dar, an’ long time ’fo’ dat. You know’d him, sho’, ’kaze he wuz one er
dem kinder men what sticks out fum de res’ like a waggin’ tongue. Not dat
he wuz any better’n anybody else, but he had dem kinder ways what make
folks talk ’bout ’im an’ ’pen’ on ’im. I dunner ’zackly what de ways wuz,
but I knows dat whatsomever ol’ Gabe Towers say an’ do, folks ’d nod der
head an’ say an’ do de same. An’ me ’long er de res’. He had dem kinder
ways ’bout ’im, an’ ’twa’n’t no use talkin’.”
In these few words, Aunt Minervy conjured up in my mind the memory of one
of the most remarkable men I had ever known. He was tall, with iron-gray
hair. His eyes were black and brilliant, his nose slightly curved, and
his chin firm without heaviness. To this day Gabriel Towers stands out
in my admiration foremost among all the men I have ever known. He might
have been a great statesman; he would have been great in anything to
which he turned his hand. But he contented himself with instructing
smaller men, who were merely politicians, and with sowing and reaping on
his plantation. More than one senator went to him for ideas with which to
make a reputation.
His will seemed to dominate everybody with whom he came in contact, not
violently, but serenely and surely, and as a matter of course. Whether
this was due to his age—he was sixty-eight when I knew him, having been
born in the closing year of the eighteenth century—or to his moral power,
or to his personal magnetism, it is hardly worth while to inquire. Major
Perdue said that the secret of his influence was common-sense, and this
is perhaps as good an explanation as any. The immortality of Socrates
and Plato should be enough to convince us that common-sense is almost as
inspiring as the gift of prophecy. To interpret Aunt Minervy Ann in this
way is merely to give a correct report of what occurred on the veranda,
for explanation of this kind was necessary to give the lady of the house
something like a familiar interest in the recital.
“Yes, suh,” Aunt Minervy Ann went on, “he had dem kinder ways ’bout ’im,
an’ whatsomever he say you can’t shoo it off like you would a hen on de
gyarden fence. Dar ’twuz an’ dar it stayed.
“Well, de time come when ol’ Marse Gabe had a gran’son, an’ he name ’im
Jesse in ’cordance wid de Bible. Jesse grow’d an’ grow’d twel he got ter
be a right smart chunk uv a boy, but he wa’n’t no mo’ like de Towerses
dan he wuz like de Chippendales, which he wa’n’t no kin to. He tuck atter
his ma, an’ who his ma tuck atter I’ll never tell you, ’kaze Bill Henry
Towers married ’er way off yander somers. She wuz purty but puny, yit
puny ez she wuz she could play de peanner by de hour, an’ play it mo’
samer de man what make it.
“Well, suh, Jesse tuck atter his ma in looks, but ’stidder playin’ de
peanner, he l’arnt how ter play de fiddle, an’ by de time he wuz twelve
year ol’, he could make it talk. Hit’s de fatal trufe, suh; he could make
it talk. You hear folks playin’ de fiddle, an’ you know what dey doin’;
you kin hear de strings a-plunkin’ an’ you kin hear de bow raspin’ on
um on ’count de rozzum, but when Jesse Towers swiped de bow cross his
fiddle, ’twa’n’t no fiddle—’twuz human; I ain’t tellin’ you no lie, suh,
’twuz human. Dat chile could make yo’ heart ache; he could fetch yo’ sins
up befo’ you. Don’t tell me! many an’ many a night when I hear Jesse
Towers playin’, I could shet my eyes an’ hear my childun cryin’, dem
what been dead an’ buried long time ago. Don’t make no diffunce ’bout de
chune, reel, jig, er promenade, de human cryin’ wuz behime all un um.
“Bimeby, Jesse got so dat he didn’t keer nothin’ ’tall ’bout books. It
uz fiddle, fiddle, all day long, an’ half de night ef dey’d let ’im. Den
folks ’gun ter talk. No need ter tell you what all dey say. De worl’
over, fum what I kin hear, dey got de idee dat a fiddle is a free pass
ter whar ole Scratch live at. Well, suh, Jesse got so he’d run away fum
school an’ go off in de woods an’ play his fiddle. Hamp use ter come ’pon
’im when he haulin’ wood, an’ he say dat fiddle ain’t soun’ no mo’ like
de fiddles what you hear in common dan a flute soun’ like a bass drum.
“Now you know yo’se’f, suh, dat dis kinder doin’s ain’t gwine ter suit
Marse Gabe Towers. Time he hear un it, he put his foot down on fiddler,
an’ fiddle, an’ fiddlin’. Ez you may say, he sot down on de fiddle an’
smash it. Dis happen when Jesse wuz sixteen year ol’, an’ by dat time he
wuz mo’ in love wid de fiddle dan what he wuz wid his gran’daddy. An’ so
dar ’twuz. He ain’t look like it, but Jesse wuz about ez high strung ez
his fiddle wuz, an’ when his gran’daddy laid de law down, he sol’ out his
pony an’ buggy an’ made his disappearance fum dem parts.
“Well, suh, ’twa’n’t so mighty often you’d hear sassy talk ’bout Marse
Gabe Towers, but you could hear it den. Folks is allers onreasonable wid
dem dey like de bes’; you know dat yo’se’f, suh. Marse Gabe ain’t make
no ’lowance fer Jesse, an’ folks ain’t make none fer Marse Gabe. Marse
Tumlin wuz dat riled wid de man dat dey come mighty nigh havin’ a fallin’
out. Dey had a splutter ’bout de time when sump’n n’er had happen, an’
atter dey wrangle a little, Marse Tumlin sot de date by sayin’ dat ’twuz
‘a year ’fo’ de day when Jess went a-fiddlin’.’ Dat sayin’ kindled de
fier, suh, an’ it spread fur an’ wide. Marse Tom Chippendale say dat
folks what never is hear tell er de Towerses went ’roun’ talkin’ ’bout
‘de time when Jess went a-fiddlin’.’”
Aunt Minervy Ann chuckled over this, probably because she regarded it as
a sort of victory for Major Tumlin Perdue. She went on:
“Yes, suh, ’twuz a by-word wid de childun. No matter what happen, er when
it happen, er ef ’tain’t happen, ’twuz ’fo’ er atter ‘de day when Jess
went a-fiddlin’.’ Hit look like dat Marse Gabe sorter drapt a notch or
two in folks’ min’s. Yit he helt his head dez ez high. He bleeze ter hol’
it high, ’kaze he had in ’im de blood uv bofe de Tumlins an’ de Perdues;
I dunner how much, but ’nuff fer ter keep his head up.
“I ain’t no almanac, suh, but I never is ter fergit de year when Jess
went a-fiddlin. ’Twuz sixty, ’kaze de nex’ year de war ’gun ter bile,
an’ ’twa’n’t long ’fo’ it biled over. Yes, suh! dar wuz de war come on
an Jess done gone. Dey banged aloose, dey did, dem on der side, an’ we
on our’n, an’ dey kep’ on a bangin’ twel we-all can’t bang no mo’. An’
den de war hushed up, an’ freedom come, an’ still nobody ain’t hear tell
er Jesse. Den you come down dar, suh, an’ stay what time you did; still
nobody ain’t hear tell er Jesse. He mought er writ ter his ma, but ef he
did, she kep’ it mighty close. Marse Gabe ain’t los’ no flesh ’bout it,
an’ ef he los’ any sleep on account er Jess, he ain’t never brag ’bout it.
“Well, suh, it went on dis away twel, ten year atter Jess went
a-fiddlin’, his wife come home. Yes, suh! His wife! Well! I wuz stan’in’
right in de hall talkin’ wid Miss Fanny—dat’s Jesse’s ma—when she come,
an’ when de news broke on me you could ’a’ knockt me down wid a permeter
fan. De house-gal show’d ’er in de parler, an’ den come atter Miss
Fanny. Miss Fanny she went in dar, an’ I stayed outside talkin’ wid de
house-gal. De gal say, ‘Aunt Minervy Ann, dey sho’ is sump’n n’er de
matter wid dat white lady. She white ez any er de dead, an’ she can’t git
’er breff good.’ ’Bout dat time, I hear somebody cry out in de parler,
an’ den I hear sump’n fall. De house-gal cotch holt er me an’ ’gun ter
whimper. I shuck ’er off, I did, an’ went right straight in de parler,
an’ dar wuz Miss Fanny layin’ face fo’mus’ on a sofy wid a letter in ’er
han’ an’ de white lady sprawled out on de flo’.
“Well, suh, you can’t skeer me wid trouble ’kaze I done see too much; so
I shuck Miss Fanny by de arm an’ ax ’er what de matter, an’ she cry out,
‘Jesse’s dead an’ his wife come home.’ She uz plum heart-broke, suh, an’
I ’speck I wuz blubberin’ some myse’f when Marse Gabe walkt in, but I wuz
tryin’ ter work wid de white lady on de flo’. ’Twix’ Marse Gabe an’ Miss
Fanny, ’twuz sho’ly a tryin’ time. When one er dem hard an’ uppity men
lose der grip on deyse’f, dey turn loose ever’thing, an’ dat wuz de way
wid Marse Gabe. When dat de case, sump’n n’er got ter be done, an’ it got
ter be done mighty quick.”
Aunt Minervy Ann paused here and rubbed her hands together
contemplatively, as if trying to restore the scene more completely to her
memory.
“You know how loud I kin talk, suh, when I’m min’ ter. Well, I talk loud
den an’ dar. I ’low, ‘What you-all doin’? Is you gwine ter let Marse
Jesse’s wife lay here an’ die des ’kaze he dead? Ef you is, I’ll des go
whar I b’longs at!’ Dis kinder fotch um ’roun’, an’ ’twa’n’t no time ’fo’
we had de white lady in de bed whar Jesse use ter sleep at, an’ soon’s we
got ’er cuddled down in it, she come ’roun’. But she wuz in a mighty bad
fix. She wanter git up an’ go off, an’ ’twuz all I could do fer ter keep
’er in bed. She done like she wuz plum distracted. Dey wa’n’t skacely a
minnit fer long hours, an’ dey wuz mighty long uns, suh, dat she wa’n’t
moanin’ an’ sayin’ dat she wa’n’t gwine ter stay, an’ she hope de Lord’d
fergive ’er. I tell you, suh, ’twuz tarryfyin’. I shuck nex’ day des like
folks do when dey er honin’ atter dram.
“You may ax me how come I ter stay dar,” Aunt Minervy Ann suggested with
a laugh. “Well, suh, ’twa’n’t none er my doin’s. I ’speck dey mus’ be
sump’n wrong ’bout me, ’kaze no matter how rough I talk ner how ugly I
look, sick folks an’ childun alters takes up wid me. When I go whar dey
is, it’s mighty hard fer ter git ’way fum um. So, when I say ter Jesse’s
wife, ‘Keep still, honey, an’ I’ll go home an’ not pester you,’ she sot
up in bed an’ say ef I gwine she gwine too. I say, ‘Nummine ’bout me,
honey, you lay down dar an’ don’t talk too much.’ She ’low, ‘Le’ me talk
ter you an’ tell you all ’bout it.’ But I shuck my head an’ say dat ef
she don’t hush up an’ keep still I’m gwine right home.
“I had ter do ’er des like she wuz a baby, suh. She wa’n’t so mighty
purty, but she had purty ways, ’stracted ez she wuz, an’ de biggest black
eyes you mos’ ever seed, an’ black curly ha’r cut short kinder, like our
folks use ter w’ar der’n. Den de house-gal fotched some tea an’ toas’,
an’ dis holp ’er up mightly, an’ atter dat I sont ter Marse Gabe fer some
dram, an’ de gal fotched de decanter fum de side-bode. Bein’, ez you may
say, de nurse, I tuck an’ tas’e er de dram fer ter make sho’ dat nobody
ain’t put nothin’ in it. An’, sho’ ’nuff, dey ain’t.”
Aunt Minervy Ann paused and smacked her lips. “Atter she got de vittles
an’ de dram, she sorter drap off ter sleep, but ’twuz a mighty flighty
kinder sleep. She’d wake wid a jump des ’zackly like babies does, an’ den
she’d moan an’ worry twel she dozed off ag’in. I nodded, suh, bekaze you
can’t set me down in a cheer, night er day, but what I’ll nod, but in
betwix’ an’ betweens I kin hear Marse Gabe Towers walkin’ up an’ down in
de liberry; walk, walk; walk, walk, up an’ down. I ’speck ef I’d ’a’ been
one er de nervious an’ flighty kin’ dey’d ’a’ had to tote me out er dat
house de nex’ day; but me! I des kep’ on a-noddin’.
“Bimeby, I hear sump’n come swishin’ ’long, an’ in walkt Miss Fanny. I
tell you now, suh, ef I’d a met ’er comin’ down de road, I’d ’a’ made
a break fer de bushes, she look so much like you know sperrets oughter
look—an’ Marse Jesse’s wife wuz layin’ dar wid ’er eyes wide open. She
sorter swunk back in de bed when she see Miss Fanny, an’ cry out, ‘Oh,
I’m mighty sorry fer ter trouble you; I’m gwine ’way in de mornin’.’
Miss Fanny went ter de bed an’ knelt down ’side it, an’ ’low, ‘No, you
ain’t gwine no whar but right in dis house. Yo’ place is here, wid his
mudder an’ his gran’fadder.’ Wid dat, Marse Jesse’s wife put her face in
de piller an’ moan an’ cry, twel I hatter ax Miss Fanny fer ter please,
ma’m, go git some res’.
“Well, suh, I stayed dar dat night an’ part er de nex’ day, an’ by dat
time all un um wuz kinder quieted down, but dey wuz mighty res’less in
de min’, ’speshually Marse Jesse’s wife, which her name wuz Miss Sadie.
It seem like dat Marse Jesse wuz livin’ at a town up dar in de fur
North whar dey wuz a big lake, an’ he went out wid one er dem ’scursion
parties, an’ a storm come up an’ shuck de boat ter pieces. Dat what
make I say what I does. I don’t min’ gwine on ’scursions on de groun’,
but when it come ter water—well, suh, I ain’t gwine ter trus’ myse’f
on water twel I kin walk on it an’ not wet my foots. Marse Jesse wuz
de Captain uv a music-ban’ up dar, an’ de papers fum dar had some long
pieces ’bout ’im, an’ de paper at home had a piece ’bout ’im. It say he
wuz one er de mos’ renounced music-makers what yever had been, an’ dat
when it come ter dat kinder doin’s he wuz a puffick prodigal. I ’member
de words, suh, bekaze I made Hamp read de piece out loud mo’ dan once.
“Miss Sadie, she got mo’ calmer atter while, an’ ’twa’n’t long ’fo’ Marse
Gabe an’ Miss Fanny wuz bofe mighty tuck up wid ’er. Dey much’d ’er up
an’ made a heap un ’er, an’ she fa’rly hung on dem. I done tol’ you she
ain’t purty, but dey wuz sump’n ’bout ’er better dan purtiness. It mought
er been ’er eyes, en den ag’in mought er been de way er de gal; but
whatsomever ’twuz, hit made you think ’bout ’er at odd times durin’ de
day, an’ des ’fo’ you go ter sleep at night.
“Eve’ything went swimmin’ along des ez natchul ez a duck floatin’ on de
mill-pon’. Dey wa’n’t skacely a day but what I seed Miss Sadie. Ef I
ain’t go ter Marse Gabe’s house she’d be sho’ ter come ter mine. Dat uz
atter Hamp wuz ’lected ter de legislatur, suh. He ’low dat a member er de
ingener’l ensembly ain’t got no bizness livin’ in a kitchen, but I say
he ain’t a whit better den dan he wuz befo’. So be, I done been cross ’im
so much dat I tell ’im ter git de house an’ I’d live in it ef ’twa’n’t
too fur fum Miss Vallie an’ Marse Tumlin. Well, he had it built on de
outskyirts, not a big jump fum Miss Vallie an’ betwix’ de town an’ Marse
Gabe Towers’s. When you come down ter de fa’r, you mus’ come see me. Me
an’ Hamp’ll treat you right; we sholy will.
“Well, suh, in dem days dey wa’n’t so many niggers willin’ ter do an’ be
done by, an’ on account er dat, ef Miss Vallie wa’n’t hollin’ fer ’Nervy
Ann, Miss Fanny er Miss Sadie wuz, an’ when I wa’n’t at one place, you
might know I’d be at de yuther one. It went on dis away, an’ went on twel
one day got so much like an’er dat you can’t tell Monday fum Friday.
An’ it went on an’ went on twel bimeby I wuz bleeze ter say sump’n ter
Hamp. You take notice, suh, an’ when you see de sun shinin’ nice an’ warm
an’ de win’ blowin’ so saft an’ cool dat you wanter go in a-washin’ in
it—when you see dis an’ feel dat away, _Watch out! Watch out_, I tell
you! Dat des de time when de harrycane gwine ter come up out’n de middle
er de swamp an’ t’ar things ter tatters. Same way when folks gitting on
so nice dat dey don’t know dey er gittin’ on.
“De fus’ news I know’d Miss Sadie wuz bringin’ little bundles ter my
house ’twix’ sundown an’ dark. She’d ’low, ‘Aunt Minervy Ann, I’ll des
put dis in de cornder here; I may want it some time.’ Nex’ day it’d be
de same doin’s over ag’in. ‘Aunt Minervy Ann, please take keer er dis; I
may want it some time.’ Well, it went on dis away fum day ter day, but
I ain’t pay no ’tention. Ef any ’spicion cross my min’ it wuz dat maybe
Miss Sadie puttin’ dem things dar fer ter ’sprise me Chris’mus by tellin’
me dey wuz fer me. But one day she come ter my house, an’ sot down an’
put her han’s over her face like she got de headache er sump’n.
“Wellum”—Aunt Minervy Ann, with real tact, now began to address herself
to the lady of the house—“Wellum, she sot dar so long dat bimeby I ax ’er
what de matter is. She ain’t say nothin’; she ain’t make no motion. I
’low ter myse’f dat she don’t wanter be pestered, so I let ’er ’lone an’
went on ’bout my business. But, bless you! de nex’ time I look at ’er she
wuz settin’ des dat away wid ’er han’s over her face. She sot so still
dat it sorter make me feel quare, an’ I went, I did, an’ cotch holt er
her han’s sorter playful-like. Wellum, de way dey felt made me flinch.
All I could say wuz, ‘Lord ’a’ mercy!’ She tuck her han’s down, she did,
an’ look at me an’ smile kinder faint-like. She ’low, ‘Wuz my han’s
col’, Aunt Minervy Ann?’ I look at ’er an’ grunt, ‘Huh! dey won’t be no
colder when youer dead.’ She ain’t say nothin’, an’ terreckly I ’low,
‘What de name er goodness is de matter wid you, Miss Sadie?’ She say,
‘Nothin’ much. I’m gwine ter stay here ter-night, an’ ter-morrer mornin’
I’m gwine ’way.’ I ax ’er, ‘How come dat? What is dey done to you?’ She
say, ‘Nothin’ ’tall.’ I ’low, ‘Does Marse Gabe an’ Miss Fanny know you
gwine?’ She say, ‘No; I can’t tell um.’
“Wellum, I flopt down on a cheer; yessum, I sho’ did. My min’ wuz gwine
like a whirligig an’ my head wuz swimmin’. I des sot dar an’ look at
’er. Bimeby she up an’ say, pickin’ all de time at her frock, ‘I know’d
sump’n wuz gwine ter happen. Dat de reason I been bringin’ dem bundles
here. In dem ar bundles you’ll fin’ all de things I fotch here. I ain’t
got nothin’ dey give me ’cep’n dish yer black dress I got on. I’d ’a’
fotch my ol’ trunk, but I dunner what dey done wid it. Hamp’ll hatter buy
me one an’ pay for it hisse’f, ’kaze I ain’t got a cent er money.’ Dem
de ve’y words she say. I ’low, ‘Sump’n must ’a’ happen den.’ She nodded,
an’ bimeby she say, ‘Mr. Towers comin’ home ter-night. Dey done got a
telegraph fum ’im.’
“I stood up in de flo’, I did, an’ ax ’er, ‘Which Mr. Towers?’ She say,
‘Mr. Jesse Towers.’ I ’low, ‘He done dead.’ She say, ‘No, he ain’t; ef he
wuz he done come ter life; dey done got a telegraph fum ’im, I tell you.’
‘Is _dat_ de reason you gwine ’way?’ I des holla’d it at ’er. She draw’d
a long breff an’ say, ‘Yes, dat’s de reason.’
“I tell you right now, ma’m, I didn’t know ef I wuz stannin’ on my head
er floatin’ in de a’r. I wuz plum outdone. But dar she sot des es cool ez
a curcumber wid de dew on it. I went out de do’, I did, an’ walk ’roun’
de house once ter de right an’ twice ter de lef’ bekaze de ol’ folks use
ter tell me dat ef you wuz bewitched, dat ’ud take de spell away. I ain’t
tellin’ you no lie, ma’m—fer de longes’ kinder minnit I didn’t no mo’
b’lieve dat Miss Sadie wuz settin’ dar in my house tellin’ me dat kinder
rigamarole, dan I b’lieve I’m flyin’ right now. Dat bein’ de case, I
bleeze ter fall back on bewitchments, an’ so I walk ’roun’ de house. But
when I went back in, dar she wuz, settin’ in a cheer an’ lookin’ up at de
rafters.
“Wellum, I went in an’ drapt down in a cheer an’ lookt at ’er. Bimeby,
I say, ‘Miss Sadie, does you mean ter set dar an’ tell me youer gwine
’way ’kaze yo’ husban’ comin’ home?’ She flung her arms behime ’er
head, she did, an’ say, ‘I ain’t none er his wife; I des been playin’
off!’ De way she look an’ de way she say it wuz ’nuff fer me. I wuz
pairlized; yessum, I wuz dumfounder’d. Ef anybody had des but totch me
wid de tip er der finger, I’d ’a’ fell off’n dat cheer an’ never stirred
atter I hit de flo’. Ever’thing ’bout de house lookt quare. Miss Vallie
had a lookin’-glass one time wid de pictur’ uv a church at de bottom.
When de glass got broke, she gimme de pictur’, an’ I sot it up on de
mantel-shelf. I never know’d ’fo’ dat night dat de steeple er der church
wuz crooked. But dar ’twuz. Mo’ dan dat I cotch myse’f feelin’ er my
fingers fer ter see ef ’twuz me an’ ef I wuz dar.
“Talk ’bout _dreams_! dey wa’n’t no dream could beat dat, I don’t keer
how twisted it mought be. An’ den, ma’m, she sot back dar an’ tol’ me de
whole tale ’bout how she come ter be dar. I’ll never tell it like she
did; dey ain’t nobody in de wide worl’ kin do dat. But it seem like she
an’ Marse Jesse wuz stayin’ in de same neighborhoods, er stayin’ at de
same place, he a-fiddlin’ an’ she a-knockin’ on de peanner er de harp, I
fergit which. Anyhow, dey seed a heap er one an’er. Bofe un um had come
dar fum way off yan’, an’ ain’t got nobody but deyse’f fer ter ’pen’ on,
an’ dat kinder flung um togedder. I ’speck dey must er swapt talk ’bout
love an’ marryin’—you know yo’se’f, ma’m, dat dat’s de way young folks
is. Howsomever dat may be, Marse Jesse, des ter tease ’er, sot down one
day an’ writ a long letter ter his wife. Tooby sho’ he ain’t got no wife,
but he des make out he got one, an’ dat letter he lef’ layin’ ’roun’ whar
Miss Sadie kin see it. ’Twa’n’t in no envelyup, ner nothin’, an’ you know
mighty well, ma’m, dat when a ’oman, young er ol’, see dat kinder letter
layin’ ’roun’ she’d die ef she don’t read it. Fum de way Miss Sadie talk,
dat letter must ’a’ stirred up a coolness ’twix’ um, kaze de mornin’ when
he wuz gwine on dat ’scursion, Marse Jesse pass by de place whar she wuz
settin’ at an’ flung de letter in her lap an’ say, ‘What’s in dar wuz fer
you.’
“Wellum, wid dat he wuz gone, an’ de fus’ news Miss Sadie know’d de
papers wuz full er de names er dem what got drownded in de boat, an’
Marse Jesse head de roll, ’kaze he wuz de mos’ pop’lous music-maker in
de whole settlement. Den dar wuz de gal an’ de letter. I wish I could
tell dis part like she tol’ me settin’ dar in my house. You’ll never git
it straight in yo’ head less’n you’d ’a’ been dar an’ hear de way she
tol’ it. Nigger ez I is, I know mighty well dat a white ’oman ain’t got
no business parmin’ ’erse’f off ez a man’s wife. But de way she tol’ it
tuck all de rough aidges off’n it. She wuz dar in dat big town, wuss’n
a wilderness, ez you may say, by ’erse’f, nobody ’penin’ on ’er an’
nobody ter ’pen’ on, tired down an’ plum wo’ out, an’ wid all dem kinder
longin’s what you know yo’se’f, ma’am, all wimmen bleeze ter have, ef dey
er white er ef dey er black.
“Yit she ain’t never tol’ nobody dat she wuz Marse Jesse’s wife. She des
han’ de letter what she’d kep’ ter Miss Fanny, an’ fell down on de flo’
in a dead faint, an’ she say dat ef it hadn’t but ’a’ been fer me, she’d
a got out er de bed dat fust night an’ went ’way fum dar; an’ I know
dat’s so, too, bekaze she wuz ranklin’ fer ter git up fum dar. But at de
time I put all dat down ter de credit er de deleeriums, an’ made ’er stay
in bed.
“Wellum, ef I know’d all de books in de worl’ by heart, I couldn’t tell
you how I felt atter she done tol’ me dat tale. She sot back dar des ez
calm ez a baby. Bimeby she say, ‘I’m glad I tol’ you; I feel better dan
I felt in a mighty long time.’ It look like, ma’am, dat a load done been
lift fum ’er min’. Now I know’d pine blank dat sump’n gotter be done,
’kaze de train’d be in at midnight, an’ den when Marse Jesse come dey’d
be a tarrifyin’ time at Gabe Towers’s. Atter while I up an’ ax ’er,
‘Miss Sadie, did you reely love Marse Jesse?’ She say, ‘Yes, I did’—des
so. I ax ’er, ‘Does you love ’im now?’ She say, ‘Yes, I does—an’ I love
dem ar people up dar at de house; dat de reason I’m gwine ’way.’ She talk
right out; she done come to de p’int whar she ain’t got nothin’ ter hide.
“I say, ‘Well, Miss Sadie, dem folks up at de house, dey loves you.’
She sorter flincht at dis. I ’low, ‘Dey been mighty good ter you. What
you done, you done done, an’ dat can’t be holp, but what you ain’t gone
an’ done, dat kin be holp; an’ what you oughter do, dat oughtn’t ter be
holp.’ I see ’er clinch ’er han’s an’ den I riz fum de cheer.” Suiting
the action to the word, Aunt Minervy Ann rose from the step where she had
been sitting, and moved toward the lady of the house.
“I riz, I did, an’ tuck my stan’ befo’ ’er. I ’low, ‘You say you love
Marse Jesse, an’ you say you love his folks. Well, den ef you got any
blood in you, ef you got any heart in yo’ body, ef you got any feelin’
fer anybody in de roun’ worl’ ’cep’n’ yo’ naked se’f, you’ll go up dar
ter dat house an’ tell Gabe Towers dat you want ter see ’im, an’ you’ll
tell Fanny Towers dat you want ter see her, an’ you’ll stan’ up befo’ um
an’ tell um de tale you tol’ ter me, word fer word. Ef you’ll do dat, an’
you hatter come back here, _come! come!_ Bless God! _come!_ an’ me an’
Hamp’ll rake an’ scrape up ’nuff money fer ter kyar you whar you gwine.
An’ don’t you be a’skeer’d er Gabe Towers. Me an’ Marse Tumlin ain’t
a-skeer’d un ’im. I’m gwine wid you, an’ ef he say one word out de way,
you des come ter de do’ an’ call me, an’ ef I don’t preach his funer’l,
it’ll be bekaze de Lord’ll strike me dumb!’ _An’ she went!_”