head out from the covers. Through the cracks, a powdery faded red dust
sprays down on him. Dust of slave-fields, dried, scattered... No use
to read. Christ, if he only could drink himself to sleep. Something
as sure as fate was going to happen. He couldnt stand this thing much
longer. A hen, perched on a shelf in the adjoining room begins to
tread. Her nails scrape the soft wood. Her feathers ruffle.
“Get out of that, you egg-laying bitch.”
Kabnis hurls a slipper against the wall. The hen flies from her perch
and cackles as if a skunk were after her.
“Now cut out that racket or I’ll wring your neck for you.”
Answering cackles arise in the chicken yard.
“Why in Christ’s hell cant you leave me alone? Damn it, I wish your
cackle would choke you. Choke every mother’s son of them in this
God-forsaken hole. Go away. By God I’ll wring your neck for you if you
dont. Hell of a mess I’ve got in: even the poultry is hostile. Go way.
Go way. By God, I’ll...”
Kabnis jumps from his bed. His eyes are wild. He makes for the door.
Bursts through it. The hen, driving blindly at the window-pane,
screams. Then flies and flops around trying to elude him. Kabnis
catches her.
“Got you now, you she-bitch.”
With his fingers about her neck, he thrusts open the outside door and
steps out into the serene loveliness of Georgian autumn moonlight. Some
distance off, down in the valley, a band of pine-smoke, silvered gauze,
drifts steadily. The half-moon is a white child that sleeps upon the
tree-tops of the forest. White winds croon its sleep-song:
rock a-by baby..
Black mother sways, holding a white child on her bosom.
when the bough bends..
Her breath hums through pine-cones.
cradle will fall..
Teat moon-children at your breasts,
down will come baby..
Black mother.
Kabnis whirls the chicken by its neck, and throws the head away. Picks
up the hopping body, warm, sticky, and hides it in a clump of bushes.
He wipes blood from his hands onto the coarse scant grass.
Kabnis: Thats done. Old Chromo in the big house there will wonder whats
become of her pet hen. Well, it’ll teach her a lesson: not to make a
hen-coop of my quarters. Quarters. Hell of a fine quarters, I’ve got.
Five years ago; look at me now. Earth’s child. The earth my mother. God
is a profligate red-nosed man about town. Bastardy; me. A bastard son
has got a right to curse his maker. God...
Kabnis is about to shake his fists heaven-ward. He looks up, and the
night’s beauty strikes him dumb. He falls to his knees. Sharp stones
cut through his thin pajamas. The shock sends a shiver over him. He
quivers. Tears mist his eyes. He writhes.
“God Almighty, dear God, dear Jesus, do not torture me with beauty.
Take it away. Give me an ugly world. Ha, ugly. Stinking like unwashed
niggers. Dear Jesus, do not chain me to myself and set these hills
and valleys, heaving with folk-songs, so close to me that I cannot
reach them. There is a radiant beauty in the night that touches and
... tortures me. Ugh. Hell. Get up, you damn fool. Look around. Whats
beautiful there? Hog pens and chicken yards. Dirty red mud. Stinking
outhouse. Whats beauty anyway but ugliness if it hurts you? God, he
doesnt exist, but nevertheless He is ugly. Hence, what comes from
Him is ugly. Lynchers and business men, and that cockroach Hanby,
especially. How come that he gets to be principal of a school? Of the
school I’m driven to teach in? God’s handiwork, doubtless. God and
Hanby, they belong together. Two godam moral-spouters. Oh, no, I wont
let that emotion come up in me. Stay down. Stay down, I tell you. O
Jesus, Thou art beautiful... Come, Ralph, pull yourself together.
Curses and adoration dont come from what is sane. This loneliness,
dumbness, awful, intangible oppression is enough to drive a man insane.
Miles from nowhere. A speck on a Georgia hillside. Jesus, can you
imagine it—an atom of dust in agony on a hillside? Thats a spectacle
for you. Come, Ralph, old man, pull yourself together.”
Kabnis has stiffened. He is conscious now of the night wind, and
of how it chills him. He rises. He totters as a man would who for
the first time uses artificial limbs. As a completely artificial man
would. The large frame house, squatting on brick pillars, where the
principal of the school, his wife, and the boarding girls sleep, seems
a curious shadow of his mind. He tries, but cannot convince himself
of its reality. His gaze drifts down into the vale, across the swamp,
up over the solid dusk bank of pines, and rests, bewildered-like,
on the court-house tower. It is dull silver in the moonlight. White
child that sleeps upon the top of pines. Kabnis’ mind clears. He sees
himself yanked beneath that tower. He sees white minds, with indolent
assumption, juggle justice and a nigger... Somewhere, far off in
the straight line of his sight, is Augusta. Christ, how cut off from
everything he is. And hours, hours north, why not say a lifetime
north? Washington sleeps. Its still, peaceful streets, how desirable
they are. Its people whom he had always halfway despised. New York?
Impossible. It was a fiction. He had dreamed it. An impotent nostalgia
grips him. It becomes intolerable. He forces himself to narrow to a cabin
silhouetted on a knoll about a mile away. Peace. Negroes within it are
content. They farm. They sing. They love. They sleep. Kabnis wonders if
perhaps they can feel him. If perhaps he gives them bad dreams. Things
are so immediate in Georgia.
Thinking that now he can go to sleep, he re-enters his room. He builds
a fire in the open hearth. The room dances to the tongues of flames,
and sings to the crackling and spurting of the logs. Wind comes up
between the floor boards, through the black cracks of the walls.
Kabnis: Cant sleep. Light a cigarette. If that old bastard comes over
here and smells smoke, I’m done for. Hell of a note, cant even smoke.
The stillness of it: where they burn and hang men, you cant smoke. Cant
take a swig of licker. What do they think this is, anyway, some sort
of temperance school? How did I ever land in such a hole? Ugh. One
might just as well be in his grave. Still as a grave. Jesus, how still
everything is. Does the world know how still it is? People make noise.
They are afraid of silence. Of what lives, and God, of what dies in
silence. There must be many dead things moving in silence. They come
here to touch me. I swear I feel their fingers... Come, Ralph, pull
yourself together. What in hell was that? Only the rustle of leaves, I
guess. You know, Ralph, old man, it wouldnt surprise me at all to see a
ghost. People dont think there are such things. They rationalize their
fear, and call their cowardice science. Fine bunch, they are. Damit,
that was a noise. And not the wind either. A chicken maybe. Hell,
chickens dont wander around this time of night. What in hell is it?
A scraping sound, like a piece of wood dragging over the ground, is
coming near.
“Ha, ha. The ghosts down this way havent got any chains to rattle,
so they drag trees along with them. Thats a good one. But no joke,
something is outside this house, as sure as hell. Whatever it is, it
can get a good look at me and I cant see it. Jesus Christ!”
Kabnis pours water on the flames and blows his lamp out. He picks up a
poker and stealthily approaches the outside door. Swings it open, and
lurches into the night. A calf, carrying a yoke of wood, bolts away
from him and scampers down the road.
“Well, I’m damned. This godam place is sure getting the best of me.
Come, Ralph, old man, pull yourself together. Nights cant last forever.
Thank God for that. Its Sunday already. First time in my life I’ve ever
wanted Sunday to come. Hell of a day. And down here there’s no such
thing as ducking church. Well, I’ll see Halsey and Layman, and get a
good square meal. Thats something. And Halsey’s a damn good feller.
Cant talk to him, though. Who in Christ’s world can I talk to? A hen.
God. Myself... I’m going bats, no doubt of that. Come now, Ralph, go
in and make yourself go to sleep. Come now .. in the door .. thats
right. Put the poker down. There. All right. Slip under the sheets.
Close your eyes. Think nothing .. a long time .. nothing, nothing.
Dont even think nothing. Blank. Not even blank. Count. No, mustnt count
Nothing .. blank .. nothing .. blank .. space without stars in it.
No, nothing .. nothing..
Kabnis sleeps. The winds, like soft-voiced vagrant poets sing:
White-man’s land.
Niggers, sing.
Burn, bear black children
Till poor rivers bring
Rest, and sweet glory
In Camp Ground.
2
The parlor of Fred Halsey’s home. There is a seediness about it.
It seems as though the fittings have given a frugal service to at
least seven generations of middle-class shop-owners. An open grate
burns cheerily in contrast to the gray cold changed autumn weather.
An old-fashioned mantelpiece supports a family clock (not running),
a figure or two in imitation bronze, and two small group pictures.
Directly above it, in a heavy oak frame, the portrait of a bearded
man. Black hair, thick and curly, intensifies the pallor of the high
forehead. The eyes are daring. The nose, sharp and regular. The poise
suggests a tendency to adventure checked by the necessities of absolute
command. The portrait is that of an English gentleman who has retained
much of his culture, in that money has enabled him to escape being
drawn through a land-grubbing pioneer life. His nature and features,
modified by marriage and circumstances, have been transmitted to his
great-grandson, Fred. To the left of this picture, spaced on the wall,
is a smaller portrait of the great-grandmother. That here there is
a Negro strain, no one would doubt. But it is difficult to say in
precisely what feature it lies. On close inspection, her mouth is seen
to be wistfully twisted. The expression of her face seems to shift
before one’s gaze—now ugly, repulsive; now sad, and somehow beautiful
in its pain. A tin wood-box rests on the floor below. To the right of
the great-grandfather’s portrait hangs a family group: the father,
mother, two brothers, and one sister of Fred. It includes himself
some thirty years ago when his face was an olive white, and his hair
luxuriant and dark and wavy. The father is a rich brown. The mother,
practically white. Of the children, the girl, quite young, is like
Fred; the two brothers, darker. The walls of the room are plastered
and painted green. An old upright piano is tucked into the corner near
the window. The window looks out on a forlorn, box-like, whitewashed
frame church. Negroes are gathering, on foot, driving questionable gray
and brown mules, and in an occasional Ford, for afternoon service.
Beyond, Georgia hills roll off into the distance, their dreary aspect
heightened by the gray spots of unpainted one- and two-room shanties.
Clumps of pine trees here and there are the dark points the whole
landscape is approaching. The church bell tolls. Above its squat tower,
a great spiral of buzzards reaches far into the heavens. An ironic
comment upon the path that leads into the Christian land... Three
rocking chairs are grouped around the grate. Sunday papers scattered on
the floor indicate a recent usage. Halsey, a well-built, stocky fellow,
hair cropped close, enters the room. His Sunday clothes smell of wood
and glue, for it is his habit to potter around his wagon-shop even
on the Lord’s day. He is followed by Professor Layman, tall, heavy,
loose-jointed Georgia Negro, by turns teacher and preacher, who has
traveled in almost every nook and corner of the state and hence knows
more than would be good for anyone other than a silent man. Kabnis,
trying to force through a gathering heaviness, trails in behind them.
They slip into chairs before the fire.
Layman: Sholy fine, Mr. Halsey, sholy fine. This town’s right good at
feedin folks, better’n most towns in th state, even for preachers, but
I ken say this beats um all. Yassur. Now aint that right, Professor
Kabnis?
Kabnis: Yes sir, this beats them all, all right—best I’ve had, and
thats a fact, though my comparison doesnt carry far, y’know.
Layman: Hows that, Professor?
Kabnis: Well, this is my first time out—
Layman: For a fact. Aint seed you round so much. Whats th trouble? Dont
like our folks down this away?
Halsey: Aint that, Layman. He aint like most northern niggers that way.
Aint a thing stuck up about him. He likes us, you an me, maybe all—its
that red mud over yonder—gets stuck in it an cant get out. (Laughs.)
An then he loves th fire so, warm as its been. Coldest Yankee I’ve ever
seen. But I’m goin t get him out now in a jiffy, eh, Kabnis?
Kabnis: Sure, I should say so, sure. Dont think its because I dont
like folks down this way. Just the opposite, in fact. Theres more
hospitality and everything. Its diff—that is, theres lots of northern
exaggeration about the South. Its not half the terror they picture it.
Things are not half bad, as one could easily figure out for himself
without ever crossing the Mason and Dixie line: all these people
wouldnt stay down here, especially the rich, the ones that could easily
leave, if conditions were so mighty bad. And then too, sometime back,
my family were southerners y’know. From Georgia, in fact—
Layman: Nothin t feel proud about, Professor. Neither your folks nor
mine.
Halsey (in a mock religious tone): Amen t that, brother Layman. Amen
(turning to Kabnis, half playful, yet somehow dead in earnest). An Mr.
Kabnis, kindly remember youre in th land of cotton—hell of a land.
Th white folks get th boll; th niggers get th stalk. An dont you dare
touch th boll, or even look at it. They’ll swing y sho. (Laughs.)
Kabnis: But they wouldnt touch a gentleman—fellows, men like us three
here—
Layman: Nigger’s a nigger down this away, Professor. An only two
dividins: good an bad. An even they aint permanent categories. They
sometimes mixes um up when it comes t lynchin. I’ve seen um do it.
Halsey: Dont let th fear int y, though, Kabnis. This county’s a good
un. Aint been a stringin up I can remember. (Laughs.)
Layman: This is a good town an a good county. But theres some that
makes up fer it.
Kabnis: Things are better now though since that stir about those
peonage cases, arent they?
Layman: Ever hear tell of a single shot killin moren one rabbit,
Professor?
Kabnis: No, of course not, that is, but then—
Halsey: Now I know you werent born yesterday, sprung up so rapid like
you aint heard of th brick thrown in th hornets’ nest. (Laughs.)
Kabnis: Hardly, hardly, I know—
Halsey: Course y do. (To Layman) See, northern niggers aint as dumb as
they make out t be.
Kabnis (overlooking the remark): Just stirs them up to sting.
Halsey: T perfection. An put just like a professor should put it.
Kabnis: Thats what actually did happen?
Layman: Well, if it aint sos only because th stingers already movin jes
as fast as they ken go. An been goin ever since I ken remember, an then
some mo. Though I dont usually make mention of it.
Halsey: Damn sight better not. Say, Layman, you come from where theyre
always swarmin, dont y?
Layman: Yassur. I do that, sho. Dont want t mention it, but its a fact.
I’ve seed th time when there werent no use t even stretch out flat upon
th ground. Seen um shoot an cut a man t pieces who had died th night
befo. Yassur. An they didnt stop when they found out he was dead—jes
went on ahackin at him anyway.
Kabnis: What did you do? What did you say to them, Professor?
Layman: Thems th things you neither does a thing or talks about if y
want t stay around this away, Professor.
Halsey: Listen t what he’s tellin y, Kabnis. May come in handy some day.
Kabnis: Cant something be done? But of course not. This
preacher-ridden race. Pray and shout. Theyre in the preacher’s hands.
Thats what it is. And the preacher’s hands are in the white man’s
pockets.
Halsey: Present company always excepted.
Kabnis: The Professor knows I wasnt referring to him.
Layman: Preacher’s a preacher anywheres you turn. No use exceptin.
Kabnis: Well, of course, if you look at it that way. I didnt mean— But
cant something be done?
Layman: Sho. Yassur. An done first rate an well. Jes like Sam Raymon
done it.
Kabnis: Hows that? What did he do?
Layman: Th white folks (reckon I oughtnt tell it) had jes knocked two
others like you kill a cow—brained um with an ax, when they caught Sam
Raymon by a stream. They was about t do fer him when he up an says,
“White folks, I gotter die, I knows that. But wont y let me die in my
own way?” Some was fer gettin after him, but th boss held um back an
says, “Jes so longs th nigger dies—” An Sam fell down ont his knees an
prayed, “O Lord, Ise comin to y,” an he up an jumps int th stream.
Singing from the church becomes audible. Above it, rising and falling
in a plaintive moan, a woman’s voice swells to shouting. Kabnis hears
it. His face gives way to an expression of mingled fear, contempt, and
pity. Layman takes no notice of it. Halsey grins at Kabnis. He feels
like having a little sport with him.
Halsey: Lets go t church, eh, Kabnis?
Kabnis (seeking control): All right—no sir, not by a damn sight. Once
a days enough for me. Christ, but that stuff gets to me. Meaning no
reflection on you, Professor.
Halsey: Course not. Say, Kabnis, noticed y this morning. What’d y get
up for an go out?
Kabnis: Couldnt stand the shouting, and thats a fact. We dont have that
sort of thing up North. We do, but, that is, some one should see to it
that they are stopped or put out when they get so bad the preacher has
to stop his sermon for them.
Halsey: Is that th way youall sit on sisters up North?
Kabnis: In the church I used to go to no one ever shouted—
Halsey: Lungs weak?
Kabnis: Hardly, that is—
Halsey: Yankees are right up t th minute in tellin folk how t turn a
trick. They always were good at talkin.
Kabnis: Well, anyway, they should be stopped.
Layman: Thats right. Thats true. An its th worst ones in th community
that comes int th church t shout. I’ve sort a made a study of it. You
take a man what drinks, th biggest licker-head around will come int th
church an yell th loudest. An th sister whats done wrong, an is always
doin wrong, will sit down in th Amen corner an swing her arms an shout
her head off. Seems as if they cant control themselves out in th world;
they cant control themselves in church. Now dont that sound logical,
Professor?
Halsey: Reckon its as good as any. But I heard that queer cuss over
yonder—y know him, dont y, Kabnis? Well, y ought t. He had a run-in
with your boss th other day—same as you’ll have if you dont walk th
chalk-line. An th quicker th better. I hate that Hanby. Ornery bastard.
I’ll mash his mouth in one of these days. Well, as I was sayin, that
feller, Lewis’s name, I heard him sayin somethin about a stream whats
dammed has got t cut loose somewheres. An that sounds good. I know th
feelin myself. He strikes me as knowin a bucketful bout most things,
that feller does. Seems like he doesnt want t talk, an does, sometimes,
like Layman here. Damn queer feller, him.
Layman: Cant make heads or tails of him, an I’ve seen lots o queer
possums in my day. Everybody’s wonderin about him. White folks too.
He’ll have t leave here soon, thats sho. Always askin questions. An I
aint seed his lips move once. Pokin round an notin somethin. Noted what
I said th other day, an that werent fer notin down.
Kabnis: What was that?
Layman: Oh, a lynchin that took place bout a year ago. Th worst I know
of round these parts.
Halsey: Bill Burnam?
Layman: Na. Mame Lamkins.
Halsey grunts, but says nothing.
The preacher’s voice rolls from the church in an insistent chanting
monotone. At regular intervals it rises to a crescendo note. The
sister begins to shout. Her voice, high-pitched and hysterical, is
almost perfectly attuned to the nervous key of Kabnis. Halsey notices
his distress, and is amused by it. Layman’s face is expressionless.
Kabnis wants to hear the story of Mame Lamkins. He does not want to
hear it. It can be no worse than the shouting.
Kabnis (his chair rocking faster): What about Mame Lamkins?
Halsey: Tell him, Layman.
The preacher momentarily stops. The choir, together with the entire
congregation, sings an old spiritual. The music seems to quiet the
shouter. Her heavy breathing has the sound of evening winds that blow
through pinecones. Layman’s voice is uniformly low and soothing. A
canebrake, murmuring the tale to its neighbor-road would be more
passionate.
Layman: White folks know that niggers talk, an they dont mind jes so
long as nothing comes of it, so here goes. She was in th family-way,
Mame Lamkins was. They killed her in th street, an some white man seein
th risin in her stomach as she lay there soppy in her blood like any
cow, took an ripped her belly open, an th kid fell out. It was living;
but a nigger baby aint supposed t live. So he jabbed his knife in it an
stuck it t a tree. An then they all went away.
Kabnis: Christ no! What had she done?
Layman: Tried t hide her husband when they was after him.
A shriek pierces the room. The bronze pieces on the mantel hum. The
sister cries frantically: “Jesus, Jesus, I’ve found Jesus. O Lord,
glory t God, one mo sinner is acomin home.” At the height of this, a
stone, wrapped round with paper, crashes through the window. Kabnis
springs to his feet, terror-stricken. Layman is worried. Halsey picks
up the stone. Takes off the wrapper, smooths it out, and reads: “You
northern nigger, its time fer y t leave. Git along now.” Kabnis knows
that the command is meant for him. Fear squeezes him. Caves him in. As
a violent external pressure would. Fear flows inside him. It fills him
up. He bloats. He saves himself from bursting by dashing wildly from
the room. Halsey and Layman stare stupidly at each other. The stone,
the crumpled paper are things, huge things that weight them. Their
thoughts are vaguely concerned with the texture of the stone, with the
color of the paper. Then they remember the words, and begin to shift
them about in sentences. Layman even construes them grammatically.
Suddenly the sense of them comes back to Halsey. He grips Layman by the
arm and they both follow after Kabnis.
A false dusk has come early. The countryside is ashen, chill. Cabins
and roads and canebrakes whisper. The church choir, dipping into a long
silence, sings:
My Lord, what a mourning,
My Lord, what a mourning,
My Lord, what a mourning,
When the stars begin to fall.
Softly luminous over the hills and valleys, the faint spray of a
scattered star...
3
A splotchy figure drives forward along the cane- and corn-stalk
hemmed-in road. A scarecrow replica of Kabnis, awkwardly animate.
Fantastically plastered with red Georgia mud. It skirts the big house
whose windows shine like mellow lanterns in the dusk. Its shoulder jogs
against a sweet-gum tree. The figure caroms off against the cabin door,
and lunges in. It slams the door as if to prevent some one entering
after it.
“God Almighty, theyre here. After me. On me. All along the road I saw
their eyes flaring from the cane. Hounds. Shouts. What in God’s name
did I run here for? A mud-hole trap. I stumbled on a rope. O God, a
rope. Their clammy hands were like the love of death playing up and
down my spine. Trying to trip my legs. To trip my spine. Up and down my
spine. My spine... My legs... Why in hell didn’t they catch me?”
Kabnis wheels around, half defiant, half numbed with a more immediate
fear.
“Wanted to trap me here. Get out o there. I see you.”
He grabs a broom from beside the chimney and violently pokes it under
the bed. The broom strikes a tin wash-tub. The noise bewilders. He
recovers.
“Not there. In the closet.”
He throws the broom aside and grips the poker. Starts towards the
closet door, towards somewhere in the perfect blackness behind the
chimney.
“I’ll brain you.”
He stops short. The barks of hounds, evidently in pursuit, reach him. A
voice, liquid in distance, yells, “Hi! Hi!”
“O God, theyre after me. Holy Father, Mother of Christ—hell, this aint
no time for prayer—”
Voices, just outside the door:
“Reckon he’s here.”
“Dont see no light though.”
The door is flung open.
Kabnis: Get back or I’ll kill you.
He braces himself, brandishing the poker.
Halsey (coming in): Aint as bad as all that. Put that thing down.
Layman: Its only us, Professor. Nobody else after y.
Kabnis: Halsey. Layman. Close that door. Dont light that light. For
godsake get away from there.
Halsey: Nobody’s after y, Kabnis, I’m tellin y. Put that thing down an
get yourself together.