.

During　this　cynical　period　I　met　a　Negro　literary　group　on　Chicagos　South　Side;　it　was　composed　of　a　dozen　or　more　boys　and　girls,　all　of　whom　possessed　academic　learning,　economic　freedom,　and　vague　ambitions　to　write.　I　found　them　more　formal　in　manner　than　their　white　counterparts;　they　wore　stylish　clothes　and　were　finicky　about　their　personal　appearance.　I　had　navely　supposed　that　I　would　have　much　in　common　with　them,　but　I　found　them　preoccupied　with　twisted　sex　problems.　Coming　from　a　station　in　life　which　they　no　doubt　would　have　branded　“lower　class,”　I　could　not　understand　why　they　were　so　allabsorbed　with　sexual　passion.　I　was　encountering　for　the　first　time　the　fullfledged　Negro　Puritan　invert—the　emotionally　sick—and　I　discovered　that　their　ideas　were　but　excuses　for　sex,　leads　to　sex,　hints　at　sex,　substitutes　for　sex.　In　speech　and　action　they　strove　to　act　as　unNegro　as　possible,　denying　the　racial　and　material　foundations　of　their　lives,　accepting　their　class　and　racial　status　in　ways　so　oblique　that　one　had　the　impression　that　no　difficulties　existed　for　them.　Though　I　had　never　had　any　assignments　from　a　college　professor,　I　had　made　much　harder　and　more　prolonged　attempts　at　selfexpression　than　any　of　them.　Swearing　love　for　art,　they　hovered　on　the　edge　of　Bohemian　life.　Always　friendly,　they　could　never　be　anybodys　friend;　always　reading,　they　could　really　never　learn;　always　boasting　of　their　passions,　they　could　never　really　feel　and　were　afraid　to　live.

The　one　group　I　met　during　those　exploring　days　whose　lives　enthralled　me　was　the　Garveyites,　an　organization　of　black　men　and　women　who　were　forlornly　seeking　to　return　to　Africa.　Theirs　was　a　passionate　rejection　of　America,　for　they　sensed　with　that　directness　of　which　only　the　simple　are　capable　that　they　had　no　chance　to　live　a　full　human　life　in　America.　Their　lives　were　not　cluttered　with　ideas　in　which　they　could　only　half　believe;　they　could　not　create　illusions　which　made　them　think　they　were　living　when　they　were　not;　their　daily　lives　were　too　nakedly　harsh　to　permit　of　camouflage.　I　understood　their　emotions,　for　I　partly　shared　them.

The　Garveyites　had　embraced　a　totally　racialistic　outlook　which　endowed　them　with　a　dignity　that　I　had　never　seen　before　in　Negroes.　On　the　walls　of　their　dingy　flats　were　maps　of　Africa　and　India　and　Japan,　pictures　of　Japanese　generals　and　admirals,portraits　of　Marcus　Garvey　in　gaudy　regalia,　the　faces　of　colored　men　and　women　from　all　parts　of　the　world.　I　gave　no　credence　to　the　ideology　of　Garveyism;　it　was,　rather,　the　emotional　dynamics　of　its　adherents　that　evoked　my　admiration.　Those　Garveyites　I　knew　could　never　understand　why　I　liked　them　but　would　never　follow　them,　and　I　pitied　them　too　much　to　tell　them　that　they　could　never　achieve　their　goal,　that　Africa　was　owned　by　the　imperial　powers　of　Europe,　that　their　lives　were　alien　to　the　mores　of　the　natives　of　Africa,　that　they　were　people　of　the　West　and　would　forever　be　so　until　they　either　merged　with　the　West　or　perished.　It　was　when　the　Garveyites　spoke　fervently　of　building　their　own　country,　of　someday　living　within　the　boundaries　of　a　culture　of　their　own　making,　that　I　sensed　the　passionate　hunger　of　their　lives,　that　I　caught　a　glimpse　of　the　potential　strength　of　the　American　Negro.

Rumors　of　unemployment　came,　but　I　did　not　listen　to　them.　I　heard　of　the　organizational　efforts　of　the　Communist　party　among　the　Negroes　of　the　South　Side,　but　Communist　activities　were　too　remote　to　strike　my　mind　with　any　degree　of　vividness.　Whenever　I　met　a　person　whom　I　suspected　of　being　a　Communist,　I　talked　to　him　affably　but　from　an　emotional　distance.　I　sensed　that　something　terrible　was　beginning　to　happen　in　the　world,　but　I　tried　to　shut　it　out　of　my　mind　by　reading　and　writing.

When　the　time　came　for　my　appointment　as　a　regular　clerk,　I　was　told　that　no　appointments　would　be　made　for　the　time　being.　The　volume　of　mail　dropped.　My　hours　of　work　dwindled.　My　paychecks　grew　small.　Food　became　scarce　at　home.　The　hunger　I　thought　I　had　left　behind　returned.　One　winter　afternoon,　in　1929,　en　route　to　work　from　the　library,　I　passed　a　newsstand　on　which　papers　blazed:

Stocks　Crash—Billions　Fade

Most　of　what　I　had　seen　in　newspapers　had　never　concerned　me,　so　why　should　this?　Newspapers　reported　the　doings　in　a　life　I　did　not　share.　But　the　volume　of　mail　fell　so　low　that　I　worked　but　one　or　two　nights　a　week.　In　the　postoffice　canteen　the　boys　stood　about　and　talked.

“The　cops　beat　up　some　demonstrators　today.”

“The　Reds　had　a　picket　line　around　the　City　Hall.”

“Wall　Streets　cracking　down　on　the　country.”

“Surplus　productions　throwing　millions　out　of　work.”

“Therere　more　than　two　million　unemployed.”

“They　dont　count.　Theyre　always　out　of　work.”

“Read　Karl　Marx　and　get　the　answer,　boys.”

“Therell　be　a　revolution　if　this　keep　up.”

“Hell,　naw.　Americans　are　too　dumb　to　make　a　revolution.”

The　postoffice　job　ended　and　again　I　was　out　of　work.　I　could　no　longer　think　that　the　tides　of　economics　were　not　my　concern.　But　how　could　I　have　had　any　possible　say　in　how　the　world　had　been　run?　I　had　grown　up　in　complete　ignorance　of　what　created　jobs.　Having　been　thrust　out　of　the　world　because　of　my　race,　I　had　accepted　my　destiny　by　not　being　curious　about　what　shaped　it.

The　following　summer　I　was　again　called　for　temporary　duty　in　the　post　office,　and　the　work　lasted　into　the　winter.　Aunt　Cleo　succumbed　to　a　severe　cardiac　condition　and,　hard　on　the　heels　of　her　illness,　my　brother　developed　stomach　ulcers.　To　rush　my　worries　to　a　climax,　my　mother　also　became　ill.　I　felt　that　I　was　maintaining　a　private　hospital.　Finally　the　postoffice　work　ceased　altogether　and　I　haunted　the　city　for　jobs.　But　when　I　went　into　the　streets　in　the　morning　I　saw　sights　that　killed　my　hope　for　the　rest　of　the　day.　Unemployed　men　loitered　in　doorways　with　blank　looks　in　their　eyes,　sat　dejectedly　on　front　steps　in　shabby　clothing,　congregated　in　sullen　groups　on　street　corners,　and　filled　all　the　empty　benches　in　the　parks　of　Chicagos　South　Side.

Luck　of　a　sort　came　when　a　distant　cousin　of　mine,　who　was　a　superintendent　in　a　Negro　burial　society,　offered　me　a　position　on　his　staff　as　an　agent.　The　thought　of　selling　insurance　policies　to　ignorant　Negroes　disgusted　me.

“Well,　if　you　dont　sell　them,　somebody　else　will,”　my　cousin　told　me.　“Youve　got　to　eat,havent　you?”

During　that　year　I　worked　for　several　burial　and　insurance　societies　that　operated　among　Negroes,　and　I　received　a　new　kind　of　education.　I　found　that　the　burial　societies,　with　some　exceptions,　were　mostly　“rackets.”　Some　of　them　conducted　their　businesses　legitimately,　but　there　were　many　that　exploited　the　ignorance　of　their　black　customers.

I　was　paid　under　a　system　that　netted　me　fifteen　dollars　for　every　dollars　worth　of　new　premiums　that　I　placed　upon　the　companys　books,　and　for　every　dollars　worth　of　old　premiums　that　lapsed　I　was　penalized　fifteen　dollars.　In　addition,　I　was　paid　a　commission　of　ten　per　cent　on　total　premiums　collected,　but　during　the　depression　it　was　extremely　difficult　to　persuade　a　black　family　to　buy　a　policy　carrying　even　a　dime　premium.　I　considered　myself　lucky　if,　after　subtracting　lapses　from　new　business,　there　remained　fifteen　dollars　that　I　could　call　my　own.

This　“gambling”　method　of　remuneration　was　practiced　by　some　of　the　burial　companies　because　of　the　tremendous　“turnover”　in　policyholders,　and　the　companies　had　to　have　a　constant　stream　of　new　business　to　keep　afloat.　Whenever　a　black　family　moved　or　suffered　a　slight　reverse　in　fortune,　it　usually　let　its　policy　lapse　and　later　bought　another　policy　from　some　other　company.

Each　day　now　I　saw　how　the　Negro　in　Chicago　lived,　for　I　visited　hundreds　of　dingy　flats　filled　with　rickety　furniture　and　illclad　children.　Most　of　the　policyholders　were　illiterate　and　did　not　know　that　their　policies　carried　clauses　severely　restricting　their　benefit　payments,　and,　as　an　insurance　agent,　it　was　not　my　duty　to　tell　them.

After　tramping　the　streets　and　pounding　on　doors　to　collect　premiums,　I　was　dry,　strained,　too　tired　to　read　or　write.　I　hungered　for　relief　and,　as　a　salesman　of　insurance　to　many　young　black　girls,　I　found　it.　There　were　many　comely　black　housewives　who,　trying　desperately　to　keep　up　their　insurance　payments,　were　willing　to　make　bargains　to　escape　paying　a　tencent　premium.　I　had　a　long,　tortured　affair　with　one　girl　by　paying　her　tencent　premium　each　week.　She　was　an　illiterate　black　child　with　a　baby　whose　father　she　did　not　know.　During　the　entire　period　of　my　relationship　with　her,　she　had　but　one　demand　to　make　of　me:　She　wanted　me　to　take　her　to　a　circus.　Just　what　significance　circuses　had　for　her,　I　was　never　able　to　learn.

After　I　had　been　with　her　one　morning—in　exchange　for　the　dime　premium—I　sat　on　the　sofa　in　the　front　room　and　began　to　read　a　book　I　had　with　me.　She　came　over　shyly.

“Lemme　see　that,”　she　said.

“What?”　I　asked.

“That　book,”　she　said.

I　gave　her　the　book;　she　looked　at　it　intently.　I　saw　that　she　was　holding　it　upside　down.

“Whats　in　here　you　keep　reading?”　she　asked.

“Cant　you　really　read?”　I　asked.

“Naw,”　she　giggled.　“You　know　I　cant　read.”

“You　can　read　some,”　I　said.

“Naw,”　she　said.

I　stared　at　her　and　wondered　just　what　a　life　like　hers　meant　in　the　scheme　of　things,　and　I　came　to　the　conclusion　that　it　meant　absolutely　nothing.　And　neither　did　my　life　mean　anything.

“How　come　you　looking　at　me　that　way　for?”　she　asked.

“Nothing.”

“You　dont　talk　much.”

“There　isnt　much　to　say.”

“I　wished　Jim　was　here,”　she　sighed.

“Whos　Jim?”　I　asked,　jealous.　I　knew　that　she　had　other　men,　but　I　resented　her　mentioning　them　in　my　presence.

“Just　a　friend,”　she　said.

I　hated　her　then,　then　hated　myself　for　coming　to　her.

“Do　you　like　Jim　better　than　you　like　me?”　I　asked.

“Naw.　Jim　just　likes　to　talk.”

“Then　why　do　you　be　with　me,　if　you　like　Jim　better?”　I　asked,　trying　to　make　an　issue　and　feeling　a　wave　of　disgust　because　I　wanted　to.

“You　all　right,”　she　said,　giggling.　“I　like　you.”

“I　could　kill　you,”　I　said.

“What?”　she　exclaimed.

“Nothing,”　I　said,　ashamed.

“Kill　me,　you　said?　You　crazy,　man,”　she　said.

“Maybe　I　am,”　I　muttered,　angry　that　I　was　sitting　beside　a　human　being　to　whom　I　could　not　talk,　angry　with　myself　for　coming　to　her,　hating　my　wild　and　restless　loneliness.

“You　oughta　go　home　and　sleep,”　she　said.　“You　tired.”

“What　do　you　ever　think　about?”　I　demanded　harshly.

“Lotta　things.”

“What,　for　example?”

“You,”　she　said,　smiling.

“You　know　I　mean　just　one　dime　to　you　each　week,”　I　said.

“Naw,　I　thinka　lotta　you.”

“Then　what　do　you　think?”

“Bout　how　you　talk　when　you　talk.　I　wished　I　could　talk　like　you,”　she　said　seriously.

“Why?”　I　taunted　her.

“When　you　gonna　take　me　to　a　circus?”　she　demanded　suddenly.

“You　ought　to　be　in　a　circus,”　I　said.

“Id　like　it,”　she　said,　her　eyes　shining.

I　wanted　to　laugh,　but　her　words　sounded　so　sincere　that　I　could　not　laugh.

“Theres　no　circus　in　town,”　I　said.

“I　bet　there　is　and　you　wont　tell　me　cause　you　dont　wanna　take　me,”　she　said,　pouting.

“But　theres　no　circus　in　town,　I　tell　you!”

“When　will　one　come?”

“I　dont　know.”

“Cant　you　read　it　in　the　papers?”　she　asked.

“Theres　nothing　in　the　papers　about　a　circus.”

“There　is,”　she　said.　“If　I　could　read,　Id　find　it.”

I　laughed　and　she　was　hurt.

“There　is　a　circus　in　town,”　she　said　stoutly.

“Theres　no　circus　in　town,”　I　said.　“But　if　you　want　to　learn　to　read,　then　Ill　teach　you.”

She　nestled　at　my　side,　giggling.

“See　that　word?”　I　said,　pointing.

“Yeah.”

“Thats　an　‘and,’”　I　said.

She　doubled,　giggling.

“Whats　the　matter?”　I　asked.

She　rolled　on　the　floor,　giggling.

“Whats　so　funny?”　I　demanded.

“You,”　she　giggled.　“You　so　funny.”

I　rose.

“The　hell　with　you,”　I　said.

“Dont　you　go　and　cuss　me　now,”　she　said.　“I　dont　cuss　you.”

“Im　sorry,”　I　said.

I　got　my　hat　and　went　to　the　door.

“Ill　see　you　next　week?”　she　asked.

“Maybe,”　I　said.

When　I　was　on　the　sidewalk,　she　called　to　me　from　a　window.

“You　promised　to　take　me　to　a　circus,　remember?”

“Yes.”　I　walked　close　to　the　window.　“What　is　it　you　like　about　a　circus?”

“The　animals,”　she　said　simply.

I　felt　that　there　was　a　hidden　meaning,　perhaps,　in　what　she　had　said;　but　I　could　not　find　it.　She　laughed　and　slammed　the　window　shut.

Each　time　I　left　her　I　resolved　not　to　visit　her　again.　I　could　not　talk　to　her;　I　merely　listened　to　her　passionate　desire　to　see　a　circus.　She　was　not　calculating;　if　she　liked　a　man,　she　just　liked　him.　Sex　relations　were　the　only　relations　she　had　ever　had;　no　others　were　possible　with　her,　so　limited　was　her　intelligence.

Most　of　the　other　agents　also　had　their　bought　girls　and　they　were　extremely　anxious　to　keep　other　agents　from　tampering　with　them.　One　day　a　new　section　of　the　South　Side　was　given　to　me　as　a　part　of　my　collection　area　and　the　agent　from　whom　the　territory　had　been　taken　suddenly　became　very　friendly　with　me.

“Say,　Wright,”　he　asked,　“did　you　collect　from　Ewing　at　Champlain　Avenue　yet?”

“Yes,”　I　answered,　after　consulting　my　book.

“How　did　you　like　her?”　he　asked,　staring　at　me.

“Shes　a　goodlooking　number,”　I　said.

“You　had　anything　to　do　with　her　yet?”　he　asked.

“No,　but　Id　like　to,”　I　said,　laughing.

“Look,”　he　said.　“Im　a　friend　of　yours.”

“Since　when?”　I　countered.

“No,　Im　really　a　friend,”　he　said.

“Whats　on　your　mind?”

“Listen,　that　gals　sick,”　he　said　seriously.

“What　do　you　mean?”

“Shes　got　the　clap,”　he　said.　“Keep　away　from　her.　Shell　lay　with　anybody.”

“Gee,　Im　glad　you　told　me,”　I　said.

“You　had　your　eye　on　her,　didnt　you?”　he　asked.

“Yes,　I　did,”　I　said.

“Leave　her　alone,”　he　said.　“Shell　get　you　down.”

That　night　I　told　my　cousin　what　the　agent　had　said　about　Miss　Ewing.　My　cousin　laughed.

“That　gals　all　right,”　he　said.　“That　agents　been　fooling　around　with　her.　He　told　you　she　had　a　disease　so　that　youd　be　scared　to　bother　her.　He　was　protecting　her　from　you.”

That　was　the　way　the　black　women　were　regarded　by　the　black　agents.　Some　of　the　agents　were　vicious;　if　they　had　claims　to　pay　to　a　sick　black　woman　and　if　the　woman　was　able　to　have　sex　relations　with　them,　they　would　insist　upon　it,　using　the　claim　money　as　a　bribe.　If　the　woman　refused,　they　would　report　to　the　office　that　the　woman　was　a　malingerer.　The　average　black　woman　would　submit　because　she　needed　the　money　badly.

As　an　insurance　agent,　it　was　necessary　for　me　to　take　part　in　one　swindle.　It　appears　that　the　burial　society　had　originally　issued　a　policy　that　was—from　their　point　of　view—too　liberal　in　its　provisions,　and　the　officials　decided　to　exchange　the　policies　then　in　the　hands　of　their　clients　for　other　policies　carrying　stricter　clauses;　of　course,　this　had　to　be　done　in　a　manner　that　would　not　allow　the　policyholder　to　know　that　his　policy　was　being　switched,　that　he　was　being　swindled.　I　did　not　like　it,　but　there　was　only　one　thing　I　could　do　to　keep　from　being　a　party　to　it:　I　could　quit　and　starve.　But　I　did　not　feel　that　being　honest　was　worth　the　price　of　starvation.

The　swindle　worked　in　this　way.　In　my　visits　to　the　homes　of　policyholders　to　collect　premiums,　I　was　accompanied　by　the　superintendent　who　claimed　to　the　policyholder　that　he　was　making　a　routine　inspection.　The　policyholder,　usually　an　illiterate　black　woman,　would　dig　up　her　policy　from　the　bottom　of　a　trunk　or　a　chest　and　hand　it　to　the　superintendent.　Meanwhile　I　would　be　marking　the　womans　premium　book,　an　act　which　would　distract　her　from　what　the　superintendent　was　doing.　The　superintendent　would　exchange　the　old　policy　for　a　new　one　which　was　identical　in　color,　serial　number,　and　beneficiary,　but　which　carried　much　smaller　payments.　It　was　dirty　work　and　I　wondered　how　I　could　stop　it.　And　when　I　could　think　of　no　safe　way　I　would　curse　myself　and　the　victims　and　forget　about　it.　(The　black　owners　of　the　burial　societies　were　leaders　in　the　Negro　communities　and　were　respected　by　whites.)

As　I　went　from　house　to　house　collecting　money,　I　saw　black　men　mounted　upon　soapboxes　at　street　corners,　bellowing　about　bread,　rights,　and　revolution.　I　liked　their　courage,　but　I　doubted　their　wisdom.　The　speakers　claimed　that　Negroes　were　angry,　that　they　were　about　to　rise　and　join　their　white　fellow　workers　to　make　a　revolution.　I　was　in　and　out　of　many　Negro　homes　each　day　and　I　knew　that　the　Negroes　were　lost,　ignorant,　sick　in　mind　and　body.　I　saw　that　a　vast　distance　separated　the　agitators　from　the　masses,　a　distance　so　vast　that　the　agitators　did　not　know　how　to　appeal　to　the　people　they　sought　to　lead.

Some　mornings　I　found　leaflets　on　my　steps　telling　of　China,　Russia,　and　Germany;　on　some　days　I　witnessed　as　many　as　five　thousand　jobless　Negroes,　led　by　Communists,　surging　through　the　streets.　I　would　watch　them　with　an　aching　heart,　firmly　convinced　that　they　were　being　duped;　but　if　I　had　been　asked　to　give　them　another　solution　for　their　problems,　I　would　not　have　known　how.

It　became　a　habit　of　mine　to　visit　Washington　Park　of　an　afternoon　after　collecting　a　part　of　my　premiums,　and　I　would　wander　through　crowds　of　unemployed　Negroes,　pausing　here　and　there　to　sample　the　dialectic　or　indignation　of　Communist　speakers.　What　I　heard　and　saw　baffled　and　angered　me.　The　Negro　Communists　were　deliberately　careless　in　their　personal　appearance,　wearing　their　shirt　collars　turned　in　to　make　Vs　at　their　throats,　wearing　their　caps—they　wore　caps　because　Lenin　had　worn　caps—with　the　visors　turned　backward,　tilted　upward　at　the　nape　of　their　necks.　Many　of　their　mannerisms,　pronunciations,　and　turns　of　speech　had　been　consciously　copied　from　white　Communists　whom　they　had　recently　met.　While　engaged　in　conversation,　they　stuck　their　thumbs　in　their　suspenders　or　put　their　left　hands　into　their　shirt　bosoms　or　hooked　their　thumbs　into　their　back　pockets　as　they　had　seen　Lenin　or　Stalin　do　in　photographs.　Though　they　did　not　know　it,　they　were　navely　practicing　magic;　they　thought　that　if　they　acted　like　the　men　who　had　overthrown　the　czar,　then　surely　they　ought　to　be　able　to　win　their　freedom　in　America.

In　speaking　they　rolled　their　“rs”　in　Continental　style,　pronouncing　“party”　as　“parrrtee,”　stressing　the　last　syllable,　having　picked　up　the　habit　from　white　Communists.　“Comrades”　became　“cumrrrades,”　and　“distribute,”　which　they　had　known　how　to　pronounce　all　their　lives,　was　twisted　into　“distrrribuuute,”　with　the　accent　on　the　last　instead　of　the　second　syllable,　a　mannerism　which　they　copied　from　Polish　Communist　immigrants　who　did　not　know　how　to　pronounce　the　word.　Many　sensitive　Negroes　agreed　with　the　Communist　program　but　refused　to　join　their　ranks　because　of　the　shabby　quality　of　those　Negroes　whom　the　Communists　had　already　admitted　to　membership.

When　speaking　from　the　platform,　the　Negro　Communists,　eschewing　the　traditional　gestures　of　the　Negro　preacher—as　though　they　did　not　possess　the　strength　to　develop　their　own　style　of　Communist　preaching—stood　straight,　threw　back　their　heads,　brought　the　edge　of　the　right　palm　down　hammerlike　into　the　outstretched　left　palm　in　a　series　of　jerky　motions　to　pound　their　points　home,　a　mannerism　that　characterized　Lenins　method　of　speaking.　When　they　walked,　their　stride　quickened;　all　the　peasant　hesitancy　of　their　speech　vanished　as　their　voices　became　clipped,　terse.　In　debate　they　interrupted　their　opponents　in　a　tone　of　voice　that　was　an　octave　higher,　and　if　their　opponents　raised　their　voices　to　be　heard,　the　Communists　raised　theirs　still　higher　until　shouts　rang　out　over　the　park.　Hence,　the　only　truth　that　prevailed　was　that　which　could　be　shouted　and　quickly　understood.

Their　emotional　certainty　seemed　buttressed　by　access　to　a　fund　of　knowledge　denied　to　ordinary　men,　but　a　days　observation　of　their　activities　was　sufficient　to　reveal　all　their　thought　processes.　An　hours　listening　disclosed　the　fanatical　intolerance　of　minds　sealed　against　new　ideas,　new　facts,　new　feelings,　new　attitudes,　new　hints　at　ways　to　live.　They　denounced　books　they　had　never　read,　people　they　had　never　known,　ideas　they　could　never　understand,　and　doctrines　whose　names　they　could　not　pronounce.　Communism,　instead　of　making　them　leap　forward　with　fire　in　their　hearts　to　become　masters　of　ideas　and　life,　had　frozen　them　at　an　even　lower　level　of　ignorance　than　had　been　theirs　before　they　met　Communism.

When　Hoover　threatened　to　drive　the　bonus　marchers　from　Washington,　one　Negro　Communist　speaker　said:

“If　he　drives　the　bonus　marchers　out　of　Washington,　the　people　will　rise　up　and　make　a　revolution!”

I　went　to　him,　determined　to　get　at　what　he　really　meant.

“You　know　that　even　if　the　United　States　Army　actually　kills　the　bonus　marchers,　therell　be　no　revolution,”　I　said.

“You　dont　know　the　indignation　of　the　masses!”　he　exploded.

“But　you　dont　seem　to　know　what　it　takes　to　make　a　revolution,”　I　explained.　“Revolutions　are　rare　occurrences.”

“You　underestimate　the　masses,”　he　told　me.

“No,　I　know　the　masses　of　Negroes　very　well,”　I　said.　“But　I　dont　believe　that　a　revolution　is　pending.　Revolutions　come　through　concrete　historical　processes...”

“Youre　an　intellectual,”　he　said,　smiling　disdainfully.

A　few　days　later,　after　Hoover　had　had　the　bonus　marchers　driven　from　Washington　at　the　point　of　bayonets,　I　accosted　him:

“What　about　that　revolution　you　predicted　if　the　bonus　marchers　were　driven　out?”　I　asked.

“The　prerequisite　conditions　did　not　exist,”　he　shrugged　and　muttered.

I　left　him,　wondering　why　he　felt　it　necessary　to　make　so　many　ridiculous　overstatements.　I　could　not　refute　the　general　Communist　analysis　of　the　world;　the　only　drawback　was　that　their　world　was　just　too　simple　for　belief.　I　liked　their　readiness　to　act,　but　they　seemed　lost　in　folly,　wandering　in　a　fantasy.　For　them　there　was　no　yesterday　or　tomorrow,　only　the　living　moment　of　today;　their　only　task　was　to　annihilate　the　enemy　that　confronted　them　in　any　manner　possible.

At　times　their　speeches,　glowing　with　rebellion,　were　downright　offensive　to　lowly,　hungry　Negroes.　Once　a　Negro　Communist　speaker,　inveighing　against　religion,　said:

“There　aint　no　goddamn　God!　If　there　is,　I　hereby　challenge　Him　to　strike　me　dead!”

He　paused　dramatically　before　his　vast　black　audience　for　God　to　act,　but　God　declined.　He　then　pulled　out　his　watch.

“Maybe　God　didnt　hear　me!”　he　yelled.　“Ill　give　Him　two　more　minutes!”　Then,　with　sarcasm:　“Mister　God,　kill　me!”

He　waited,　looking　mockingly　at　his　watch.　The　audience　laughed　uneasily.

“Ill　tell　you　where　to　find　God,”　the　speaker　went　on　in　a　hard,　ranting　voice.　“When　it　rains　at　midnight,　take　your　hat,　turn　it　upside　down　on　a　floor　in　a　dark　room,　and　youll　have　God!”

I　had　to　admit　that　I　had　never　heard　atheism　of　so　militant　a　nature;　but　the　Communist　speaker　seemed　to　be　amusing　and　frightening　the　people　more　than　he　was　convincing　them.

“If　there　is　a　God　up　there　in　that　empty　sky,”　the　speaker　roared　on,　“Ill　reach　up　there　and　grab　Him　by　His　beard　and　jerk　Him　down　here　on　this　hungry　earth　and　cut　His　throat!”　He　wagged　his　head.　“Now,　let　God　dare　me!”

The　audience　was　shocked　into　silence　for　a　moment,　then　it　yelled　with　delight.　I　shook　my　head　and　walked　away.　That　was　not　the　way　to　destroy　peoples　outworn　beliefs...They　were　acting　like　irresponsible　children...

I　was　now　convinced　that　they　did　not　know　the　complex　nature　of　Negro　life,　did　not　know　how　great　was　the　task　to　which　they　had　set　themselves.　They　had　rejected　the　state　of　things　as　they　were,　and　that　seemed　to　me　to　be　the　first　step　toward　embracing　a　creative　attitude　toward　life.　I　felt　that　it　was　not　until　one　wanted　the　world　to　be　different　that　one　could　look　at　the　world　with　will　and　emotion.　But　these　men　had　rejected　what　was　before　their　eyes　without　quite　knowing　what　they　had　rejected　and　why.

I　felt　that　the　Negro　could　not　live　a　full,　human　life　under　the　conditions　imposed　upon　him　by　America;　and　I　felt,　too,　that　America,　for　different　reasons,　could　not　live　a　full,　human　life.　It　seemed　to　me,　then,　that　if　the　Negro　solved　his　problem,　he　would　be　solving　infinitely　more　than　his　problem　alone.　I　felt　certain　that　the　Negro　could　never　solve　his　problem　until　the　deeper　problem　of　American　civilization　had　been　faced　and　solved.　And　because　the　Negro　was　the　most　castout　of　all　the　outcast　people　in　America,　I　felt　that　no　other　group　in　America　could　tackle　this　problem　of　what　our　American　lives　meant　so　well　as　the　Negro　could.

But,　as　I　listened　to　the　Communist　Negro　speakers,　I　wondered　if　the　Negro,　blasted　by　three　hundred　years　of　oppression,　could　possibly　cast　off　his　fear　and　corruption　and　rise　to　the　task.Could　the　Negro　ever　possess　himself,　learn　to　know　what　had　happened　to　him　in　relation　to　the　aspirations　of　Western　society?　It　seemed　to　me　that　for　the　Negro　to　try　to　save　himself　he　would　have　to　forget　himself　and　try　to　save　a　confused,　materialistic　nation　from　its　own　drift　toward　selfdestruction.　Could　the　Negro　accomplish　this　miracle?　Could　he　take　up　his　bed　and　walk?

Election　time　was　nearing　and　a　Negro　Republican　precinct　captain　asked　me　to　help　him　round　up　votes.　I　had　no　interest　in　the　candidates,　but　I　needed　the　money.　I　went　from　door　to　door　with　the　precinct　captain　and　discovered　that　the　whole　business　was　one　long　process　of　bribery,　that　people　voted　for　three　dollars,　for　the　right　to　continue　their　illicit　trade　in　sex　or　alcohol.　On　election　day,　I　went　into　the　polling　booth　and　drew　the　curtain　behind　me　and　unfolded　my　ballots.　As　I　stood　there　the　sordid　implications　of　politics　flashed　through　my　mind.　“Big　Bill”　Thompson　headed　the　local　Republican　machine　and　I　knew　that　he　was　using　the　Negro　vote　to　control　the　city　hall;　in　turn,　he　was　engaged　in　vast　political　deals　of　which　the　Negro　voters,　political　innocents,　had　no　notion.　With　my　pencil　I　wrote　in　a　determined　scrawl　across　the　face　of　the　ballots:

I　Protest　This　Fraud

I　knew　that　my　gesture　was　futile.　But　I　wanted　somebody　to　know　that　out　of　that　vast　sea　of　ignorance　in　the　Black　Belt　there　was　at　least　one　person　who　knew　the　game　for　what　it　was.　I　collected　my　ten　dollars　and　went　home.

The　depression　deepened　and　I　could　not　sell　insurance　to　hungry　Negroes.　I　sold　my　watch　and　scouted　for　cheaper　rooms;　I　found　a　rotting　building　and　rented　an　apartment　in　it.　The　place　was　dismal;　plaster　was　falling　from　the　walls;　the　wooden　stairs　sagged.　When　my　mother　saw　it,　she　wept.　I　felt　bleak.　I　had　not　done　what　I　had　come　to　the　city　to　do.

One　morning　I　rose　and　my　mother　told　me　that　there　was　no　food　for　breakfast.　I　knew　that　the　city　had　opened　relief　stations,　but　each　time　I　thought　of　going　into　one　of　them　I　burned　with　shame.　I　sat　for　hours,　fighting　hunger,　avoiding　my　mothers　eyes.　Then　I　rose,　put　on　my　hat　and　coat,　and　went　out.　As　I　walked　toward　the　Cook　County　Bureau　of　Public　Welfare　to　plead　for　bread,　I　knew　that　I　had　come　to　the　end　of　something.

Questions　for　Discussion

1.　Why　do　you　think　that　Richard　Wright　wants　to　read　H.　L.　Mencken?What　has　he　got　in　reading　Menckens　writings?

2.　Richard　Wright　has　a　new　hunger　after　his　reading　more　books,　what　is　he　hungry　for?

3.　Knowing　that　he　could　fight　but　could　not　win,　and　he　does　not　want　to　be　indulged　in　sex　and　alcohol,　Richard　Wright　plans　to　go　to　North.Do　you　think　it　is　a　good　choice?

4.　In　Chapter　16,　Richard　Wright　mentions　“that　the　Negro　could　not　live　a　full,　human　life　under　the　conditions　imposed　upon　him　by　America;　and　I　felt,　too,　that　America,　for　different　reasons,　could　not　live　a　full,　human　life.”　How　to　understand　this,　and　is　there　any　alternative　to　this　situation?

7.　Autobiography　of　Malcolm　X

作者简介

马尔科姆·艾克斯（Malcolm　X）（1925—1965），原名马尔科姆·里特（Malcolm　Little），是演说家、美国黑人民权活动家，与马丁·路德·金齐名的美国黑人民权运动领袖。1925年5月19日，马尔科姆出生于美国内布拉斯加州的奥马哈，是家中的第三个儿子，父母是马库斯·加维所创建的“全球黑人促进会”的积极成员，父母从事的事业最终帮助塑造了他的泛非主义的立场，体现在他对文化、人权、政治斗争以及世界历史的一系列观点之中。在奥马哈的家园被三K党烧毁之后，他们举家迁居到密歇根州的兰辛，里特夫妇关于黑人自豪、经济独立、文化完整性的种种言论触动了兰辛当地白人社会的敏感神经，终于招来杀身之祸，父亲1931年丧生于车轮之下，母亲悲愤不已，精神失常，在精神病院度过了24年。

遭遇这些家庭变故之后，几个孩子被法庭安置到不同的孤儿院，马尔科姆被一白人家庭领养，他非常聪明，学业优异，因不堪种族歧视，于15岁那年突然辍学，后彻底中断学业，次年年初，他前往底特律，开始一段新的人生。他先后打过各种零工，擦鞋、卖货、跟车、跑堂，不一而足；也到过不少地方，如波士顿、纽约等，最后堕入行窃、赌博、吸毒、拉皮条的行列，1946年，他因盗窃罪（更因为与白人女性有染）被送进监狱服刑。

在入狱服刑的六年时间里，马尔科姆再次重塑了自己，也因此改变了他后半生的命运。他从美国“伊斯兰国”精神领袖伊莱贾·穆罕默德的教导中获得安慰，高度认同其关于家庭生活的重要性、黑人自豪、经济独立、掌握文化、节俭、自律等方面的思想，在“伊斯兰国”教士的影响下，他在狱中发愤学习，利用监狱图书馆阅读了大量经典书籍，他还在狱中磨练辩才，利用自己的才智帮助黑人狱友争取权利，最终完成了精神上的重塑。1950年，他更名马尔科姆·艾克斯，表示遵从“伊斯兰国”的教义，成为坚定的穆斯林。出狱后，他追随穆罕默德，成为“伊斯兰国”的重要传教士。

1963年11月，由于对美国总统约翰·肯尼迪遇刺身亡事件发表了违反组织原则的“政治不正确”言论，马尔克姆被“伊斯兰国”封口三个月。随后，他与“伊斯兰国”教主穆罕默德的矛盾公开化，终于翌年4月脱离该组织。不久，马尔克姆前往伊斯兰圣地麦加朝觐，宣布改奉逊尼派，并再次更名为艾尔哈吉·马立克·艾尔夏巴兹（El　Hajj　Malik　El　Shabazz），完成自己一生中的第三次也是最后一次重塑。他抛弃之前激烈的黑白分离主张，成立穆斯林清真寺社团，以及非裔美国人团结组织，寻求与不同宗教、种族的民权运动人士合作。1965年2月21日，已多次领略人身安全威胁的马尔克姆遇刺身亡。

批评他的人认为，他集煽动、传播暴力、仇恨、黑人优越主义、种族主义、反犹太主义于一身；肯定者则认为，他是非裔美国人权利的提倡者，也是美国种族暴行的有力批判者。

作品简介与赏析

《马尔科姆·艾克斯自传》是由传主马尔科姆在1963至1965年间本人口述，著名作家阿列克斯·黑利记录整理，并于1965年出版的传记文学名作，1988年被《时代周刊》评为“十大必读非虚构作品之一”。《自传》以其女儿的前言开始，以阿列克斯的后记结束，正文共19章，忠实地再现了传主从一个混迹街头的不羁少年成长为一位举世闻名的美国黑人民权运动领袖的励志传奇、充满奋斗、短暂而充实的一生。

他的一生可以说充满戏剧性的转折。马尔科姆在《自传》中将自己的人生历程划分成三个清晰可辨的阶段，每个阶段都有一个不同的名字，他分别从马尔科姆·里特变成马尔科姆·艾克斯，再到艾尔哈吉·马立克·艾尔夏巴兹,　标志着每个成长阶段的心智发展和精神上的浴火重生。父辈几乎全部死于白人的迫害，母亲又由于受打击而被送进精神病院。年幼的他由于没有经济支持而被迫在当时黑人社会的底层成长。他做过擦鞋童、饭店侍者、火车服务生，最后在纽约做起了倒卖彩票的生意。由于和当时的合作伙伴关系恶化，他被迫又回到了原来所住的波士顿，在那里当起了毒品贩子，他不仅倒卖，自己也同时染上了各种不良恶习，每天处于“牲畜”般的生活之中。之后，他又开始行窃，最终自食恶果，被投进监狱，服刑十年。在狱中，他在自己兄弟的影响下，接受了穆斯林的思想，博览群书，开始自学历史、社会学、哲学，等等。

出狱之后，马尔科姆正式加入美国黑人穆斯林的行列，并努力把最初只有几百人规模的黑人穆斯林扩大到了全美几十个穆斯林教点。他要求黑人同胞们摆脱白人的统治，建立自己的社会和法律体系，认识到自己真正的根是在非洲大陆，美国并不是他们真正的国家。他反对白人社会中信奉的基督教，并提出所谓的金发碧眼的白人耶稣基督实际上只可能是除了白色以外的任何颜色。他指出黑人在膜拜这个白色皮肤耶稣的时候也被白人深深地毒害了。

马尔科姆能言善辩，领导能力卓众，声望日隆，在媒体大众面前声名鹊起，赢得了美国社会的广泛关注，但这也招致他自己的穆斯林弟兄的嫉妒，他们纷纷和他断绝了关系。马尔科姆承受了背叛、摈弃，失去了当时他唯一信赖的同教兄弟姐妹的支持，但是他没有倒下去，相反，他建立起自己独立的穆斯林组织，更远赴非洲等地，并特地赶去了穆斯林圣地麦加，参加全世界穆斯林的盛大集会。在那里，他声称自己感受到一生从未感受到的来自不同肤色的平等、团结和友爱。这次旅行改变了他的思想。

回到美国后，马尔科姆开始接受一些正直白人的友好帮助，同时也修正了自己的立场，他希望团结一切渴望平等、自由的兄弟姊妹，共同营造起一个真正民主和平的环境。

本节选是《马尔科姆·艾克斯自传》的第九章，主要叙述了马尔科姆在波士顿的浪荡不羁的街头生活和其被捕入狱的前因后果，可视为整部传记的转折点。波士顿开启了马尔科姆的人生道路上的一个重要篇章，在那里他开始亲身体验美国社会底层黑人的生活，并逐渐成长为一名游戏人生的街头小人物，几乎参与了当时美国社会底层黑人所经历的一切，贩毒吸毒，走私酒，赌博，拉皮条，入室行窃，混迹于舞厅酒吧、街头巷尾，春风得意，游刃有余。凡此种种，使他对当时社会的规则和人性的幽暗以及黑人与白人的关系谙熟于胸，锒铛入狱后，对白人女性同伙的轻判与对他自己的重判更使得他对美国的司法制度的本质有了深刻的了解，打家劫舍偷盗财物算不上重罪，俘获漂亮白人女子芳心使她们与之沆瀣一气才是弥天大罪，冒天下之大不韪。另一方面，马尔科姆虽然浪荡不羁堕落不堪，但他仍不失赤子之心，对朋友的兄弟情义，对兄弟姐妹的同胞温情，在本章中也表现得淋漓尽致。

从叙事的角度来看，这部自传所采用的第一人称叙事使得传主马尔科姆将自己的亲身经历与所见所闻忠实地传递给读者，令读者感觉身临其境，极大地增强了传记中所叙述事件的即视性和现场感，本章前半部分叙事者对马尔科姆与约翰·休斯之间赌局的叙述堪称经典，其中对赌场紧张刺激的氛围的描述，对赌客心理的细致揣摩，对赌技的极致把握，无不曲尽其妙，读者仿佛置身于戏院欣赏一场惊心动魄的大戏，欲罢不能。本章中后半部分中传主与警方的直面交锋，与白人女友丈夫的战友的狭路相逢，以及最后在钟表修理店被警方布控围捕等一系列叙述都值得细读。不仅如此，细心的读者会发现传记文本中存在着双重声音，一个声音来自过去不断经事的年轻的传主，充当叙事者讲述发生的事件，另一个声音来自撰述自传的后来的传主，充当权威对过去发生的事件进行解释、评判和剖析。

就这部传记文学性而言，传主一生当中的三次重大改变所反映出来的心路历程可与早已成为经典的圣奥古斯丁的《忏悔录》媲美，传记作者黑利与传主之间的合作，传主的信任和坦诚，作者对于叙事距离的精心掌控，又让读者联想到英国文学史上鲍斯韦尔与约翰逊博士之间合作完成的经典之作《约翰逊传》。

Chapter　9

Caught

Ella　couldnt　believe　how　atheistatheist:无神论的，不敬神的,不虔诚的。,　how　uncouth　I　had　become.　I　believed　that　a　man　should　do　anything　that　he　was　slick　enough,　or　bad　and　bold　enough,　to　do　and　that　a　woman　was　nothing　but　another　commodity.　Every　word　I　spoke　was　hip　or　profane.　I　would　bet　that　my　working　vocabulary　wasnt　two　hundred　words.

Even　Shorty,　whose　apartment　I　now　again　shared,　wasnt　prepared　for　how　I　lived　and　thought—like　a　predatorypredatory:以捕食其他动物为生的,掠夺性的。　animal.　Sometimes　I　would　catch　him　watching　me.

At　first,　I　slept　a　lot—even　at　night.　I　had　slept　mostly　in　the　daytime　during　the　preceding　two　years.　When　awake,　I　smoked　reefersreefer:大麻烟卷。.　Shorty　had　originally　introduced　me　to　marijuanamarijuana:大麻毒品。,　and　my　consumption　of　it　now　astounded　him.

I　didnt　want　to　talk　much,　at　first.　When　awake,　Id　play　records　continuously.　The　reefers　gave　me　a　feeling　of　contentment.　I　would　enjoy　hours　of　floating,　day　dreaming,　imaginary　conversations　with　my　New　York　musician　friends.

Within　two　weeks,　Id　had　more　sleep　than　during　any　two　months　when　I　had　been　in　Harlem　hustling　day　and　night.　When　I　finally　went　out　in　the　RoxburyRoxbury:罗克斯伯里,　波士顿一地名。　streets,　it　took　me　only　a　little　while　to　locate　a　peddler　of　“snow”—cocaine.　It　was　when　I　got　back　into　that　familiar　snow　feeling　that　I　began　to　want　to　talk.

Cocaine　produces,　for　those　who　sniff　its　powdery　white　crystals,　an　illusion　of　supreme　wellbeing,　and　a　soaring　overconfidence　in　both　physical　and　mental　ability.　You　think　you　could　whip　the　heavyweight　champion,　and　that　you　are　smarter　than　anybody.There　was　also　that　feeling　of　timelessness.　And　there　were　intervals　of　ability　to　recall　and　review　things　that　had　happened　years　back　with　an　astonishing　clarity.

Shortys　band　played　at　spots　around　Boston　three　or　four　nights　a　week.After　he　left　for　work,　Sophia　would　come　over　and　Id　talk　about　my　plans.　She　would　be　gone　back　to　her　husband　by　the　time　Shorty　returned　from　work,　and　Id　bend　his　earbend　ones　ear:与某人喋喋不休。　until　daybreak.

Sophias　husband　had　gotten　out　of　the　military,　and　he　was　some　sort　of　salesman.　He　was　supposed　to　have　a　big　deal　going　which　soon　would　require　his　traveling　a　lot　to　the　West　Coast.　I　didnt　ask　questions,　but　Sophia　often　indicated　they　werent　doing　too　well.　I　know　I　had　nothing　to　do　with　that.　He　never　dreamed　I　existed.　A　white　woman　might　blow　up　at　her　husband　and　scream　and　yell　and　call　him　every　name　she　can　think　of,　and　say　the　most　vicious　things　in　an　effort　to　hurt　him,　and　talk　about　his　mother　and　his　grandmother,　too,　but　one　thing　she　never　will　tell　him　herself　is　that　she　is　going　with　a　black　man.　Thats　one　automatic　red　murder　flag　to　the　white　man,　and　his　woman　knows　it.

Sophia　always　had　given　me　money.　Even　when　I　had　hundreds　of　dollars　in　my　pocket,　when　she　came　to　Harlem　I　would　take　everything　she　had　short　of　her　train　fare　back　to　Boston.　It　seems　that　some　women　love　to　be　exploited.　When　they　are　not　exploited,　they　exploit　the　man.Anyway,　it　was　his　money　that　she　gave　me,　I　guess,　because　she　never　had　worked.　But　now　my　demands　on　her　increased,　and　she　came　up　with　more;　again,　I　dont　know　where　she　got　it.　Always,　every　now　and　then,　I　had　given　her　a　hard　time,　just　to　keep　her　in　line.　Every　once　in　a　while　a　woman　seems　to　need,　in　fact　wants　this,　too.　But　now,　I　would　feel　evil　and　slap　her　around　worse　than　ever,　some　of　the　nights　when　Shorty　was　away.　She　would　cry,　curse　me,　and　swear　that　she　would　never　be　back.　But　I　knew　she　wasnt　even　thinking　about　not　coming　back.

Sophias　being　around　was　one　of　Shortys　greatest　pleasures　about　my　homecoming.　I　have　said　it　before,　I　never　in　my　life　have　seen　a　black　man　that　desired　white　women　as　sincerely　as　Shorty　did.　Since　I　had　known　him,　he　had　had　several.　He　had　never　been　able　to　keep　a　white　woman　any　length　of　time,　though,because　he　was　too　good　to　them,and,　as　I　have　said,　any　woman,white　or　black,　seems　to　get　bored　with　that.

It　happened　that　Shorty　was　between　white　women　when　one　night　Sophia　brought　to　the　house　her　seventeenyearold　sister.　I　never　saw　anything　like　the　way　that　she　and　Shorty　nearly　jumped　for　each　other.　For　him,　she　wasnt　only　a　white　girl,but　a　young　white　girl.　For　her,　he　wasnt　only　a　Negro,　but　a　Negro　musician.　In　looks,　she　was　a　younger　version　of　Sophia,　who　still　turned　heads.　Sometimes　Id　take　the　two　girls　to　Negro　places　where　Shorty　played.　Negroes　showed　thirtytwo　teeth　apiece　as　soon　as　they　saw　the　white　girls.　They　would　come　over　to　your　booth,　or　your　table;　they　would　stand　there　and　drool.　And　Shorty　was　no　better.　Hed　stand　up　there　playing　and　watching　that　young　girl　waiting　for　him,　and　waving　at　him,　and　winking.　As　soon　as　the　set　was　over,　hed　practically　run　over　people　getting　down　to　our　table.

I　didnt　lindyhoplindyhop:跳林迪舞,林迪舞是源于纽约哈勒姆区的一种黑人舞蹈,在20世纪30年代和40年代尤为流行。　any　more　now,　I　wouldnt　even　have　thought　of　it　now,just　as　I　wouldnt　have　been　caught　in　a　zoot　suitzoot　suit:佐特套服,流行于20世纪40年代的一种男装,上衣肩宽而长,裤子高腰裤口狭窄。　now.　All　of　my　suits　were　conservative.　A　banker　might　have　worn　my　shoes.

I　met　Laura　again.　We　were　really　glad　to　see　each　other.　She　was　a　lot　more　like　me　now,　a　goodtime　girl.We　talked　and　laughed.　She　looked　a　lot　older　than　she　really　was.　She　had　no　one　man,　she　freelanced　around.She　had　long　since　moved　away　from　her　grandmother.　Laura　told　me　she　had　finished　school,　but　then　she　gave　up　the　college　idea.　Laura　was　high　whenever　I　saw　her,　now,　too;　we　smoked　some　reefers　together.

After　about　a　month　of　“laying　dead,”as　inactivity　was　called,　I　knew　I　had　to　get　some　kind　of　hustle　going.

A　hustler,　broke,　needs　a　stake.Some　nights　when　Shorty　was　playing,I　would　take　whatever　Sophia　had　been　able　to　get　for　me,　and　Id　try　to　run　it　up　into　something,　playing　stud　pokerstud　poker:明扑克，种马扑克,　五张牌玩法发牌时第一张牌面朝下，随后4张牌面朝上，发牌后下注；七张牌玩法发牌时头两张和最后一张都是牌面朝下，中间4张牌面朝上。　at　John　Hughes　gambling　house.

When　I　had　lived　in　Roxbury　before,John　Hughes　had　been　a　big　gambler　who　wouldnt　have　spoken　to　me.　But　during　the　war　the　Roxbury　“wire”　had　carried　a　lot　about　things　I　was　doing　in　Harlem,　and　now　the　New　York　name　magic　was　on　me.　That　was　the　feeling　that　hustlers　everywhere　else　had:　if　you　could　hustle　and　make　it　in　New　York,　they　were　well　off　to　know　you;　it　gave　them　prestige.　Anyway,　through　the　same　flush　war　years,　John　Hughes　had　hustled　profitably　enough　to　be　able　to　open　a　pretty　good　gambling　house.

John,　one　night,　was　playing　in　a　game　I　was　in.　After　the　first　two　cards　were　dealt　around　the　table,　I　had　an　ace　showing.　I　looked　beneath　it　at　my　hole　cardhole　card:牌面朝下发出的牌。;　another　ace—a　pair,　backtoback.

My　ace　showing　made　it　my　turn　to　bet.

But　I　didnt　rush.　I　sat　there　and　studied.

Finally,　I　knocked　my　knuckles　on　the　table,　passing,　leaving　the　betting　to　the　next　man.　My　action　implied　that　beneath　my　ace　was　some　“nothing”　card　that　I　didnt　care　to　risk　my　money　on.

The　player　sitting　next　to　me　took　the　bait.　He　bet　pretty　heavily.　And　the　next　man　raised　him.　Possibly　each　of　them　had　small　pairs.　Maybe　they　just　wanted　to　scare　me　out　before　I　drew　another　ace.　Finally,　the　bet　reached　John,　who　had　a　queen　showing;　he　raised　everybody.

Now,　there　was　no　telling　what　John　had.　John　truly　was　a　clever　gambler.He　could　gamble　as　well　as　anybody　I　had　gambled　with　in　New　York.

So　the　bet　came　back　to　me.　It　was　going　to　cost　me　a　lot　of　money　to　call　all　the　raises.　Some　of　them　obviously　had　good　cards　but　I　knew　I　had　every　one　of　them　beat.　But　again　I　studied,　and　studied;　I　pretended　perplexity.　And　finally　I　put　in　my　money,　calling　the　bets.

The　same　betting　pattern　went　on,with　each　new　card,　right　around　to　the　last　card.　And　when　that　last　card　went　around,　I　hit　another　ace　in　sight.　Three　aces.　And　John　hit　another　queen　in　sight.

He　bet　a　pile.　Now,　everyone　else　studied　a　long　time—and,　one　by　one,all　folded　their　hands.　Except　me.　All　I　could　do　was　put　what　I　had　left　on　the　table.

If　Id　had　the　money,　I　could　have　raised　five　hundred　dollars　or　more,and　hed　have　had　to　call　me.　John　couldnt　have　gone　the　rest　of　his　life　wondering　if　I　had　bluffedbluff:虚张声势。　him　out　of　a　pot　that　big.

I　showed　my　hole　card　ace;　John　had　three　queens.　As　I　hauled　in　the　pot,　something　over　five　hundred　dollars—my　first　real　stake　in　Boston—John　got　up　from　the　table.　Hed　quit.　He　told　his　house　man,“Anytime　Red　comes　in　here　and　wants　anything,　let　him　have　it.”　He　said,　“Ive　never　seen　a　young　man　play　his　hole　card　like　he　played.”

John　said　“young　man,”　being　himself　about　fifty,　I　guess,　although　you　can　never　be　certain　about　a　Negros　age.He　thought,　as　most　people　would　have,　that　I　was　about　thirty.　No　one　in　Roxbury　except　my　sisters　Ella　and　Mary　suspected　my　real　age.

The　story　of　that　poker　game　helped　my　onscene　reputation　among　the　other　gamblers　and　hustlers　around　Roxbury.　Another　thing　that　happened　in　Johns　gambling　house　contributed:the　incident　that　made　it　known　that　I　carried　not　a　gun,　but　some　guns.

John　had　a　standing　rule　that　anyone　who　came　into　the　place　to　gamble　had　to　check　his　guns　if　he　had　any.I　always　checked　two　guns.　Then,　one　night,　when　a　gambler　tried　to　pull　something　slick,　I　drew　a　third　gun,from　its　shoulder　holster.　This　added　to　the　rest　of　my　reputation　the　word　that　I　was　“triggerhappy”　and　“crazy.”

Looking　back,　I　think　I　really　was　at　least　slightly　out　of　my　mind.　I　viewed　narcoticsnarcotics:麻醉剂,致幻毒品。　as　most　people　regard　food.I　wore　my　guns　as　today　I　wear　my　neckties.　Deep　down,　I　actually　believed　that　after　living　as　fully　as　humanly　possible,　one　should　then　die　violently.　I　expected　then,　as　I　still　expect　today,　to　die　at　any　time.　But　then,　I　think　I　deliberately　invited　death　in　many,　sometimes　insane,way.

For　instance,　a　merchant　marine　sailor　who　knew　me　and　my　reputation　came　into　a　bar　carrying　a　package.　He　motioned　me　to　follow　him　downstairs　into　the　mens　room.He　unwrapped　a　stolen　machine　gun;he　wanted　to　sell　it.　I　said,　“How　do　I　know　it　works?”　He　loaded　it　with　a　cartridge　clipcartridge　clip:弹夹。,　and　told　me　that　all　I　would　have　to　do　then　was　squeeze　the　trigger　release.　I　took　the　gun,examined　it,　and　the　first　thing　he　knew　I　had　it　jammed　right　up　in　his　belly.　I　told　him　I　would　blow　him　wide　open.　He　went　backwards　out　of　the　restroom　and　up　the　stairs　the　way　Bill　“Bojangles”　RobinsonBill　“Bojangles”　Robinson:比尔·罗宾逊(1878—1949),　the　most　famous　of　all　African　American　tap　dancers　in　the　twentieth　century.美国好莱坞和百老汇的舞蹈家，以和秀兰·邓波儿在30年代影片中合演的角色而出名。　used　to　dance　going　backwards.　He　knew　I　was　crazy　enough　to　kill　him.　I　was　insane　enough　not　to　consider　that　he　might　just　wait　his　chance　to　kill　me.For　perhaps　a　month　I　kept　the　machine　gun　at　Shortys　before　I　was　broke　and　sold　it.

When　Reginald　came　to　Roxbury　visiting,　he　was　shocked　at　what　hed　found　out　upon　returning　to　Harlem.　I　spent　some　time　with　him.　He　still　was　the　kid　brother　whom　I　still　felt　more　“family”　toward　than　I　felt　now　even　for　our　sister　Ella.　Ella　still　liked　me.　I　would　go　to　see　her　once　in　a　while.　But　Ella　had　never　been　able　to　reconcile　herself　to　the　way　I　had　changed.　She　has　since　told　me　that　she　had　a　steady　foreboding　that　I　was　on　my　way　into　big　trouble.　But　I　always　had　the　feeling　that　Ella　somehow　admired　my　rebellion　against　the　world,　because　she,　who　had　so　much　more　drive　and　guts　than　most　men,　often　felt　stymied　by　having　been　born　female.

Had　I　been　thinking　only　in　terms　of　myself,　maybe　I　would　have　chosen　steady　gambling　as　a　hustle.　There　were　enough　chumpchump:傻瓜,笨蛋。　gamblers　that　hung　around　John　Hughes　for　a　good　gambler　to　make　a　living　off　them;chumps　that　worked,　usually.　One　would　just　have　to　never　miss　the　games　on　their　paydays.　Besides,　John　Hughes　had　offered　me　a　job　dealing　for　games;　I　didnt　want　that.

But　I　had　come　around　to　thinking　not　only　of　myself.　I　wanted　to　get　something　going　that　could　help　Shorty,　too.　We　had　been　talking;　I　really　felt　sorry　for　Shorty.　The　same　old　musician　story.　The　socalled　glamor　of　being　a　musician,　earning　just　about　enough　money　so　that　after　he　paid　rent　and　bought　his　reefers　and　food　and　other　routine　things,　he　had　nothing　left.　Plus　debts.How　could　Shorty　have　anything?　Id　spent　years　in　Harlem　and　on　the　road　around　the　most　popular　musicians,　the　“names,”　even,　who　really　were　making　big　money　for　musicians—and　they　had　nothing.

For　that　matter,　all　the　thousands　of　dollars　Id　handled,　and　I　had　nothing.Just　satisfying　my　cocaine　habit　alone　cost　me　about　twenty　dollars　a　day.　I　guess　another　five　dollars　a　day　could　have　been　added　for　reefers　and　plain　tobacco　cigarettes　that　I　smoked;　besides　getting　high　on　drugs,　I　chainsmoked　as　many　as　four　packs　a　day.　And,　if　you　ask　me　today,　Ill　tell　you　that　tobacco,　in　all　its　forms,　is　just　as　much　an　addiction　as　any　narcotic.

When　I　opened　the　subject　of　a　hustle　with　Shorty,　I　started　by　first　bringing　him　to　agree　with　my　concept—of　which　he　was　a　living　proof—that　only　squares　kept　on　believing　they　could　ever　get　anything　by　slaving.

And　when　I　mentioned　what　I　had　in　mind—house　burglary—Shorty,　who　always　had　been　so　relatively　conservative,　really　surprised　me　by　how　quickly　he　agreed.　He　didnt　even　know　anything　about　burglarizing.

When　I　began　to　explain　how　it　was　done,　Shorty　wanted　to　bring　in　this　friend　of　his,　whom　I　had　met,　and　liked,　called　Rudy.

Rudys　mother　was　Italian,　his　father　was　a　Negro.　He　was　born　right　therein　Boston,　a　short,　light　fellow,　a　pretty　boy　type.　Rudy　worked　regularly　for　an　employment　agency　that　sent　him　to　wait　on　tables　at　exclusive　parties.He　had　a　side　deal　going,　a　hustle　that　took　me　right　back　to　the　old　steering　days　in　Harlem.　Once　a　week,Rudy　went　to　the　home　of　this　old,rich　Boston　blueblood,　pillarofsociety　aristocrat.　He　paid　Rudy　to　undress　them　both,　then　pick　up　the　old　man　like　a　baby,　lay　him　on　his　bed,　then　stand　over　him　and　sprinkle　him　all　over　with　talcum　powdertalcum　powder:滑石粉。.

Rudy　said　the　old　man　would　actually　reach　his　climax　from　that.

I　told　him　and　Shorty　about　some　of　the　things　Id　seen.　Rudy　said　that　as　far　as　he　knew,　Boston　had　no　organized　specialty　sex　houses,　just　individual　rich　whites　who　had　their　private　specialty　desires　catered　to　by　Negroes　who　came　to　their　homes　camouflagedcamouflage:伪装。　as　chauffeurs,　maids,waiters,　or　some　other　accepted　image.　Just　as　in　New　York,　these　were　the　rich,　the　highest　society—the　predominantly　old　men,　past　the　age　of　ability　to　conduct　any　kind　of　ordinary　sex,　always　hunting　for　new　ways　to　be　“sensitive.”

Rudy,　I　remember,　spoke　of　one　old　white　man　who　paid　a　black　couple　to　let　him　watch　them　have　intercourse　on　his　bed.　Another　was　so　“sensitive”　that　he　paid　to　sit　on　a　chair　outside　a　room　where　a　couple　was—he　got　his　satisfaction　just　from　imagining　what　was　going　on　inside.

A　good　burglary　team　includes,　I　knew,　what　is　called　a　“finder.”　A　finder　is　one　who　locates　lucrative　places　to　rob.　Another　principal　need　is　someone　able　to　“case”　these　places　physical　layouts—to　determine　means　of　entry,　the　best　getaway　routes,　and　so　forth.　Rudy　qualified　on　both　counts.　Being　sent　to　work　in　rich　homes,　he　wouldnt　be　suspected　when　he　sized　up　their　loot　and　cased　the　joint,　just　running　around　looking　busy　with　a　white　coat　on.

Rudys　reaction,　when　he　was　told　what　we　had　in　mind,　was　something,I　remember,　like　“Man,　when　do　we　start?”

But　I　wasnt　rushing　off　halfcocked.　I　had　learned　from　some　of　the　pros,and　from　my　own　experience,　how　important　it　was　to　be　careful　and　plan.　Burglary,　properly　executed,though　it　had　its　dangers,　offered　the　maximum　chances　of　success　with　the　minimum　risk.　If　you　did　your　job　so　that　you　never　met　any　of　your　victims,　it　first　lessened　your　chances　of　having　to　attack　or　perhaps　kill　someone.　And　if　through　some　slipup　you　were　caught,　later,　by　the　police,there　was　never　a　positive　eyewitness.

It　is　also　important　to　select　an　area　of　burglary　and　stick　to　that.　There　are　specific　specialities　(sic)　among　burglars.　Some　work　apartments　only,　others　houses　only,　others　stores　only,　or　warehouses;　still　others　will　go　after　only　safes　or　strongboxes.

Within　the　residence　burglary　category,　there　are　further　specialty　distinctions.　There　are　the　day　burglars,　the　dinner　and　theatertime　burglars,　the　night　burglars.　I　think　that　any　citys　police　will　tell　you　that　very　rarely　do　they　find　one　type　who　will　work　at　another　time.　For　instance　Jumpsteady,　in　Harlem,　was　a　nighttime　apartment　specialist.　It　would　have　been　hard　to　persuade　Jumpsteady　to　work　in　the　daytime　if　a　millionaire　had　gone　out　for　lunch　and　left　his　front　door　wide　open.

I　had　one　very　practical　reason　never　to　work　in　the　daytime,　aside　from　my　inclinations.　With　my　high　visibility,　Id　have　been　sunk　in　the　daytime.　I　could　just　hear　people:　“A　reddishbrown　Negro　over　six　feet　tall.”　One　glance　would　be　enough.

Setting　up　what　I　wanted　to　be　the　perfect　operation,　I　thought　about　pulling　the　white　girls　into　it　for　two　reasons.　One　was　that　I　realized　wed　be　too　limited　relying　only　upon　places　where　Rudy　worked　as　a　waiter.　He　didnt　get　to　work　in　too　many　places;it　wouldnt　be　very　long　before　we　ran　out　of　sources.　And　when　other　places　had　to　be　found　and　cased　in　the　rich,　white　residential　areas,　Negroes　hanging　around　would　stick　out　like　sore　thumbs,　but　these　white　girls　could　get　invited　into　the　right　places.

I　disliked　the　idea　of　having　too　many　people　involved,　all　at　the　same　time.　But　with　Shorty　and　Sophias　sister　so　close　now,　and　Sophia　and　me　as　though　we　had　been　together　for　fifty　years,　and　Rudy　as　eager　and　cool　as　he　was,　nobody　would　be　apt　to　spill,everybody　would　be　under　the　same　risk;　we　would　be　like　a　family　unit.

I　never　doubted　that　Sophia　would　go　along.　Sophia　would　do　anything　I　said.　And　her　sister　would　do　anything　that　Sophia　said.　They　both　went　for　it.　Sophias　husband　was　away　on　one　of　his　trips　to　the　coast　when　I　told　her　and　her　sister.

Most　burglars,　I　knew,　were　caught　not　on　the　job,　but　trying　to　dispose　of　the　lootloot:抢劫。.　Finding　the　fencefence:收受贼赃者,买卖赃物的人。　we　used　was　a　rare　piece　of　luck.　We　agreed　upon　the　plan　for　operations.　The　fence　didnt　work　with　us　directly.　He　had　a　representative,　an　excon,　who　dealt　with　me,　and　no　one　else　in　my　gang.　Aside　from　his　regular　business,　he　owned　around　Boston　several　garages　and　small　warehouses.　The　arrangement　was　that　before　a　job,　I　would　alert　the　representative,　and　give　him　a　general　idea　of　what　we　expected　to　get,　and　hed　tell　me　at　which　garage　or　warehouse　we　should　make　the　drop.　After　we　had　made　our　drop,　the　representative　would　examine　the　stolen　articles.　He　would　remove　all　identifying　marks　from　everything.　Then　he　would　call　the　fence,　who　would　come　and　make　a　personal　appraisal.　The　next　day　the　representative　would　meet　me　at　a　prearranged　place　and　would　make　the　payment　for　what　we　had　stolen—in　cash.

One　thing　I　remember.　This　fence　always　sent　your　money　in　crisp,brandnew　bills.　He　was　smart.　Somehow　that　had　a　very　definite　psychological　effect　upon　all　of　us,after　we　had　pulled　a　job,　walking　around　with　that　crisp　green　money　in　our　pockets.　He　may　have　had　other　reasons.

We　needed　a　base　of　operations—not　in　Roxbury.　The　girls　rented　an　apartment　in　Harvard　Square.　Unlike　Negroes,　these　white　girls　could　go　shopping　for　the　locale　and　physical　situation　we　wanted.　It　was　on　the　ground　floor,　where,　moving　late　at　night,　all　of　us　could　come　and　go　without　attracting　notice.

In　any　organization,　someone　must　be　the　boss.　If　its　even　just　one　person,　youve　got　to　be　the　boss　of　yourself.

At　our　gangs　first　meeting　in　the　apartment,　we　discussed　how　we　were　going　to　work.　The　girls　would　get　into　houses　to　case　them　by　ringing　bells　and　saying　they　were　saleswomen,　polltakers,　college　girls　making　a　survey,　or　anything　else　suitable.　Once　in　the　houses,　they　would　get　around　as　much　as　they　could　without　attracting　attention.Then,　back,　they　would　report　what　special　valuables　they　had　seen,　and　where.　They　would　draw　the　layout　for　Shorty,　Rudy,　and　me.　We　agreed　that　the　girls　would　actually　burglarize　only　in　special　cases　where　there　would　be　some　advantage.　But　generally　the　three　men　would　go,　two　of　us　to　do　the　job　while　the　third　kept　watch　in　the　getaway　car,　with　the　motor　running.

Talking　to　them,　laying　down　the　plans,　I　had　deliberately　sat　on　a　bed　away　from　them.　All　of　a　sudden,　I　pulled　out　my　gun,　shook　out　all　five　bullets,　and　then　let　them　see　me　put　back　only　one　bullet.　I　twirled　the　cylindercylinder:(左轮手枪的)旋转弹膛。,　and　put　the　muzzlemuzzle:枪口。　to　my　head.

“Now,　Im　going　to　see　how　much　guts　all　of　you　have,”　I　said.

I　grinned　at　them.　All　of　their　mouths　had　flapped　open.　I　pulled　the　trigger—we　all　heard　it　click.

“Im　going　to　do　it　again,　now.”

They　begged　me　to　stop.　I　could　see　in　Shortys　and　Rudys　eyes　some　idea　of　rushing　me.

We　all　heard　the　hammer　click　on　another　empty　cylinder.

The　women　were　in　hysterics.　Rudy　and　Shorty　were　begging,　“Man...Red...cut　it　out,　man!...Freeze!”　I　pulled　the　trigger　once　more.

“Im　doing　this,　showing　you　Im　not　afraid　to　die,”　I　told　them.　“Never　cross　a　man　not　afraid　to　die...now,　lets　get　to　work!”

I　never　had　one　moments　trouble　with　any　of　them　after　that.　Sophia　acted　awed,　her　sister　all　but　called　me　“Mr.　Red.”　Shorty　and　Rudy　were　never　again　quite　the　same　with　me.Neither　of　them　ever　mentioned　it.They　thought　I　was　crazy.　They　were　afraid　of　me.

We　pulled　the　first　job　that　night—the　place　of　the　old　man　who　hired　Rudy　to　sprinkle　him　with　talcum　powder.　A　cleaner　job　couldnt　have　been　asked　for.　Everything　went　like　clockwork.The　fence　was　full　of　praise;　he　proved　he　meant　it　with　his　crisp,　new　money.　The　old　man　later　told　Rudy　how　a　small　army　of　detectives　had　been　there—and　they　decided　that　the　job　had　the　earmarksearmark:记号,特征。　of　some　gang　which　had　been　operating　around　Boston　for　about　a　year.

We　quickly　got　it　down　to　a　science.The　girls　would　scout　and　case　in　wealthy　neighborhoods.　The　burglary　would　be　pulled;　sometimes　it　took　no　more　than　ten　minutes.　Shorty　and　I　did　most　of　the　actual　burglary.　Rudy　generally　had　the　getaway　car.

If　the　people　werent　at　home,　wed　use　a　passkeypasskey:万能钥匙。　on　a　common　door　lock.　On　a　patent　lock,　wed　use　a　jimmyjimmy:铁撬棍。,　as　its　called,　or　a　lockpick.　Or,sometimes,　we　would　enter　by　windows　from　a　fireescape,　or　a　roof.　Gullible　women　often　took　the　girls　all　over　their　houses,　just　to　hear　them　exclaiming　over　the　finery.　With　the　help　of　the　girls　drawings　and　a　fingerbeam　searchlight,　we　went　straight　to　the　things　we　wanted.　Sometimes　the　victims　were　in　their　beds　asleep.　That　may　sound　very　daring.　Actually,　it　was　almost　easy.　The　first　thing　we　had　to　do　when　people　were　in　the　house　was　to　wait,　very　still,　and　pick　up　the　sounds　of　breathing.　Snorers　we　loved;　they　made　it　real　easy.　In　stockinged　feet,　wed　go　right　into　the　bedrooms.　Moving　swiftly,　like　shadows,　we　would　lift　clothes,　watches,　wallets,　handbags,　and　jewelry　boxes.

The　Christmas　season　was　Santa　Claus　for　us;　people　had　expensive　presents　lying　all　over　their　houses.　And　they　had　taken　more　cash　than　usual　out　of　their　banks.　Sometimes,　working　earlier　than　we　usually　did,　we　even　worked　houses　that　we　hadnt　cased.　If　the　shades　were　drawn　full,　and　no　lights　were　on,　and　there　was　no　answer　when　one　of　the　girls　rang　the　bell,　we　would　take　the　chance　and　go　in.

I　can　give　you　a　very　good　tip　if　you　want　to　keep　burglars　out　of　your　house.　A　light　on　for　the　burglar　to　see　is　the　very　best　single　means　of　protection.　One　of　the　ideal　things　is　to　leave　a　bathroom　light　on　all　night.The　bathroom　is　one　place　where　somebody　could　be,　for　any　length　of　time,　at　any　time　of　the　night,　and　he　would　be　likely　to　hear　the　slightest　strange　sound.　The　burglar,　knowing　this,　wont　try　to　enter.　Its　also　the　cheapest　possible　protection.　The　kilowatts　are　a　lot　cheaper　than　your　valuables.

We　became　efficient.　The　fence　sometimes　relayed　tips　as　to　where　we　could　find　good　loot.　It　was　in　this　way　that　for　one　period,　one　of　our　best　periods,　I　remember,　we　specialized　in　Oriental　rugs.　I　have　always　suspected　that　the　fence　himself　sold　the　rugs　to　the　people　we　stole　them　from.　But,　anyway,　you　wouldnt　imagine　the　value　of　those　things.　I　remember　one　small　one　that　brought　us　a　thousand　dollars.　Theres　no　telling　what　the　fence　got　for　it.Every　burglar　knew　that　fences　robbed　the　burglars　worse　than　the　burglars　had　robbed　the　victims.

Our　only　close　brush　with　the　law　came　once　when　we　were　making　our　getaway,　three　of　us　in　the　front　seat　of　the　car,　and　the　back　seat　loaded　with　stuff.　Suddenly　we　saw　a　police　car　round　the　corner,　coming　toward　us,　and　it　went　on　past　us.　They　were　just　cruising.　But　then　in　the　rearview　mirror,　we　saw　them　make　a　Uturn,and　we　knew　they　were　going　to　flash　us　to　stop.　They　had　spotted　us,　in　passing,　as　Negroes,　and　they　knew　that　Negroes　had　no　business　in　the　area　at　that　hour.

It　was　a　close　situation.　There　was　a　lot　of　robbery　going　on;　we　werent　the　only　gang　working,　we　knew,　not　by　any　means.　But　I　knew　that　the　white　man　is　rare　who　will　ever　consider　that　a　Negro　can　outsmart　him.　Before　their　light　began　flashing,　I　told　Rudy　to　stop.　I　did　what　Id　done　once　before—got　out　and　flagged　them,　walking　toward　them.　When　they　stopped,　I　was　at　their　car.　I　asked　them,　bumbling　my　words　like　a　confused　Negro,　if　they　could　tell　me　how　to　get　to　a　Roxbury　address.They　told　me,　and　we,　and　they,　went　on　about　our　respective　businesses.

We　were　going　along　fine.　Wed　make　a　good　pile　and　then　lay　low　awhile,　living　it　up.　Shorty　still　played　with　his　band,　Rudy　never　missed　attending　his　sensitive　old　man,　or　the　tablewaiting　at　his　exclusive　parties,and　the　girls　maintained　their　routine　home　schedules.

Sometimes,　I　still　took　the　girls　out　to　places　where　Shorty　played,　and　to　other　places,　spending　money　as　though　it　were　going　out　of　style,　the　girls　dressed　in　jewelry　and　furs　they　had　selected　from　our　hauls.　No　one　knew　our　hustle,　but　it　was　clear　that　we　were　doing　fine.　And　sometimes,　the　girls　would　come　over　and　wed　meet　them　either　at　Shortys　in　Roxbury　or　in　our　Harvard　Square　place,　and　just　smoke　reefers,　and　play　music.　Its　a　shame　to　tell　on　a　man,　but　Shorty　was　so　obsessed　with　the　white　girl　that　even　if　the　lights　were　out,　he　would　pull　up　the　shade　to　be　able　to　see　that　white　flesh　by　the　street　lamp　from　outside.

Early　evenings　when　we　were　laying　low　between　jobs,　I　often　went　to　a　Massachusetts　Avenue　night　club　called　the　Savoy.　And　Sophia　would　telephone　me　there　punctually.　Even　when　we　pulled　jobs,　I　would　leave　from　this　club,　then　rush　back　thereafter　the　job.　The　reason　was　so　that　if　it　was　ever　necessary,　people　could　testify　that　they　had　seen　me　at　just　about　the　time　the　job　was　pulled.　Negroes　being　questioned　by　policemen　would　be　very　hard　to　pin　down　on　any　exact　time.

Boston　at　this　time　had　two　Negro　detectives.　Ever　since　I　had　come　back　on　the　Roxbury　scene,　one　of　these　detectives,　a　dark　brown　fellow　named　Turner,　had　never　been　able　to　stand　me,　and　it　was　mutual.　He　talked　about　what　he　would　do　to　me,　and　I　had　promptly　put　an　answer　back　on　the　wire.　I　knew　from　the　way　he　began　to　act　that　he　had　heard　it.　Everyone　knew　that　I　carried　guns.　And　he　did　have　sense　enough　to　know　that　I　wouldnt　hesitate　to　use　them—and　on　him,　detective　or　not.

This　early　evening　I　was　in　this　place　when　at　the　usual　time,　the　phone　in　the　booth　rang.　It　rang　just　as　this　detective　Turner　happened　to　walk　in　through　the　front　door.　He　saw　me　start　to　get　up,　he　knew　the　call　was　for　me,　but　stepped　inside　the　booth,and　answered.

I　heard　him　saying,　looking　straight　at　me,　“Hello,　hello,　hello—”　And　I　knew　that　Sophia,　taking　no　chances　with　the　strange　voice,　had　hung　up.

“Wasnt　that　call　for　me?”　I　asked　Turner.

He　said　that　it　was.

I　said,　“Well,　why　didnt　you　say　so?”

He　gave　me　a　rude　answer.　I　knew　he　wanted　me　to　make　a　move,　first.We　both　were　being　cageycagey:秘而不宣的,　谨小慎微的。.　We　both　knew　that　we　wanted　to　kill　each　other.　Neither　wanted　to　say　the　wrong　thing.　Turner　didnt　want　to　say　anything　that,　repeated,　would　make　him　sound　bad.　I　didnt　want　to　say　anything　that　could　be　interpreted　as　a　threat　to　a　cop.

But　I　remember　exactly　what　I　said　to　him　anyway,　purposely　loud　enough　for　some　people　at　the　bar　to　hear　me.　I　said,　“You　know,　Turner—youre　trying　to　make　history.　Dont　you　know　that　if　you　play　with　me,　you　certainly　will　go　down　in　history　because　youve　got　to　kill　me?”

Turner　looked　at　me.　Then　he　backed　down.　He　walked　on　by　me.　I　guess　he　wasnt　ready　to　make　history.

I　had　gotten　to　the　point　where　I　was　walking　on　my　own　coffin.

Its　a　law　of　the　rackets　that　every　criminal　expects　to　get　caught.　He　tries　to　stave　offstave　off:挡开或避开，延迟。　the　inevitable　for　as　long　as　he　can.

Drugs　helped　me　push　the　thought　to　the　back　of　my　mind.　They　were　the　center　of　my　life.　I　had　gotten　to　the　stage　where　every　day　I　used　enough　drugs—reefers,　cocaine,　or　both—so　that　I　felt　above　any　worries,any　strains.　If　any　worries　did　manage　to　push　their　way　through　to　the　surface　of　my　consciousness,　I　could　float　them　back　where　they　came　from　until　tomorrow,　and　then　until　the　next　day.

But　where,　always　before,　I　had　been　able　to　smoke　the　reefers　and　to　sniff　the　snow　and　rarely　show　it　very　much,　by　now　it　was　not　that　easy.

One　week　when　we　werent　working—after　a　big　haul—I　was　just　staying　high,　and　I　was　out　nightclubbing.　I　came　into　this　club,　and　from　the　bartenders　face　when　he　spoke,　“Hello,　Red,”　I　knew　that　something　was　wrong.　But　I　didnt　ask　him　anything.　Ive　always　had　this　rule—never　ask　anybody　in　that　kind　of　situation;　they　will　tell　you　what　they　want　you　to　know.　But　the　bartender　didnt　get　a　chance　to　tell　me,　if　he　had　meant　to.　When　I　sat　down　on　a　stool　and　ordered　a　drink,　I　saw　them.　Sophia　and　her　sister　sat　at　a　table　inside,　near　the　dance　floor,　with　a　white　man.

I　dont　know　how　I　ever　made　such　a　mistake　as　I　next　did.　I　could　have　talked　to　her　later.　I　didnt　know,　or　care,　who　the　white　fellow　was.　My　cocaine　told　me　to　get　up.

It　wasnt　Sophias　husband.　It　was　his　closest　friend.　They　had　served　in　the　war　together.　With　her　husband　out　of　town,　he　had　asked　Sophia　and　her　sister　out　to　dinner,　and　they　went.　But　then,　later,　after　dinner,driving　around,　he　had　suddenly　suggested　going　over　to　the　black　ghetto.

Every　Negro　who　lives　in　a　city　has　seen　the　type　a　thousand　times,　the　Northern　cracker　who　will　go　to　visit　“niggertown,”　to　be　amused　at　“the　coons.”

The　girls,　so　well　known　in　the　Negro　places　in　Roxbury,　had　tried　to　change　his　mind,　but　he　had　insisted.　So　they　had　just　held　their　breaths　coming　into　this　club　where　they　had　been　a　hundred　times.　They　walked　in　stiffeyeing　the　bartenders　and　waiters　who　caught　their　message　and　acted　as　though　they　never　had　seen　them　before.　And　they　were　sitting　there　with　drinks　before　them,　praying　that　no　Negro　who　knew　them　would　barge　up　to　their　table.

Then　up　I　came.　I　know　I　called　them　“Baby.”　They　were　chalkywhite,he　was　beetred.

That　same　night,　back　at　the　Harvard　Square　place,　I　really　got　sick.　It　was　less　of　a　physical　sickness　than　it　was　all　of　the　last　five　years　catching　up.　I　was　in　my　pajamas　in　bed,　half　asleep,　when　I　heard　someone　knock.

I　knew　that　something　was　wrong.We　all　had　keys.　No　one　ever　knocked　at　the　door.　I　rolled　off　and　under　the　bed;　I　was　so　groggygroggy:虚弱的,　眩晕的。　it　didnt　cross　my　mind　to　grab　for　my　gun　on　the　dresser.

Under　the　bed,　I　heard　the　key　turn,and　I　saw　the　shoes　and　pants　cuffs　walk　in.　I　watched　them　walk　around.　I　saw　them　stop.　Every　time　they　stopped,　I　knew　what　the　eyes　were　looking　at.　And　I　knew,　before　he　did,that　he　was　going　to　get　down　and　look　under　the　bed.　He　did.　It　was　Sophias　husbands　friend.　His　face　was　about　two　feet　from　mine.　It　looked　congealed.

“Ha,　ha,　ha,　I　fooled　you,　didnt　I?”　I　said.　It　wasnt　at　all　funny.　I　got　out　from　under　the　bed,　still　fakelaughing.He　didnt　run,　Ill　say　that　for　him.　He　stood　back;　he　watched　me　as　though　I　were　a　snake.

I　didnt　try　to　hide　what　he　already　knew.　The　girls　had　some　things　in　the　closets,　and　around;　he　had　seen　all　of　that.　We　even　talked　some.　I　told　him　the　girls　werent　there,　and　he　left.　What　shook　me　the　most　was　realizing　that　I　had　trapped　myself　under　the　bed　without　a　gun.　I　really　was　slipping.

I　had　put　a　stolen　watch　into　a　jewelry　shop　to　replace　a　broken　crystal.　It　was　about　two　days　later,　when　I　went　to　pick　up　the　watch,　that　things　fell　apart.

As　I　have　said,　a　gun　was　as　much　a　part　of　my　dress　as　a　necktie.　I　had　my　gun　in　a　shoulder　holster,　under　my　coat.The　loser　of　the　watch,　the　person　from　whom　it　had　been　stolen　by　us,　I　later　found,　had　described　the　repair　that　it　needed.　It　was　a　very　expensive　watch,　thats　why　I　had　kept　it　for　myself.　And　all　of　the　jewelers　in　Boston　had　been　alerted.

The　Jew　waited　until　I　had　paid　him　before　he　laid　the　watch　on　the　counter.　He　gave　his　signal—and　this　other　fellow　suddenly　appeared,　from　the　back,　walking　toward　me.

One　hand　was　in　his　pocket.　I　knew　he　was　a　cop.

He　said,　quietly,　“Step　into　the　back.”

Just　as　I　started　back　there,　an　innocent　Negro　walked　into　the　shop.　I　remember　later　hearing　that　he　had　just　that　day　gotten　out　of　the　military.　The　detective,　thinking　he　was　with　me,　turned　to　him.

There　I　was,　wearing　my　gun,　and　the　detective　talking　to　that　Negro　with　his　back　to　me.　Today　I　believe　that　AllahAllah:安拉，真主。　was　with　me　even　then.　I　didnt　try　to　shoot　him.　And　that　saved　my　life.

I　remember　that　his　name　was　Detective　Slack.

I　raised　my　arm,　and　motioned　to　him,　“Here,　take　my　gun.”

I　saw　his　face　when　he　took　it.　He　was　shocked.　Because　of　the　sudden　appearance　of　the　other　Negro,　he　had　never　thought　about　a　gun.　It　really　moved　him　that　I　hadnt　tried　to　kill　him.

Then,　holding　my　gun　in　his　hand,　he　signaled.　And　out　from　where　they　had　been　concealed　walked　two　other　detectives.　Theyd　had　me　covered.　One　false　move,　Id　have　been　dead.

I　was　going　to　have　a　long　time　in　prison　to　think　about　that.

If　I　hadnt　been　arrested　right　when　I　was,　I　could　have　been　dead　another　way.　Sophias　husbands　friend　had　told　her　husband　about　me.　And　the　husband　had　arrived　that　morning,　and　had　gone　to　the　apartment　with　a　gun,　looking　for　me.He　was　at　the　apartment　just　about　when　they　took　me　to　the　precinct.The　detectives　grilled　me.　They　didnt　beat　me.　They　didnt　even　put　a　finger　on　me.　And　I　knew　it　was　because　I　hadnt　tried　to　kill　the　detective.

They　got　my　address　from　some　papers　they　found　on　me.　The　girls　soon　were　picked　up.　Shorty　was　pulled　right　off　the　bandstand　that　night.　The　girls　also　had　implicatedimplicate:表明(某人)与(罪行)有牵连。　Rudy.　To　this　day,　I　have　always　marveled　at　how　Rudy,　somehow,　got　the　word,　and　I　know　he　must　have　caught　the　first　thing　smoking　out　of　Boston,　and　he　got　away.　They　never　got　him.

I　have　thought　a　thousand　times,　I　guess,　about　how　I　so　narrowly　escaped　death　twice　that　day.　Thats　why　I　believe　that　everything　is　written.

The　cops　found　the　apartment　loaded　with　evidence—fur　coats,　some　jewelry,　other　small　stuff—plus　the　tools　of　our　trade.　A　jimmy,　a　lockpick,　glass　cutters,　screwdrivers,　pencilbeam　flashlights,　false　keys...and　my　small　arsenal　of　guns.

The　girls　got　low　bail.　They　were　still　white—burglars　or　not.　Their　worst　crime　was　their　involvement　with　Negroes.　But　Shorty　and　I　had　bail　set　at　$10,000　each,　which　they　knew　we　were　nowhere　near　able　to　raise.

The　social　workers　worked　on　us.White　women　in　league　with　Negroes　was　their　main　obsession.　The　girls　werent　socalled　“tramps,”　or　“trash,”they　were　welltodo　uppermiddleclass　whites.　That　bothered　the　social　workers　and　the　forces　of　the　law　more　than　anything　else.

How,　where,　when,　had　I　met　them?　Did　we　sleep　together?　Nobody　wanted　to　know　anything　at　all　about　the　robberies.　All　they　could　see　was　that　we　had　taken　the　white　mans　women.

I　just　looked　at　the　social　workers:“Now,　what　do　you　think?”

Even　the　court　clerks　and　the　bailiffs:“Nice　white　girls...goddam　niggers—”　It　was　the　same　even　from　our　courtappointed　lawyers　as　we　sat　down,　under　guard,　at　a　table,　as　our　hearing　assembled.　Before　the　judge　entered,　I　said　to　one　lawyer,　“We　seem　to　be　getting　sentenced　because　of　those　girls.”　He　got　red　from　the　neck　up　and　shuffled　his　papers:　“You　had　no　business　with　white　girls!”

Later,　when　I　had　learned　the　full　truth　about　the　white　man,　I　reflected　many　times　that　the　average　burglary　sentence　for　a　first　offender,　as　we　all　were,　was　about　two　years.　But　we　werent　going　to　get　the　average—not　for　our　crime.

I　want　to　say　before　I　go　on　that　I　have　never　previously　told　anyone　my　sordidsordid:卑鄙的，肮脏的。　past　in　detail.　I　havent　done　it　now　to　sound　as　though　I　might　be　proud　of　how　bad,　how　evil,　I　was.

But　people　are　always　speculating—why　am　I　as　I　am?　To　understand　that　of　any　person,　his　whole　life,　from　birth,　must　be　reviewed.　All　of　our　experiences　fuse　into　our　personality.　Everything　that　ever　happened　to　us　is　an　ingredient.

Today,　when　everything　that　I　do　has　an　urgency,　I　would　not　spend　one　hour　in　the　preparation　of　a　book　which　had　the　ambition　to　perhaps　titillatetitillate:挑逗。　some　readers.　But　I　am　spending　many　hours　because　the　full　story　is　the　best　way　that　I　know　to　have　it　seen,　and　understood,　that　I　had　sunk　to　the　very　bottom　of　the　American　white　mans　society　when—soon　now,　in　prison—I　found　Allah　and　the　religion　of　Islam　and　it　completely　transformed　my　life.

Questions　for　Discussion

1.　How　had　Malcolms　addiction　to　narcotics　and　abuse　of　drugs　influenced　the　working　of　his　mentality　which　had　calamitous　consequences?

2.　How　do　you　understand　Malcolm　Xs　critical　remarks　about　the　different　treatments　extended　to　the　members　of　the　gang　of　burglary?

3.　What　is　the　difference　between　Martin　Luther　King,　Jr.　and　Malcolm　X　in　the　common　struggle　for　civil　rights　of　the　Black　people?　Whose　approach　do　you　prefer?　And　why?

8.　I　Know　Why　the　Caged　Bird　Sings

作者简介

玛雅·安吉洛（Maya　Angelou）（1928—2014），原名玛格丽特·约翰逊，美国著名黑人女作家、诗人、编剧、歌手、演员，同时也是积极的民权活动家。她出生于密苏里州圣路易斯市，在阿肯色州和加利福尼亚州长大，写过很多诗歌、自传和剧本。她的自传作品给美国文学带来巨大影响，尤其是第一部《我知道笼中鸟为何歌唱》（1969）。之后她连续发表五部自传：《以我的名义重整旗鼓》（1974），《像过圣诞节般唱歌、跳舞、欢乐》（1976），《女人心》（1981），《所有上帝的孩子都需要旅游鞋》（1986），《掷向天堂的歌》（2002）。20世纪60年代初，安吉洛侨居埃及和加纳，担任杂志编辑，1965年回到美国。与此同时，安吉洛积极投身于黑人民权运动。她与马丁·路德·金会面，成为南方基督教领导大会的北方协调员。安吉洛的诗歌创作同样成果丰硕。自第一本诗集《我死前只要给我一杯冷饮》（1971）问世以来，至今已出版《我仍将升起》（1978）、《谢柯，为什么不歌唱》（1983）、《现在希巴唱歌》（1987）、《我绝不会动摇》（1990）等10部诗集。1993　年，在克林顿总统的就职典礼上，她应邀朗诵了她的诗歌《早晨的脉搏》（On　the　Pulse　of　Morning），成为家喻户晓的人物。1995年，安吉洛在旧金山庆祝联合国成立50周年大会上朗诵了诗篇《一条勇敢而令人惊异的真理》。2011年奥巴马总统授予她总统自由奖章。安吉洛已成为美国声音的代表。

作品简介与赏析

《我知道笼中鸟为何歌唱》这部自传的名字取自保罗·劳伦斯·邓巴的诗《同情》。自出版以来获得众多赞誉，被称为是民权运动结束之后最具艺术审美价值的传记。它曾获　1970年美国图书奖的提名，连续两年荣登《纽约时代》最畅销的平装图书。1979　年被改编拍成电视剧在哥伦比亚广播公司电视台播放。

作品记录了作者从3岁到16岁的人生经历，再现了作者童年和少女时代的坎坷与不幸。她的讲述再现了作者遭遇的三重处境：男性的偏见、白人的仇恨和黑人的无权无势。故事从玛雅3岁时与哥哥一起被离异的父母送往南方的祖母家开始讲起。祖母住在阿肯色州的斯坦普镇，她性格坚韧，充满自尊，在当地开杂货铺为生。在那个种族隔离严重的南方小镇，玛雅一直认为自己是个丑陋的小女孩，永远也比不上那些白人女孩。而祖母教会了他们很多作为黑人的生存原则，并使他们成为聪明、懂礼貌的孩子。在斯坦普镇的这些难忘岁月构成了这部作品的主体。8岁时，玛雅回到母亲身边，却被母亲的男友奸污，后者在玛雅说出实情后，被她的舅舅们殴打致死。这一段痛苦经历让玛雅此后五年除了和哥哥外不再开口说话，把情感寄托在读书和写作之中。其后玛雅和哥哥又被送回到祖母家。八年级时，他们被带到母亲所定居的加州旧金山市，在一所没有种族隔离制度的学校上学。她鼓足勇气去应聘，成为旧金山市第一位黑人公车售票员。16岁时，处于青春期的玛雅因为担心自己是同性恋，而主动去接近一个白人男孩，成了未婚妈妈。

在这部作品中，安吉洛描述了身为一名黑人女孩，在阿肯色州这个很少为非裔美国文学所关注的地方意味着什么。其中一个生动的例子就是她在白人牙医林肯大夫那里的遭遇。因为她的黑人身份，医生拒绝为她看病。安吉洛回忆道：“忍受着牙痛、头痛，同时还得承受身为黑人的重负，这是多么可怕的不公！”早年经历的困苦多舛并没有击垮安吉洛，相反，她的作品处处都在歌颂美国黑人积极正面的价值观，尤其是面对困难的勇气和坚强。作者积极乐观的态度，充满激情的笔触使原本黯淡凄凉的黑人女性生活变成了一首激荡人心的生存颂歌，为人们研究黑人女性自传体文学提供了新的思路。作品问世后深受评论界好评，激发了作者创作系列自传的热情。在黑人自传传统中，安吉洛与道格拉斯、赖特、布克·华盛顿等齐名,　被文学界誉为20世纪70年代美国黑人文学复兴的代表作家之一。

批评界多从女性主义和美国黑人研究的视角出发，讨论文本中的种族、性别、身份、背井离乡等话题。近年来则更多从成长小说、女性自传、物质文化、形式分析等角度切入作品。

本文节选自该书的第16章。作者讲述了自己10岁那年在卡利南太太家厨房帮佣的经历。她把这位白种女人的厨房比作自己的进修学校，期待能在那里学到别处学不到的优雅精致的生活方式和持家之道。初到此处的小玛雅对一切都感到新奇。“汤匙、船形肉汁盘、切黄油的刀、色拉叉子、用来盛放切好的菜的大浅盘，成了我的新增词汇，事实上几乎代表了一种新的语言。这种新鲜感，还有忙乱的卡利南太太和她爱丽丝梦游仙境般的家，都让我深深着迷。”白人的物质生活世界从小女孩细细罗列的各种眼花缭乱的厨房物件里呈现出来，笼罩上一层魔咒般的光彩。但很快小玛雅就从对白人的美好幻想中被迫清醒过来。太太嫌她的名字“玛格丽特”太长，改叫她为“玛丽”。名字是身份的象征，白人雇主对黑人女孩的随意更名是在否定她的身份和独特性。出于反抗，她故意摔碎了卡利南太太祖传的珍贵餐具。因为，“我认识的每一个人都对‘不以本名相称’的做法怀有极端的恐惧。对黑人想叫什么就叫什么，这种做法很危险，会被简单地理解为侮辱，因为几个世纪以来他们一直被叫作黑鬼、脏鬼、黑鸟、乌鸦、擦鞋的、鬼怪，等等”。通过捍卫自己的名字，玛雅赢得了获取尊严的第一场战争。

Chapter　16

Recently　a　white　woman　from　Texas,　who　would　quickly　describe　herself　as　a　liberal,　asked　me　about　my　hometown.　When　I　told　her　that　in　Stamps　my　grandmother　had　owned　the　only　Negro　general　merchandise　store　since　the　turn　of　the　century,　she　exclaimed,　“Why,　you　were　a　debutante.”　Ridiculous　and　even　ludicrous.　But　Negro　girls　in　small　Southern　towns,　whether　povertystricken　or　just　munching　along　on　a　few　of　lifes　necessities,　were　given　as　extensive　and　irrelevant　preparations　for　adulthood　as　rich　white　girls　shown　in　magazines.　Admittedly　the　training　was　not　the　same.　While　white　girls　learned　to　waltz　and　sit　gracefully　with　a　tea　cup　balanced　on　their　knees,　we　were　lagging　behind,　learning　the　midVictorian　values　with　very　little　money　to　indulge　them.　(Come　and　see　Edna　Lomax　spending　the　money　she　made　picking　cotton　on　five　balls　of　ecru　tatting　thread.　Her　fingers　are　bound　to　snag　the　work　and　shell　have　to　repeat　the　stitches　time　and　time　again.　But　she　knows　that　when　she　buys　the　thread.)

We　were　required　to　embroider　and　I　had　trunkfuls　of　colored　dishtowels,　pillowcases,　runners　and　handkerchiefs　to　my　credit.　I　mastered　the　art　of　crocheting　and　tatting,　and　there　was　a　lifetimes　supply　of　dainty　doilies　that　would　never　be　used　in　sacheted　dresser　drawers.　It　went　without　saying　that　all　girls　could　iron　and　wash,　but　the　finer　touches　around　the　home,　like　setting　a　table　with　real　silver,　baking　roasts　and　cooking　vegetables　without　meat,　had　to　be　learned　elsewhere.　Usually　at　the　source　of　those　habits.　During　my　tenth　year,　a　white　womans　kitchen　became　my　finishing　school.

Mrs.　Viola　Cullinan　was　a　plump　woman　who　lived　in　a　threebedroom　house　somewhere　behind　the　post　office.　She　was　singularly　unattractive　until　she　smiled,　and　then　the　lines　around　her　eyes　and　mouth　which　made　her　look　perpetually　dirty　disappeared,　and　her　face　looked　like　the　mask　of　an　impish　elf.　She　usually　rested　her　smile　until　late　afternoon　when　her　women　friends　dropped　in　and　Miss　Glory,　the　cook,　served　them　cold　drinks　on　the　closedin　porch.

The　exactness　of　her　house　was　inhuman.　This　glass　went　here　and　only　here.　That　cup　had　its　place　and　it　was　an　act　of　impudent　rebellion　to　place　it　anywhere　else.　At　twelve　oclock　the　table　was　set.　At　12:15　Mrs.　Cullinan　sat　down　to　dinner　(whether　her　husband　had　arrived　or　not).At　12:16　Miss　Glory　brought　out　the　food.

It　took　me　a　week　to　learn　the　difference　between　a　salad　plate,　a　bread　plate　and　a　dessert　plate.

Mrs.　Cullinan　kept　up　the　tradition　of　her　wealthy　parents.　She　was　from　Virginia.　Miss　Glory,　who　was　a　descendant　of　slaves　that　had　worked　for　the　Cullinans,　told　me　her　history.　She　had　married　beneath　her　(according　to　Miss　Glory).　Her　husbands　family　hadnt　had　their　money　very　long　and　what　they　had　“didnt　mount　to　much.”

As　ugly　as　she　was,　I　thought　privately,　she　was　lucky　to　get　a　husband　above　or　beneath　her　station.　But　Miss　Glory　wouldnt　let　me　say　a　thing　against　her　mistress.　She　was　very　patient　with　me,　however,　over　the　housework.　She　explained　the　dishware,　silverware　and　servants　bells.

The　large　round　bowl　in　which　soup　was　served　wasnt　a　soup　bowl,　it　was　a　tureen.　There　were　goblets,　sherbet　glasses,　icecream　glasses,　wine　glasses,　green　glass　coffee　cups　with　matching　saucers,　and　water　glasses.　I　had　a　glass　to　drink　from,　and　it　sat　with　Miss　Glorys　on　a　separate　shelf　from　the　others.　Soup　spoons,　gravy　boat,　butter　knives,　salad　forks　and　carving　platter　were　additions　to　my　vocabulary　and　in　fact　almost　represented　a　new　language.　I　was　fascinated　with　the　novelty,　with　the　fluttering　Mrs.　Cullinan　and　her　AliceinWonderlandAliceinWonderland：《爱丽丝梦游仙境》（Alices　Adventures　in　Wonderland），英国作家路易斯·卡罗尔（Lewis　Carroll）于1865年出版的儿童文学作品。　house.

Her　husband　remains,　in　my　memory,　undefined.　I　lumped　him　with　all　the　other　white　men　that　I　had　ever　seen　and　tried　not　to　see.

On　our　way　home　one　evening,　Miss　Glory　told　me　that　Mrs.　Cullinan　couldnt　have　children.　She　said　that　she　was　too　delicateboned.　It　was　hard　to　imagine　bones　at　all　under　those　layers　of　fat.　Miss　Glory　went　on　to　say　that　the　doctor　had　taken　out　all　her　lady　organs.　I　reasoned　that　a　pigs　organs　included　the　lungs,　heart　and　liver,　so　if　Mrs.　Cullinan　was　walking　around　without　those　essentials,　it　explained　why　she　drank　alcohol　out　of　unmarked　bottles.　She　was　keeping　herself　embalmed.

When　I　spoke　to　Bailey　about　it,　he　agreed　that　I　was　right,　but　he　also　informed　me　that　Mr.　Cullinan　had　two　daughters　by　a　colored　lady　and　that　I　knew　them　very　well.　He　added　that　the　girls　were　the　spitting　image　of　their　father.　I　was　unable　to　remember　what　he　looked　like,　although　I　had　just　left　him　a　few　hours　before,　but　I　thought　of　the　Coleman　girls.　They　were　very　lightskinned　and　certainly　didnt　look　very　much　like　their　mother　(no　one　ever　mentioned　Mr.　Coleman).

My　pity　for　Mrs.　Cullinan　preceded　me　the　next　morning　like　the　Cheshire　cats　smilethe　Cheshire　cat:一只咧着大嘴笑的猫，是《爱丽丝梦游仙境》中的角色。.　Those　girls,　who　could　have　been　her　daughters,　were　beautiful.　They　didnt　have　to　straighten　their　hair.　Even　when　they　were　caught　in　the　rain,　their　braids　still　hung　down　straight　like　tamed　snakes.　Their　mouths　were　pouty　little　cupids　bows.　Mrs.　Cullinan　didnt　know　what　she　missed.　Or　maybe　she　did.　Poor　Mrs.　Cullinan.

For　weeks　after,　I　arrived　early,　left　late　and　tried　very　hard　to　make　up　for　her　barrenness.　If　she　had　had　her　own　children,　she　wouldnt　have　had　to　ask　me　to　run　a　thousand　errands　from　her　back　door　to　the　back　door　of　her　friends.　Poor　old　Mrs.　Cullinan.

Then　one　evening　Miss　Glory　told　me　to　serve　the　ladies　on　the　porch.　After　I　set　the　tray　down　and　turned　toward　the　kitchen,　one　of　the　women　asked,　“Whats　your　name,　girl?”　It　was　the　speckledfaced　one.　Mrs.　Cullinan　said,　“She　doesnt　talk　much.　Her　names　Margaret.”

“Is　she　dumb?”

“No.　As　I　understand　it,　she　can　talk　when　she　wants　to　but　shes　usually　quiet　as　a　little　mouse.　Arent　you,　Margaret.

I　smiled　at　her.　Poor　thing.　No　organs　and　couldnt　even　pronounce　my　name　correctly.

“Shes　a　sweet　little　thing,　though.”

“Well,　that　may　be,　but　the　names　too　long.　Id　never　bother　myself.　Id　call　her　Mary　if　I　was　you.”

I　fumed　into　the　kitchen.　That　horrible　woman　would　never　have　the　chance　to　call　me　Mary　because　if　I　was　starving　Id　never　work　for　her.　I　decided　I　wouldnt　pee　on　her　if　her　heart　was　on　fire.　Giggles　drifted　in　off　the　porch　and　into　Miss　Glorys　pots.　I　wondered　what　they　could　be　laughing　about.

White　folks　were　so　strange.　Could　they　be　talking　about　me?　Everybody　knew　that　they　stuck　together　better　than　the　Negroes　did.　It　was　possible　that　Mrs.　Cullinan　had　friends　in　St.　Louis　who　heard　about　a　girl　from　Stamps　being　in　court　and　wrote　to　tell　her.　Maybe　she　knew　about　Mr.　Freeman.

My　lunch　was　in　my　mouth　a　second　time　and　I　went　outside　and　relieved　myself　on　the　bed　of　fouroclocks.　Miss　Glory　thought　I　might　be　coming　down　with　something　and　told　me　to　go　on　home,　that　Momma　would　give　me　some　herb　tea,　and　shed　explain　to　her　mistress.

I　realized　how　foolish　I　was　being　before　I　reached　the　pond.　Of　course　Mrs.　Cullinan　didnt　know.　Otherwise　she　wouldnt　have　given　me　the　two　nice　dresses　that　Momma　cut　down,　and　she　certainly　wouldnt　have　called　me　a　“sweet　little　thing.”　My　stomach　felt　fine,　and　I　didnt　mention　anything　to　Momma.

That　evening　I　decided　to　write　a　poem　on　being　white,　fat,　old　and　without　children.　It　was　going　to　be　a　tragic　ballad.　I　would　have　to　watch　her　carefully　to　capture　the　essence　of　her　loneliness　and　pain.

The　very　next　day,　she　called　me　by　the　wrong　name.　Miss　Glory　and　I　were　washing　up　the　lunch　dishes　when　Mrs.　Cullinan　came　to　the　doorway.　“Mary?”

Miss　Glory　asked,　“Who?”

Mrs.　Cullinan,　sagging　a　little,　knew　and　I　knew.　“I　want　Mary　to　go　down　to　Mrs.　Randalls　and　take　her　some　soup.　Shes　not　been　feeling　well　for　a　few　days.”

Miss　Glorys　face　was　a　wonder　to　see.　“You　mean　Margaret,　maam.　Her　names　Margaret.”

“Thats　too　long.　Shes　Mary　from　now　on.　Heat　that　soup　from　last　night　and　put　it　in　the　china　tureen　and,　Mary,　I　want　you　to　carry　it　carefully.”

Every　person　I　knew　had　a　hellish　horror　of　being　“called　out　of　his　name.”　It　was　a　dangerous　practice　to　call　a　Negro　anything　that　could　be　loosely　construed　as　insulting　because　of　the　centuries　of　their　having　been　called　niggers,　jigs,　dinges,　blackbirds,　crows,　boots　and　spooks.

Miss　Glory　had　a　fleeting　second　of　feeling　sorry　for　me.　Then　as　she　handed　me　the　hot　tureen　she　said,　“Dont　mind,　dont　pay　that　no　mind.　Sticks　and　stones　may　break　your　bones,　but　words...You　know,　I　been　working　for　her　for　twenty　years.”

She　held　the　back　door　open　for　me.　“Twenty　years.　I　wasnt　much　older　than　you.　My　name　used　to　be　Hallelujah.　Thats　what　Ma　named　me,　but　my　mistress　give　me　‘Glory,’　and　it　stuck.　I　likes　it　better　too.”

I　was　in　the　little　path　that　ran　behind　the　houses　when　Miss　Glory　shouted,　“Its　shorter　too.”

For　a　few　seconds　it　was　a　tossup　over　whether　I　would　laugh　(imagine　being　named　Hallelujah)　or　cry　(imagine　letting　some　white　woman　rename　you　for　her　convenience).　My　anger　saved　me　from　either　outburst.　I　had　to　quit　the　job,　but　the　problem　was　going　to　be　how　to　do　it.　Momma　wouldnt　allow　me　to　quit　for　just　any　reason.

“Shes　a　peach.　That　woman　is　a　real　peach.”　Mrs.　Randalls　maid　was　talking　as　she　took　the　soup　from　me,　and　I　wondered　what　her　name　used　to　be　and　what　she　answered　to　now.

For　a　week　I　looked　into　Mrs.　Cullinans　face　as　she　called　me　Mary.　She　ignored　my　coming　late　and　leaving　early.　Miss　Glory　was　a　little　annoyed　because　I　had　begun　to　leave　egg　yolk　on　the　dishes　and　wasnt　putting　much　heart　in　polishing　the　silver.　I　hoped　that　she　would　complain　to　our　boss,　but　she　didnt.

Then　Bailey　solved　my　dilemma.　He　had　me　describe　the　contents　of　the　cupboard　and　the　particular　plates　she　liked　best.　Her　favorite　piece　was　a　casserole　shaped　like　a　fish　and　the　green　glass　coffee　cups.　I　kept　his　instructions　in　mind,　so　on　the　next　day　when　Miss　Glory　was　hanging　out　clothes　and　I　had　again　been　told　to　serve　the　old　biddies　on　the　porch,　I　dropped　the　empty　serving　tray.　When　I　heard　Mrs.　Cullinan　scream,　“Mary!”　I　picked　up　the　casserole　and　two　of　the　green　glass　cups　in　readiness.　As　she　rounded　the　kitchen　door　I　let　them　fall　on　the　tiled　floor.

I　could　never　absolutely　describe　to　Bailey　what　happened　next,　because　each　time　I　got　to　the　part　where　she　fell　on　the　floor　and　screwed　up　her　ugly　face　to　cry,　we　burst　out　laughing.　She　actually　wobbled　around　on　the　floor　and　picked　up　shards　of　the　cups　and　cried,　“Oh,　Momma.　Oh,　dear　Gawd.　Its　Mommas　china　from　Virginia.　Oh,　Momma,　I　sorry.”

Miss　Glory　came　running　in　from　the　yard　and　the　women　from　the　porch　crowded　around.　Miss　Glory　was　almost　as　broken　up　as　her　mistress.　“You　mean　to　say　she　broke　our　Virginia　dishes?　What　we　gone　do?”

Mrs.　Cullinan　cried　louder,　“That　clumsy　nigger.　Clumsy　little　black　nigger.”

Old　speckledface　leaned　down　and　asked,　“Who　did　it,　Viola?　Was　it　Mary?　Who　did　it?”

Everything　was　happening　so　fast　I　cant　remember　whether　her　action　preceded　her　words,　but　I　know　that　Mrs.　Cullinan　said,　“Her　names　Margaret,　goddamn　it,　her　names　Margaret!”　And　she　threw　a　wedge　of　the　broken　plate　at　me.　It　could　have　been　the　hysteria　which　put　her　aim　oft,　but　the　flying　crockery　caught　Miss　Glory　right　over　her　ear　and　she　started　screaming.

I　left　the　front　door　wide　open　so　all　the　neighbors　could　hear.

Mrs.　Cullinan　was　right　about　one　thing.　My　name　wasnt　Mary.

Questions　for　Discussion

1.　What　does　she　mean　by　her　finishing　school　when　Maya　first　mentions　it　at　the　beginning　of　her　narrative?　What　else　do　you　think　she　learns　towards　the　end　of　it?

2.　At　what　point　does　Mayas　attitude　towards　Mrs.　Cullinan　change?　Why?

3.　By　the　end　of　the　narrative,　Mrs.　Cullinan　broke　out,　“her　names　Margaret,　goddamn　it,　her　names　Margaret.”　In　what　sense　is　the　quote　important?　What　does　it　symbolize?

9.　Brothers　and　Keepers

作者简介

约翰·埃德加·怀德曼（John　Edgar　Wideman)（1941—）不仅是美国当代著名小说家，也是传记家与社会批评家，获得过多项殊荣，两次获得福克纳笔会文学奖、美国小说图书奖；两次进入美国国家图书奖和美国书评人协会奖的短名单，是20世纪美国最优秀的小说家之一，是一位堪与福克纳比肩的著名作家，因为他有黑人血统，所以一直被称为黑人小说家。

怀德曼出生于华盛顿特区，但是在匹兹堡布鲁斯彤山脚下长大，借助于富兰克林奖学金，他得以到宾夕法尼亚大学读书，并于1963年以优异成绩毕业，获得学士学位。他是第二位获得罗德奖学金的黑人（第一位获此殊荣的是20世纪初著名黑人学者洛克），赴英国牛津大学学习哲学，1966年毕业。之后他在多所学校教书，如宾夕法尼亚大学、怀俄明大学以及马萨诸塞大学阿默斯特校区等。

1967年，年仅26岁的怀德曼发表第一部小说《远眺》，虽然当时黑人民权运动如火如荼，但他刻意与黑人文学先锋派保持距离，截然不同于巴拉卡、尼尔以及盖尔等人当时把黑人艺术变成黑人权力的“精神姐妹”的主张，对他而言，离开匹兹堡去费城的宾夕法尼亚大学读书就是逃离故乡、逃离贫困、逃离自己的黑人身份、奔向自由。在1976年的访谈中，怀德曼指出，自己对小说形式实践非常着迷，特别欣赏18世纪英国作家，如笛福、菲尔丁，特别是《项笛传》的作者斯泰恩，对黑人作家，他比较喜欢赖特与埃里森，对图默更是情有独钟。

他的第二部小说《赶快回家》和第三部小说《私刑者》继续深入探讨非裔美国经历的独特品质，重点聚焦语言与种族问题，虽然他的文学世界中的主要人物既有黑人也有白人，重点关注的也是人类的普世经历，但是批评家依然把他归入当代黑人文学的谱系当中。20世纪80年代以来，他在创作中有意模糊虚构、历史与自传的界限，把过去与现在紧密地联系在一起。

怀德曼作品多、质量高，他像个经验丰富的教练，魔术般地调适黑人历史与文化经验，不仅进行记录、评价，也对那些惨遭破坏的经历予以复原，庆祝新的文化形态的诞生，目的主要在于打破束缚非裔美国人的藩篱，如自我憎恨等；他作品中的主人公仿佛都在遗忘与记忆中挣扎，他们渴望创造足够的空间，重新创造过去，创新未来。许多批评家已经认识到，可与福克纳、乔伊斯、沃尔夫媲美的怀德曼通过融合非裔美国街头方言与传统文学语言，发展了一种独特的美国文学声音。

作品简介与赏析

有资料显示，15—45岁的美国黑人男性入狱的比例非常高，虽然原因各异，但是主要因为贩毒、暴力、抢劫、杀人等罪行被监禁。怀德曼的《兄弟与看护人》采取自传的形式——类似于美国早期的囚虏叙事，不仅描绘了弟弟鲁比的各种坏习惯及导致其入狱的暴力倾向，而且也开始严肃思考普遍存在的，与其弟弟类似的黑人男性的悲惨处境。但是，怀德曼没有在行文中袒护自己兄弟的犯罪事实，与人们常见的暴力犯罪及其惩罚的文学类型不同的是，怀德曼以细致的笔触进行分析，为我们更加深入、全面地认识美国当代社会的种族问题，特别是针对黑人男性的惩戒，提供了新的视角。此外，本书对两兄弟之间的关系所做的细致入微的分析也丰富了人们对复杂人性的认识：这个世界给了作家怀德曼足够的空间发展，但是却把作为“罪犯”的弟弟鲁比置于狭小的狱室里，为何会这样？其本质差异何在？

与弟弟鲁比相比，怀德曼可谓成功的黑人男性的代表：他因自己的努力，获得奖学金，得以顺利完成学业；文学创作方面，也获得社会的多方认可，收获很多荣誉，成为大学教授。但是怀德曼也在反思，自己取得这些成功的背后，是否放下了什么、牺牲了什么。如果说弟弟因不遵守社会规则而被监禁，那么自己这位成功的哥哥是否像个“逃奴”——逃离家庭、逃离黑人社区、逃离自我、“融入”美国社会的逃奴。更为遗憾的是，因为被监禁，鲁比原有的梦想、追求等全部被遮蔽，不为人所知。鲁比曾说：“我们过去并没有那么坏，但是与那些白人孩子啥都有相比，我觉得好像自己啥也没有。”而怀德曼要做的，就是要仔细探究鲁比暴力犯罪背后的其他社会因素，特别是种族因素对黑人的负面影响。

怀德曼借助弟弟鲁比的被监禁，反思自己的所作所为，同时也让广大读者直面这样的问题，即在鲁比每天都面临各种公然的或微妙的种族歧视问题上，大家是否都有意无意地扮演了“同谋”的角色，在黑人男性追求进步的道路上，对他们怀揣的梦想视而不见，甚至都或隐或显地在为他们设置障碍。

作为本书所选的最后一篇自传，《兄弟与看护人》并非（非裔）美国文学史上孤立的个案，而是美国监狱文学的典范，也是非裔美国自传中的重要一环。上承马尔科姆·艾克斯自传中的监狱描写，下启麦考尔的《让我真想吼》中对黑人监禁及改造更为直观的再现，为我们认识当代美国的种族问题，特别是黑人男性犯罪及其监禁问题提供了真实的材料。

本节选自作品的第一部分“探访”。

Visits

Daddys　father,　our　grandfather,　Harry　Wideman,　migrated　from　Greenwood,　South　Carolina,　to　Pittsburgh,　Pennsylvania,　in　1906.　He　found　a　raw,　dirty,　doubledealing　city.　He　learned　its　hills　and　rivers,　the　strange　names　of　Dagos　and　Hunkies　and　Polacks　whos　been　drawn,　as　he　had,　by　steel　mills　and　coal　mines,　by　the　smoke　and　heat　and　dangerous　work　that　meant　any　strongbacked,　stubborn　young　man,　even　a　black　one,　could　earn　pocketfuls　of　money.　Grandpas　personal　quest　connected　him　with　hordes　of　other　displaced　black　men　seeking　a　new　day　in　the　promised　land　of　the　North.　Like　so　many　others,　he　boarded　in　an　overcrowded　rooming　house,　working　hard　by　day,　partying　hard　at　night　against　the　keen　edge　of　exhaustion.　When　his　head　finally　hit　the　pillow,　he　didnt　care　that　the　sheets　were　still　warm　from　the　body　of　the　man　working　nights　who　rented　the　bed　ten　hours　a　day　while　Harry　pulled　his　shift　at　the　mill.

Harry　Wideman　was　a　short,　thick,　dark　man　whose　mahogany　color　passed　on　to　Daddy,　blended　with　the　light,　bright　skin　of　John　and　Freeda　Frenchs　daughter　Bette　to　produce　the　brown　we　wear.　Do　you　remember　anything　about　him,　or　were　you　too　young?　Have　you　ever　wondered　how　the　city　appeared　through　his　eyes,　the　eyes　of　a　rural　black　boy　far　from　home,　a　stranger　in　a　strange　land?　Have　you　ever　been　curious?　Grandpa　took　giant　steps　forward　in　time.　As　a　boy　not　quite　old　enough　to　be　much　help　in　the　fields,　his　job　was　looking　out　for　Charley　Rackett,　his　ancient,　crippled　grandfather,　an　African,　a　former　slave.　Grandpa　listened　to　Charley　Racketts　African　stories　and　African　words,　then　lived　to　see　white　men　on　the　moon.　I　think　of　grandpa　high　up　on　Bruston　Hill　looking　over　the　broad　vista　spreading　out　below　him.　Hes　young　and　alone;　he　sees　things　with　his　loins　as　much　as　his　eyes.　Hills　rolling　to　the　horizon,　toward　the　invisible　rivers,　are　breasts　and　buttocks.　Shadowed　spaces,　nestling　between　the　rounded　hills,　summon　him.　Whatever　happens　to　him　in　this　city,　whatever　he　accomplishes　will　be　an　answer　to　the　soft,　insinuating　challenge　thrown　up　at　him　as　he　stares　over　the　teeming　land.　This　city　will　measure　his　manhood.　Our　Father　Who　art...I　hear　prayer　words　interrupting　his　dreaming,　disturbing　the　woman　shapes　his　glance　fashions　from　the　landscape.　The　earth　turns.　He　plants　his　seed.　In　the　blink　of　an　eye　hes　an　old　man,　close　to　death.　He　has　watched　the　children　of　his　childrens　children　born　in　this　city.　Some　of　his　childrens　children　dead　already.　He　ponders　the　wrinkled　tar　paper　on　the　backs　of　his　hands.　Our　father.　A　challenge　still　rises　from　the　streets　and　rooftops　the　way　it　once　floated　up　from　longgone,　empty　fields.　And　the　old　mans　no　nearer　now　to　knowing,　to　understanding　why　the　call　digs　so　deeply　at　his　heart.

Wagons　once　upon　a　time　in　the　streets　of　Pittsburgh.　Delivering　ice　and　milk　and　coal.　Sinking　in　the　mud,　trundling　over　cobblestones,　echoing　in　the　sleep　of　a　man　who　works　all　day　in　the　mouth　of　a　fiery　furnace,　who　dreams　of　green　fish　gliding　along　the　clear,　stony　bottoms　of　a　creek　in　South　Carolina.　In　the　twenty　years　between　1910　and　1930,　the　black　population　of　Pittsburgh　increased　by　nearly　fifty　thousand.　Black　music,　blues　and　jazz,　came　to　town　in　places　like　the　Pythian　Temple,　the　Ritz,　the　Savoy,　the　Showboat.　In　the　bars　on　the　North　Side,　Homewood,　and　the　Hill　you　could　get　whatever　you　thought　you　wanted.　Gambling　women,　a　good　pork　chop.　Hundreds　of　families　took　in　boarders　to　earn　a　little　extra　change.　A　cot　in　a　closet　in　somebodys　real　home　seemed　nicer,　better　than　the　dormitories　with　their　barracksstyle　rows　of　beds,　no　privacy,　one　toilet　for　twenty　men.　Snores　and　funk,　eternal　coming　and　going　because　nobody　wanted　to　remain　in　those　kennels　one　second　longer　than　he　had　to.　Fights,　thieves,　people　dragged　in　stinking　drunk　or　bloody　from　the　streets,　people　going　straight　to　work　after　hanging　out　all　night　with　some　whore　and　you　got　to　smell　him　and　smell　her　beside　you　while　you　trying　to　pull　your　shift　in　all　that　heat.　Lawd.　Lawd.　Got　no　money　in　the　bank.　Joints　was　rowdy　and　mean　and　like　Im　telling　you　if　some　slickster　dont　hustle　your　money　in　the　street　or　a　partytime　gal　empty　your　pockets　while　you　sleep　and　you　dont　nod　off　and　fall　in　the　fire,　then　maybe　you　earn　you　a　few　quarters　to　send　home　for　that　wife　and　them　babies　waiting　down　yonder　for　you　if　shes　still　waiting　and　you　still　sending.　If　you　aint　got　no　woman　to　send　for　then　maybe　them　few　quarters　buy　you　a　new　shirt　and　a　bottle　of　whiskey　so　you　can　find　you　some　trifling　body　give　all　your　money　to.

The　strong　survive.　The　ones　who　are　strong　and　lucky.　You　can　take　that　back　as　far　as　you　want　to　go.　Everybody　needs　one　father,　two　grandfathers,　four　greatgrandfathers,　eight　greatgreatgrandfathers,　sixteen　greatgreatgreatgrandfathers,　then　thirtytwo,　then　sixtyfour,　and　thats　only　eight　generations　backward　in　time,　eight　generations　linked　directly,　intimately　with　what　you　are.　Less　than　150　years　ago,128　men　made　love　to　128　women,　not　all　in　the　same　hotel　or　on　the　same　day　but　within　a　relatively　short　expanse　of　time,　say　twenty　years,　in　places　as　distant　as　Igboland,　New　Amsterdam,　and　south　Carolina.　Unknown　to　each　other,　probably　never　even　coming　face　to　face　in　their　lifetimes,　each　of　these　couples　was　part　of　the　grand　conspiracy　to　produce　you.　Think　of　a　pyramid　balanced　on　one　of　its　points,　a　vast　cone　of　light　whose　sides　flare　outward,　vectors　of　force　like　the　slanted　lines　kid　draw　to　show　a　stars　shining.　You　once　were　a　pinprick　of　light,　a　spark　whose　radiance　momentarily　upheld　the　design,　stabilized　the　everexpanding　V　that　opens　to　infinity.　At　some　inconceivable　distance　the　lights　bends,　curves　back　on　itself　like　a　rams　horn　or　conch　shell,　spiraling　toward　its　greatest　compass　but　simultaneously　narrowing　to　that　needles　eye　it　must　enter　in　order　to　flow　forth　bounteously　again.　You　hovered　at　that　nexus,　took　your　turn　through　that　open　door.

The　old　people　died.　Our　grandfathers,　Harry　Wideman　and　John　French,　are　both　gone　now.　The　greatest　space　and　no　space　at　all　separates　us　from　them.　I　see　them　staring,　dreaming　this　ravaged　city;　and　we　are　in　the　dream,　its　our　dream,　enclosed,　enclosing.　We　could　walk　down　into　that　valley　they　saw　from　atop　Bruston　Hill　and　scoop　up　the　houses,　dismantle　the　bridges　and　tall　buildings,　pull　cars　and　trucks　off　the　streets,　roll　up　roads　and　highways　and　stuff　them　all　like　toys　into　the　cottonpicking　sacks　draped　over　our　shoulders.　We　are　that　much　larger　than　the　things　that　happen　to　us.　Accidents　like　the　city　poised　at　the　meeting　of　these　rivers,　the　city　strewn　like　litter　over　precipitous　hills.

Did　our　grandfathers　run　away　from　the　South?　Black　Harry　from　Greenwood,　South　Carolina,　mulatto　white　John　from　Culpepper,　Virginia.　How　would　they　answer　that　question?　Were　they　running　from　something　or　running　to　something?　What　did　you　figure　you　were　doing　when　you　started　running?　When　did　your　flight　begin?　Was　escape　the　reason　or　was　there　a　destination,　a　promised　land　exerting　its　pull?　Is　freedom　inextricably　linked　with　both,　running　from　and　running　to?　Is　freedom　the　motive　and　means　and　end　and　everything　in　between?

I　wonder　if　the　irony　of　a　river　beside　the　prison　is　intentional.　The　river　was　brown　last　time　I　saw　it,　mudbrown　and　sluggish　in　its　broad　channel.　Nothing　pretty　about　it,　a　working　river,　a　place　to　dump　things,　to　empty　sewers.　The　Ohios　thick　and　filthy,　stinking　of　coal,　chemicals,　offal,　bitter　with　rust　from　the　flaking　hulls　of　ironore　barges　iching　grayly　to　and　from　the　steel　mills.　But　viewed　from　barred　windows,　from　tiered　cages,　the　river　must　call　to　the　prisoners　hearts,　a　natural　symbol　of　flight　and　freedom.　The　river　is　a　path,　a　gateway　to　the　West,　the　frontier.　Somewhere　it　meets　the　sea.　Is　it　somebodys　cruel　joke,　an　architects　way　of　giving　the　knife　an　final　twist,　hanging　this　sign　outside　the　walls,　this　river　always　visible　but　a　million　miles　away　between　the　spiked　steel　fence　guarding　its　banks?

When　I　think　of　the　distance　between　us　in　terms　of　miles　or　the　height　and　thickness　of　walls　or　the　length　of　your　sentence　or　the　deadly　prison　regimen,　youre　closer　to　me,　more　accessible　than　when　Im　next　to　you　in　the　prison　visiting　room　trying　to　speak　and　find　myself　at　the　edge　of　a　silence　vaster　than　oceans.　I　turned　fortythree　in　June　and　youll　be　thirtythree　in　December.　Not　kids　any　longer　by　any　stretch　of　the　imagination.　Youre　my　little　brother　and　maybe　its　generally　true　that　people　never　allow　their　little　brothers　and　sisters　to　grow　up,　but　something　more　seems　at　work　here,　something　more　damaging　than　vanity,　than　wishful　thinking　that　inclines　us　to　keep　our　pasts　frozen,　intact,　keeps　us　calling　our　fortyyearold　cronies　“the　boys”　and　a　grown　man　“little　brother.”　I　think　of　you　as　little　brother　because　I　have　no　other　handle.　At　a　certain　point　a　wall　goes　up　and　easy　memories　stop.

When　I　think　back,　I　have　plenty　of　recollections　of　you　as　a　kid.　How　you　looked.　The　funny　things　you　said.　Till　about　the　time　you　turned　a　gangly,　stiltlegged,　stringbean　thirteen,　were　still　family.　Our　lives　connect　in　typical,　family　ways:　holidays,　picnics,　births,　deaths,　the　joking　and　teasing,　the　time　you　were　a　baby　just　home　from　the　hospital　and　Daddy　John　French　died　and　I　was　supposed　to　be　watching　you　while　the　grownups　cleaned　and　cooked,　readying　the　house　on　Finance　Street　for　visitors,　for　Daddy　John　to　return　and　lie　in　his　coffin　downstairs.　Babysitting　you　in　Aunt　Geraldines　room　while　death　hovered　in　there　with　us　and　no　way　I　could　have　stayed　in　that　room　alone.　Needing　you　much　more　than　you　needed　me.　You　just　zzzed　away　in　your　baby　sleep,　your　baby　ignorance.　You　couldnt　have　cared　less　whether　death　or　King　Kong　or　a　whole　flock　of　those　loosefeathered,　giant　birds　haunting　my　sleep　had　gathered　round　your　crib.　If　the　folks　downstairs　were　too　quiet,　my　nerves　would　get　jumpy　and　Id　snatch　you　up　and　walk　the　floor.　Hold　you　pressed　in　my　arms　against　my　heart　like　a　shield.　Or　if　the　night　cracks　and　groans　of　the　house　got　too　loud,　Id　poke　you　awake,　worry　you　so　your　crying　would　keep　me　company.

After　you　turned　thirteen,　after　you　grew　a　mustache　and　fuzz　on　your　chin　and　a　voluminous　Afro　so　nobody　could　call　you　“Beanhead”　anymore,　after　girls　and　the　move　from　Shadyside　to　Marchand　Street　so　you　started　Westinghouse　High　instead　of　Peabody　where　the　rest　of　us　had　done　our　time,　you　begin　to　get　separate.　I　have　to　struggle　to　recall　anything　about　you　till　youre　real　again　in　prison.　Its　as　if　I　was　asleep　for　fifteen　years　and　when　I　awakened　you　were　gone.　I　was　out　of　the　country　for　three　years　then　lived　in　places　like　Iowa　City　and　Philly　and　Laramie,　so　at　best　I　couldnt　have　seen　much　of　you,　but　the　sense　of　distance　Im　trying　to　describe　had　more　to　do　with　the　way　I　related　to　you　than　with　the　amount　of　time　we　spent　together.　We　had　chances　to　talk,　opportunities　to　grow　beyond　the　childhood　bonds　linking　us.　The　problem　was　that　in　order　to　be　the　person　I　thought　I　wanted　to　be,　I　believed　I　had　to　seal　myself　off　you,　construct　a　wall　between　us.

Your　hands,　your　face　became　a　mans.　You　accumulated　scars,　a　deeper　voice,　lovers,　but　the　changes　taking　place　in　you　might　as　well　have　been　occurring　on　a　different　planet.　The　scattered　images　I　retain　of　you　from　the　sixties　through　the　middle　seventies　form　no　discernible　pattern,　are　rooted　in　no　vital　substance　like　childhood　or　family.　Your　words　and　gestures　belonged　to　a　language　I　was　teaching　myself　to　unlearn.　When　we　spoke,　I　was　conscious　of　a　third　party　shortcircuiting　our　conversations.　What　Id　say　to　you　came　from　the　mouth　of　a　translator　who　always　talked　down　or　up　or　around　you,　who　didnt　know　you　or　me　but　pretended　he　knew　everything.

Was　I　as　much　a　stranger　to　you　as　you　seemed　to　me?　Because　we　were　brothers,　holidays,　family　celebrations,　and　troubles　drew　us　to　the　same　rooms　at　the　same　time,　but　I　felt　uncomfortable　around　you.　Most　of　what　I　felt　was　guilt.　Id　made　my　choices.　I　was　running　away　from　Pittsburgh,　from　poverty,　from　blackness.　To　get　ahead,　to　make　something　of　myself,　college　had　seemed　a　logical,　necessary　step;　my　exile,　my　flight　from　home　began　with　good　grades,　with　good　English,　with　setting　myself　apart　long　before　Id　earned　a　scholarship　and　a　train　ticket　over　the　mountains　to　Philadelphia.　With　that　willed　alienation　behind　me,　between　us,　guilt　was　predictable.　One　measure　of　my　success　was　the　distance　Id　put　between　us.　Coming　home　was　a　kind　of　bragging,　like　the　suntans　people　bring　back　from　Hawaii　in　the　middle　of　winter.　Its　sure　fucked　up　around　here,　aint　it?　But　looked　at　me,　I　got　away.　I　got　mine.　I　didnt　want　to　be　caught　looking　back.　I　needed　home　to　reassure　myself　of　how　far　Id　come.　If　I　ever　doubted　how　good　I　had　it　away　at　school　in　that　world　of　books,　exams,　pretty,　rich　white　girls,　a　roommate　from　Long　Island　who　unpacked　more　pairs　of　brandnew　jockey　shorts　and　Tshirts　than　they　had　in　Kaufmanns　department　store,　if　I　ever　had　any　hesitations　or　reconsiderations　about　the　path　Id　chosen,　you　all　were　back　home　in　the　ghetto　to　remind　me　how　lucky　I　was.

Fear　marched　along　beside　guilt.　Fear　of　acknowledging　in　myself　any　traces　of　the　poverty,　ignorance,　and　danger　Id　find　surrounding　me　when　I　returned　to　Pittsburgh.　Fear　that　I　was　contaminated　and　would　carry　the　poison　wherever　I　ran.　Fear　that　the　evil　would　be　discovered　in　me　and　Id　be　shunned　like　a　leper.

I　was　scared　stiff　but　at　the　same　time　I　needed　to　prove　I　hadnt　lost　my　roots.　Needed　to　boogie　and　drink　wine　and　chase　pussy,　need　to　prove　I　could　still　do　it　all.　Fight,　talk　trash,　hoop　with　the　best　playground　players　at　Mellon　Park.　Claim　the　turf,　wear　it　like　a　badge,　yet　keep　my　distance,　be　in　the　street　but　not　of　it.

Your　world.　The　blackness　that　incriminated　me.　Easier　to　change　the　way　I　talked　and　walked,　easier　to　be　two　people　than　to　expose　in　either　world　the　awkward　mix　of　school　and　home　Id　become.　When　in　Rome.　Different　strokes　for　different　folks.　Nobody　had　pulled　my　coat　and　whispered　the　news　about　Third　Worlds.　Just　two　choices　as　far　as　I　could　tell:　either/or.　Rich　or　poor.　White　or　black.　Win　or　lose.　I　figured　which　side　I　wanted　to　be　on　when　the　Saints　came　marching　in.　Who　the　Saints,　the　rulers　of　the　earth　were,　was　clear.　My　mind　was　split　by　oppositions,　by　mutually　exclusive　categories.　Manichaeism,　as　Frantz　Fanon法农（1925—1961），法国马提尼克作家，心理分析学家，主要代表作为《黑皮肤、白面具》与《地球上的苦难者》等。　would　say.　To　succeed　in　the　mans　world　you　must　become　like　the　man　and　the　man　sure　didnt　claim　no　bunch　of　nigger　relatives　in　Pittsburgh.

Who,　me?　You　must　be　kidding.　You　must　be　thinking　of　those　other　guys.　Theyre　the　ones　listen　to　the　Midnighters,　the　Miracles,　the　Turbans,　Louis　Berry,　the　Spaniels,　the　Flamingos.　My　radio　stays　set　on　WFLN.　They　play　that　nigger　stuff　way　down　the　dial,　at　the　end,　on　WDAS,　down　where　WAMO　is　at　home.　地方性广播电台。

Some　of　that　mess　so　dumb,　so　unbelievable　I　can　laugh　now.　Like　when　I　was　driving　you　up　to　Maine　to　work　as　a　waiter　in　summer　camp.　Just　you　and　me　and　Judy　in　the　car　for　the　long　haul　from　Pittsburgh　to　Takajo　on　Long　Lake.　Nervous　the　whole　time　because　you　kept　finding　black　music　on　the　radio.　Not　only　did　you　find　it.　You　played　it　loud　and　sang　along.　Do　wah　diddy　and　ow　bop　she　bop,　having　a　good　ole　nigger　ball　like　youd　seen　me　having　with　my　cut　buddies　when　we　were　the　Commodores　chirping　tunes　on　the　corner　and　in　Moms　living　room.　The　music　wed　both　grown　up　hearing　and　loving　and　learning　to　sing,　but　you　were　doing　it　in　my　new　1966　Dodge　Dart,　on　the　way　to　Marthas　Vineyard　and　Maine　with　my　new　white　wife　in　the　backseat.　Didnt　you　know　wed　left　Pittsburgh,　didnt　you　understand　that　classical　music　volume　moderate　was　preferred　in　these　circumstances?　Papas　got　a　brandnew　bag.　And　you　were　gon　act　nigger　and　let　the　cat　out.

Of　course　I　was　steady　enjoying　the　music,　too.　James　Brown.　Baby　Ray　and　the　Raylettes.　The　Drifters.20世纪60年代，美国蓝调音乐的歌手与音乐家。　Missed　it　on　the　barren　stretches　of　turnpike　between　cities.　Having　it　both　ways.　Listening　my　ass　off　and　patting　my　foot　but　in　between　times　wondering　how　Judy　was　reacting,　thinking　about　how　Id　complain　later　about　your　monolithic　fondness　for　rhythm　and　blues,　your　habit　of　turning　the　volume　up　full　blast.　In　case　she　was　annoyed,　confused,　or　doubting　me　in　any　way,　Id　reassure　her　by　disassociating　myself　from　your　tastes,　your　style.　Yeah,　when　I　was　a　kid.　Yes.　Once　upon　a　time　I　was　like　that　but　now...

Laughing　now　to　keep　from　crying　when　I　think　back　to　those　days.

My　first　year　at　college　when　I　was　living　in　the　dorms　a　white　boy　asked　me　if　I　liked　the　blues.　Since　I　figured　I　was　the　blues　I　answered,　Yeah,　sure.　We　were　in　Darryl　Dawsons　room.　Darryl　and　I　comprised　approximately　onethird　of　the　total　number　of　black　males　in　our　class.　About　ten　of　the　seventeen　hundred　men　and　women　who　entered　the　University　of　Pennsylvania　as　freshmen　in　1959　were　black.　After　a　period　of　wariness　and　fencing,　mutual　embarrassment　and　resisting　the　inevitable,　Id　buddied　up　with　Darryl,　even　though　hed　attended　Putney　Prep　School　in　Vermont　and　spoke　with　an　accent　I　considered　phony.　Since　the　fat　white　boy　in　work　shirt,　motorcycle　boots,　and　dirty　jeans　was　in　Darryls　room,　I　figured　maybe　the　guy　was　alright　in　spite　of　the　fact　he　asked　dumb　questions.　Id　gotten　used　to　answering　or　ignoring　plenty　of　those　in　two　months　on　campus.　“Yeah,　sure,”　should　have　closed　the　topic　but　the　white　boy　wasnt　finished.　He　said　he　had　a　big　collection　of　blues　records　and　that　I　ought　to　come　by　his　room　sometime　with　Darryl　and　dig,　man.

Who　do　you　like?　Got　everybody,　man.　Leadbelly　and　Big　Bill　Broonzy.　Lightning　and　Lemon　and　Sonny　Boy.布鲁斯音乐家。　You　dig　Broonzy?　Just　copped　a　new　side　of　his.

None　of　the　names　meant　a　thing　to　me.　Maybe　Id　heard　Leadbelly　at　a　party　at　a　white　girls　house　in　Shadyside　but　the　other　names　were　a　mystery.　What　was　this　sloppylooking　white　boy　talking　about?　His　blond　hair,　long　and　greasy,　was　combed　back　James　Dean　style.　Skin　pale　and　puffy　like　a　Gerber　baby.　He　wore　a　smartass,　wholelothipperthanyou　expression　on　his　face.　His　mouth　is　what　did　it.　Pudgy,　soft　lips　with　just　a　hint　of　blond　fuzz　above　them,　pursed　into　a　permanent　sneer.

He　stared　at　me,　waiting　for　an　answer.　At　home　we　didnt　get　in　other　peoples　faces　like　that.　You　talked　toward　a　space　and　the　other　person　had　a　choice　of　entering　or　not　entering,　but　this　guys　blue　eyes　bored　directly　into　mine.　Waiting,　challenging,　prepared　to　send　a　message　to　that　sneering　mouth.　I　wanted　no　part　of　him,　his　records,　or　his　questions.

Blues.　Well,　thats　all　I　listen　to.　I　like　different　songs　at　different　times.　Midnighters.　Drifters　got　one　I　like　out　now.

Not　that　RandB　crap　on　the　radio,　man.　Like　the　real　blues.　Down　home　country　blues.　The　old　guys　picking　and　singing.

Ray　Charles.　I　like　Ray　Charles.

Hey,　that　aint　blues.　Tell　him,　Darryl.

Darryl　dont　need　to　tell　me　anything.　Been　listening　to　blues　all　my　life.　Ray　Charles　is　great.　Hes　the　best　there　is.　How　you　gon　tell　me　whats　good　and　not　good?　Its　my　music.　Ive　been　hearing　it　all　my　life.

Youre　still　talking　about　rock　’n’　rollrock　’n’　roll:　摇滚乐。.　Rhythm　and　blues.　Most　of　its　junk.　Here　today　and　gone　tomorrow　crap.　Im　talking　about　authentic　blues.　Big　Bill　Broonzy.　The　Classics.

When　he　talked,　he　twisted　his　mouth　so　the　words　slithered　out　of　one　corner　of　his　face,　like　garbage　dumped　off　one　end　of　a　cafeteria　tray.　He　pulled　a　cigarette　from　a　pack　in　his　shirt　pocket.　Lit　it　without　disturbing　the　sneer.

Bet　youve　never　even　heard　Bill　Broonzy.

Dont　need　to　hear　no　Broonzy　or　Toonsy　or　whoever　the　fuck　he　is.　I　dont　give　a　shit　about　him　nor　any　of　them　other　oldtimey　dudes　youre　talking　about,　man.　I　know　what　I　like　and　you　can　call　it　rhythm　and　blues　or　rock　’n’　roll,　its　still　the　best　music.　Its　what　I　like　and　dont　need　nobody　telling　me　whats　good.

What　are　you　getting　mad　about,　man?　How　can　you　put　down　something　you　know　nothing　about?　Bill　Broonzy　is　the　greatest　twelvestring　guitar　player　who　ever　lived.　Everybody　knows　that.　Youve　never　heard　a　note　hes　played　but　youre　setting　yourself　up　as　an　expert.　This　is　silly.　You　obviously　cant　back　up　what　youre　saying.　You　have　a　lot　to　learn　about　music,　my　friend.

Hes　wagging　his　big　head　and　looking　over　at　Darryl　like　Darryls　supposed　to　back　his　action.　You　can　imagine　whats　going　through　my　mind.　How　many　times　Ive　already　gone　upside　his　fat　jaw.　Biff.　Bam.　My　fists　were　burning.　I　could　see　blood　running　out　both　his　nostrils.　The　sneer　split　at　the　seams,　smeared　all　over　his　chin.　Heres　this　white　boy　in　this　white　world　badmouthing　me　to　one　of　the　few　black　faces　I　get　to　see,　messing　with　the　little　bit　of　understanding　Im　beginning　to　have　with　Darryl.　And　worse,　trespassing　on　the　private　turf　of　my　music,　the　black　sounds　from　home　I　carry　round　in　my　head　as　a　saving　grace　against　the　pressures　of　the　university.

Talk　about　uptight.　I　dont　believe　that　pompous　ass　could　have　known,　because　even　I　didnt　know　at　that　moment,　how　much　he　was　hurting　me.　What　hurt　most　was　the　truth　of　what　he　was　saying.　His　whiteness,　his　arrogance　made　me　mad,　but　it　was　truth　putting　the　real　hurt　on　me.

I　didnt　hit　him.　I　should　have　but　never　did.　A　nice　forgetmeknot　upside　his　jaw.　I　should　have　but　didnt.　Not　that　time.　Not　him.　Smashing　his　mouth　would　have　been　too　easy,　so　I　hated　him　instead.　Let　anger　and　shame　and　humiliation　fill　me　to　overflowing　so　the　hate　is　still　there,　today,　over　twenty　years　later.　The　dormitory　room　had　pale　green　walls,　a　bare　wooden　floor,　contained　the　skimpy　desk　and　sagging　cot　allotted　to　each　cubicle　in　the　hall.　Darryls　things　scattered　everywhere.　A　selfportrait　hed　painted　stared　down　from　one　dirtspeckled　wall.　The　skin　of　the　face　in　the　portrait　was　wildly　molded,　violent　bruises　of　color　surrounding　haunted　jade　eyes.　Darryls　eyes　were　green　like　my　brother　Davids,　but　I　hadnt　noticed　their　color　until　I　dropped　by　his　room　one　afternoon　between　classes　and　Darryl　wasnt　there　and　I　didnt　have　anything　better　to　do　than　sit　and　wait　and　study　the　eyes　in　his　painting.　Darryls　room　had　been　a　sanctuary　but　when　the　white　boy　started　preaching　there　was　no　place　to　hide.　Even　before　he　spoke　the　room　had　begun　to　shrink.　He　sprawled,　lounged,　an　exaggerated　casualness　announcing　how　comfortable　he　felt,　how　much　he　belonged.　Lord　of　the　manor　wherever　he　happened　to　plant　his　boots.

Darryl　cooled　it.　His　green　eyes　didnt　choose　either　of　us　when　we　looked　toward　him　for　approval.　Dawson　had　to　see　what　a　miserable　corner　I　was　in.　He　had　to　feel　that　room　clamped　tight　around　my　neck　and　the　sneer　tugging　the　noose　tighter.

A　black　motorcycle　jacket,　carved　from　a　lump　of　coal,　studded　with　silver　and　rhinestones,　was　draped　over　the　desk　chair.　I　wanted　to　stomp　it,　chop　it　into　little　pieces.

Hey,　you　guys,　knock　it　off.　Lets　talk　about　something　else.　Obviously　you　have　different　tastes　in　music.

Darryl　knew　damn　well　that　wasnt　the　problem.　Together　we　might　have　been　able　to　say　the　right　things.　Put　the　white　boy　in　his　place.　Recapture　some　breathing　space.　But　Darryl　had　his　own　ghosts　to　battle.　His　longing　for　his　blonde,　blueeyed　Putney　girl　friend　whose　parent　had　rushed　her　off　to　Europe　when　they　learned　of　her　romance　with　the　colored　boy　who　was　Putney　school　president.　His　ambivalence　toward　his　blackness　that　would　explode　one　day　and　hurtle　him　into　the　quixotic　campaign　of　the　Black　Revolutionary　Army　to　secede　from　the　United　States.　So　Darryl　cooled　it　that　afternoon　in　his　room　and　the　choked　feeling　never　left　my　throat.　I　can　feel　it　now　as　I　write.

Why　did　that　smartass　white　son　of　a　bitch　have　so　much　power　over　me?　Why　could　he　confuse　me,　turn　me　inside　out,　make　me　doubt　myself?　Waving　just　a　tiny　fragment　of　truth,　he　could　back　me　into　a　corner.　Who　was　I?　What　was　I?　Did　I　really　fear　the　truth　about　myself　that　much?　Four　hundred　years　of　oppression,　of　lies　had　empowered　him　to　use　the　music　of　my　people　as　a　weapon　against　me.　Twenty　years　ago　I　hadnt　begun　to　comprehend　the　larger　forces,　the　ironies,　the　obscenities　that　permitted　such　a　reversal　to　occur.　All　I　had　sensed　was　his　power,　the　raw,　crude　force　mocking　me,　diminishing　me.　I　should　have　smacked　him.　I　should　have　affirmed　another　piece　of　the　truth　he　knew　about　me,　the　nigger　violence.

Darryl　and　I　would　ride　buses　across　Philly　searching　for　places　like　home.　Like　the　corner　of　Frankstown　and　Bruston　in　Homewood.　A　poolroom,　barbershop,　rib　joint,　record　store　strip　with　bloods　in　peacock　colors　strolling　up　and　down　and　hanging　out　on　the　corner.　After　a　number　of　long,　unsuccessful　expeditions　(how　could　you　ask　directions?　Who　in　the　island　of　University　would　know　what　you　were　asking,　let　alone　be　able　to　tell　you　how　to　get　there?),　we　found　South　Street.　Just　over　the　bridge,　walking　distance　if　you　werent　in　a　hurry,　but　as　far　from　school,　as　close　to　home　as　we　could　get.　Another　country.

Coming　home　from　the　university,　from　people　and　situations　that　continually　set　me　against　them　and　against　myself,　I　was　a　dangerous　person.　If　I　wanted　to　stay　in　one　piece　and　stay　in　school,　I　was　forced　to　pull　my　punches.　To　maintain　any　semblance　of　dignity　and　confidence　I　had　to　learn　to　construct　a　shell　around　myself.　Be　cool.　Work　on　appearing　dignified,　confident.　Fool　people　with　appearances,　surfaces,　live　my　real　life　underground　in　a　region　where　no　one　could　touch　me.　The　trouble　with　this　survival　mechanism　was　the　time　and　energy　expended　on　upkeep　of　the　shell.　The　brighter,　harder,　more　convincing　and　impenetrable　the　shell　became,　the　more　I　lost　touch　with　the　inner　sanctuary　where　I　was　supposed　to　be　hiding.　It　was　no　more　accessible　to　me　than　it　was　to　the　people　I　intended　to　keep　out.　Inside　was　a　breeding　ground　for　rage,　hate,　dreams　of　vengeance.

Nothing　original　in　my　tactics.　Id　adopted　the　strategy　of　slaves,　the　oppressed,　the　powerless.　I　thought　I　was　running　but　I　was　fashioning　a　cage.　Working　hand　in　hand　with　my　enemies.　Knowledge　of　my　racial　past,　of　the　worldwide　struggle　of　people　of　color　against　the　domination　of　Europeans　would　have　been　invaluable.　History　could　have　been　a　tool,　a　support　in　the　daytoday　confrontations　I　experienced　in　the　alien　university　environment.　History　could　have　taught　me　I　was　not　alone,　my　situation　was　not　unique.　Believing　I　was　alone　made　me　dangerous,　to　myself　and　others.

College　was　a　time　of　precipitous　ups　and　downs.　I　was　losing　contact　with　the　truth　of　my　own　feelings.　Not　trusting,　not　confiding　in　anyone　else,　learning　to　mistrust　and　deny　my　own　responses　left　me　solid　ground,　nowhere　to　turn.　I　was　an　expert　at　going　with　the　flow,　protecting　myself　by　taking　on　the　emotional　or　intellectual　coloring　of　whatever　circumstances　I　found　myself　in.　All　of　this　would　have　been　bad　enough　if　Id　simply　been　camouflaging　my　feelings.　Yet　it　was　far　worse.　I　had　no　feelings　apart　from　the　series　of　roles　and　masquerades　I　found　myself　playing.　And　my　greatest　concern　at　the　time　had　nothing　to　do　with　reestablishing　an　authentic　core.　What　I　feared　most　and　spent　most　of　my　energy　avoiding,　was　being　unmasked.

Away　from　school　I　worked　hard　at　being　the　same　old　home　boy　everybody　remembered,　not　because　I　identified　with　that　mask　but　because　I　didnt　want　you　all　to　discover　I　was　a　traitor.　Even　at　home　a　part　of　me　stood　outside,　watching　me　perform.　Even　within　the　family.　The　watching　part　was　unnamable.　I　hated　it　and　depended　on　it.　It　was　fear　and　cunning　and　anger　and　alienation;　it　was　chaos,　a　yawning　emptiness　at　the　center　of　my　being.

Once,　in　Wyoming,　I　saw　a　gutshot　antelope.　A　bullet　had　dropped　the　animal　abruptly　to　its　knees.　It　waggled　to　its　feet　again,　tipsy,　dazed.　Then　it　seemed　to　hear　death,　like　a　prairie　fire　crackling　through　the　sagebrush　at　its　heels.　The　antelope　bolted,　a　flatout,　bounding　sprint,　trailing　guts　like　streamers　from　its　lowslung　potbelly.　I　was　running　that　hard,　that　fast,　but　without　the　antelopes　blessed　ignorance.　I　knew　I　was　coming　apart.

I　could　get　ugly,　vicious　with　people　real　quick.　Theyd　think　they　knew　the　person　they　were　dealing　with,　then　Id　turn　on　them.　Get　drunk　or　fed　up　or　just　perverse　for　perversitys　sake.　Exercise　the　dark　side　of　my　power.　Become　a　stranger,　a　different　person.　Id　scare　people,　hurt　them.　What　I　did　to　others,　I　was　doing　to　myself.　I　wasnt　sure　I　cried　real　tears,　bled　real　blood.　Didnt　know　whose　eyes　stared　back　at　me　from　the　mirror.

Problem　is,　Im　not　talking　about　ancient　history.　Ive　changed.　Weve　all　changed.　A　lots　happened　in　the　last　twenty　years.　But　what　I　was,　I　still　am.　You　have　to　know　this.　My　motives　remain　suspect.　A　potential　for　treachery　remains　deep　inside　the　core.　I　can　blend　with　my　surroundings,　because　invisible.　An　opaque　curtain　slides　down　between　me　and　others,　between　the　part　of　me　that　judges　and　weighs　and　is　accountable　for　my　actions　and　that　part　that　acts.　Then,　as　always,　Im　capable　of　profound　irresponsibility.　No　way　of　being　accountable　because　theres　no　one,　no　place　to　turn　to.

I　try　harder　these　days.　Love,　marriage,　children,　a　degree　of　success　in　the　world,　leisure　to　reconsider,　to　reason　with　myself,　to　read　and　write　have　increased　my　insight　and　altered　my　perspective.　But　words　like　“insight”　and　“altered　perspective”　are　bullshit.　They　dont　tell　you　what　you　need　to　know.　Am　I　willing　to　go　all　the　way?　Be　with　you?　Share　the　weight?　Go　down　with　you　wherever　you　have　to　go?　No　way　to　know　beforehand.　Words　cant　do　that.　Words　may　help　me　find　you.　Then　well　have　to　see....

Youve　seen　Jamila　almost　yearly.　Since　she　was　a　baby　shes　accompanied　us　on　our　visits　to　the　prison.　One　of　the　family.　I　date　your　time　in　prison　by　her　age.　She　used　to　cry　coming　and　going.　Now　she　asks　questions,　the　hard　kind　I　cant　answer.　The　kinds　of　questions　few　in　this　society　bother　to　pose　about　the　meaning,　the　intent,　the　utility　of　locking　people　behind　bars.

How　long　will　Robby　be　in　cage?

In　a　book　about　the　evolution　of　imprisonment　during　the　Middle　Ages　I　discovered　the　word　“jail”　does　in　fact　derive　from　“cage.”　Prisons　in　medieval　England　were　basically　custodial　cages　where　convicted　felons　awaited　punishment　or　the　accused　were　held　till　traveling　magistrates　arrived　to　pass　judgment.　At　specified　towns　or　villages　within　the　circuit　of　his　jurisdiction　a　justice　would　sit　(old　French　assise,　hence　the　modern　“assizes”),　and　prisoners　would　be　transported　from　gaol　to　have　their　fate　determined.　Jamila　knew　what　she　was　talking　about.　We　said　“jail”　and　she　heard　“cage,”　heard　steel　doors　clanking,　iron　locks　rattling,　remembered　animals　penned　in　the　zoo.　Kids　use　words　in　ways　that　release　hidden　meanings,　reveal　the　history　buried　in　sounds.　They　havent　forgotten　that　words　can　be　more　than　signs,　that　words　have　magic,　the　power　to　be　things,　to　point　to　themselves　and　materialize.　With　their　backformations,　archaisms,　their　tendency　to　play　the　music　in　words—rhythm,　rhyme,　alliteration,　repetition—children　peel　the　skin　from　language.　Words　become　incantatory.　Open　Sesame.　Abracadabra.　Perhaps　a　child　will　remember　the　word　and　will　bring　the　walls　tumbling　down.

Maybe　Jamilas　a　yardstick　for　you　too.　Years　registering　in　terms　of　pounds　and　inches.　The　changes　in　her　body　are　the　reality　of　time　passing,　the　reality　less　observable　in　your　outward　appearance.　People　ask,　Hows　Robby?　and　I　dont　know　what　to　answer.　If　I　say　hes　okay,　people　take　that　to　mean　hes　the　same.　Hes　still　the　person　we　knew　when　he　was　free.　I　dont　want　to　give　anyone　that　impression　of　you.　I　know　youre　changing,　growing　as　fast　as　Jamila.　No　one　does　time　outside　of　time.

A　narrow　sense　of　time　as　a　material　entity,　as　a　commodity　like　money　that　can　be　spent,　earned,　lost,　owed,　or　stolen　is　at　the　bottom　of　the　twisted　logic　of　incarceration.　When　a　person　is　convicted　of　a　crime,　the　state　dispossesses　that　criminal　of　a　given　number　of　days,　months,　years.　Time　pays　for　crime.　By　surrendering　a　certain　portion　of　his　allotment　of　time　on　earth　the　malefactor　pays　his　debt　to　society.

But　how　does　anyone　do　time　outside　of　time?　Since　a　person　cant　be　removed　from　time　unless　you　kill　him,　what　prison　does　to　its　inmates　is　make　time　as　miserable,　as　unpleasant,　as　possible.　Prison　time　must　be　hard　time,　a　metaphorical　death,　a　sustained,　twilight　condition　of　deathinlife.　The　prisoners　life　is　violently　interrupted,　enclosed　within　a　parenthesis.　The　point　is　to　create　the　fiction　that　he　doesnt　exist.　Prison　is　an　experience　of　death　by　inches,　minutes,　hours,　days.

Yet　the　little　death　of　a　prison　sentence　doesnt　quite　kill　the　prisoner,　because　prisons,　in　spite　of　their　ability　to　make　the　inmates　life　unbearable,　cant　kill　time.　Incarceration　as　punishment　always　achieves　less　and　more　than　its　intent.　No　matter　how　drastically　you　deprive　a　prisoner　of　the　benefits　of　society,　abridge　his　civil　and　legal　rights,　unman　and　torture　him,　unless　you　take　his　life,　you　cant　take　away　his　time.　Many　inmates　die　violently　in　prisons,　almost　all　suffer　in　ways　beyond　an　outsiders　comprehension,　but　life　goes　on　and　since　it　does,　miracles　occur.　Bodies　languish,　spirits　are　broken,　yet　in　some　rare　cases　the　prison　cell　becomes　the　monks　cell,　exile　a　spiritual　retreat,　isolation　the　blessed　solitude　necessary　for　selfexamination,　selfdiscipline.

In　spite　of　all　the　measures　Western　society　employs　to　secularize　time,　time　transcends　the　conventional　social　order.　Prisoners　can　be　snatched　from　that　order　but　not　from　time.　Time　imprisons　us　all.　When　the　prisoner　returns　to　society　after　serving　his　time,　in　an　important　sense　hes　never　been　away.　Prisoners　cannot　step　into　the　same　river　twice—prison　may　have　rendered　them　unfit　to　live　in　free　society,　prison　may　have　radically　altered　the　prisoners　sense　of　self,　his　relation　to　his　family　and　friends—but　the　river　never　goes　away;　it　breaches　the　walls,　washes　them,　washes　us.　We　only　pretend　the　prisoner　has　gone　away.

We　visit　you　in　prison.　Here　we　come.　The　whole　family.　Judy,　Dan,　Jake,　Jamila.　Our　nuclear　unit　and　Mom　and　whoever　else　we　can　fit　into　the　Volvo　station　wagon.　We　try　to　arrive　at　the　prison　as　early　as　possible,　but　with　five　in　our　crew　competing　for　time　and　space　in　Moms　tiny　bathroom　in　the　house　on　Tokay,　and　slowasmolasses　nieces　Monique　and　Tameka　to　pick　up　in　East　Liberty　after　were　all　ready,　were　lucky　if　we　set　off　before　noon.　But　here　we　come.　Getting　ready　as　wed　get　ready　for　any　family　outing.　Baths,　teeth　brushed,　feeding,　coaxing,　the　moment　somewhere　at　the　height　of　the　bustle,　frustration,　and　confusion　when　I　say　to　myself,　Shit.　Is　it　worth　all　this　hassle?　Lets　just　call　it　off.　Lets　muzzle　these　little　beasts　and　go　back　to　bed　and　forget　the　whole　thing.　But　we　persevere.　Were　on　our　way.

Questions　for　Discussion

1.　In　this　part,　the　family　history　is　briefly　illustrated,　do　you　think　the　narrator　wants　to　create　a　link　between　the　past　and　the　present?

2.　What　is　(are)　the　big　difference(s)　between　the　two　brothers?　What　makes　“I”　so　distinctive,　and　make　“my”　dream　come　true?

3.　It　is　said,　that　“History　could　have　taught　me　I　was　not　alone,　my　situation　was　not　unique.　Believing　I　was　alone　made　me　dangerous,　to　myself　and　others.”　How　to　understand　this　loneness　and　danger　of　the　loneness?

4.　How　can　the　modern　prison　system　change　its　victim?And　what　is　the　real　function　of　the　system?

参考书目

参考书目

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2.　Bercovitch,　Sacvan　(general　editor).　The　Cambridge　History　of　American　Literature　(Vol.　18).　New　York:　Cambridge　University　Press,　19962003.

3.　Bigsby,　C.W.E.　Modern　American　Drama,　19451990.　New　York:　Cambridge　University　Press,　1992.

4.　Gates,　Henry　Louis　Jr.　and　Nellie　Y.　McKay　(general　editors).　The　Norton　Anthology　of　African　American　Literature　(second　edition).　New　York·London:　W.　W.　Norton　&　Company,　2004.

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8.　Samuels,　Wilfred.　Encyclopedia　of　AfricanAmerican　Literature.　New　York:　Facts　on　File,　Inc.,　2017.

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