IN WHICH MY EDUCATION BEGINS
There was no lingering at kitchen doorways with scolding white-turbaned
cooks next morning, for as soon as I had delivered the marketing, I
returned the basket to John Chitling, and set out down Twenty-fifth
Street in the direction of the river. As I went on, a dry, pungent odour
seemed to escape from the pavement beneath and invade the air. The earth
was drenched with it, the crumbling bricks, the negro hovels, the few
sickly ailantus trees, exuded the sharp scent, and even the wind brought
stray wafts, as from a giant's pipe, when it blew in gusts up from the
river-bottom. Overhead the sky appeared to hang flat and low as if seen
through a thin brown veil, and the ancient warehouses, sloping toward
the river, rose like sombre prisons out of the murky air. It was still
before the introduction of modern machinery into the factories, and as I
approached the rotting wooden steps which led into the largest building,
loose leaves of tobacco, scattered in the unloading, rustled with a
sharp, crackling noise under my feet.
Inside, a clerk on a high stool, with a massive ledger before him,
looked up at my entrance, and stuck his pen behind his ear with a sigh
of relief.
"A gentleman told me you might want a boy, sir," I began.
He got down from his stool, and sauntering across the room, took a long
drink from a bucket of water that stood by the door.
"What gentleman?" he enquired, as he flirted a few drops on the steps
outside, and returned the tin dipper to the rusty nail over the bucket.
I drew out the card, which I had kept carefully wrapped in a piece of
brown paper in my trousers' pocket. When I handed it to him, he looked
at it with a low whistle and stood twirling it in his fingers.
"The gentleman owns about nine-tenths of the business," he remarked for
my information. Then turning his head he called over his shoulder to
some one hidden behind the massive ledgers on the desk. "I say, Bob,
here's a boy the General's sent along. What'll you do with him?"
Bob, a big, blowzy man, who appeared to be upon terms of intimacy with
every clerk in the office, came leisurely out into the room, and looked
me over with what I felt to be a shrewd and yet not unkindly glance.
"It's the second he's sent down in two weeks," he observed, "but this
one seems sprightly enough. What's your name, boy?"
"Ben Starr."
"Well, Ben, what're you good for?"
"'Most anything, sir."
"'Most anything, eh? Well, come along, and I'll put you at 'most
anything."
He spoke in a pleasant, jovial tone, which made me adore him on the
spot; and as he led me across a dark hall and up a sagging flight of
steps, he enquired good-humouredly how I had met General Bolingbroke and
why he had given me his card.
"He's a great man, is the General!" he exclaimed with enthusiasm. "When
you met him, my boy, you met the biggest man in the South to-day."
Immediately the crimson face, the white-trousered legs, the round
stomach, and even the gouty toe, were surrounded in my imagination with
a romantic halo. "What's he done to make him so big?" I asked.
"Done? Why, he's done everything. He's opened the South, he's restored
trade, he's made an honest fortune out of the carpet-baggers. It's
something to own nine-tenths of the Old Dominion Tobacco Works, and to
be vice-president of the Bonfield Trust Company, but it's a long sight
better to be president of the Great South Midland and Atlantic Railroad.
If you happen to know of a bigger job than that, I wish you'd point it
out."
I couldn't point it out, and so I told him, at which he gave a friendly
guffaw and led the way in silence up the sagging staircase. At that
moment all that had been mere formless ambition in my mind was
concentrated into a single burning desire; and I swore to myself, as I
followed Bob, the manager, up the dark staircase to the leaf department,
that I, too, would become before I died the biggest man in the South and
the president of the Great South Midland and Atlantic Railroad. The idea
which was to possess me utterly for thirty years dropped into my brain
and took root on that morning in the heavy atmosphere of the Old
Dominion Tobacco Works. From that hour I walked not aimlessly, but
toward a definite end. I might start in life, I told myself, with a
market basket, but I would start also with the resolution that out of
the market basket the Great South Midland and Atlantic Railroad should
arise. The vow was still on my lips when the large sliding door on the
landing swung open, and we entered an immense barnlike room, in which
three or four hundred negroes were at work stemming tobacco.
At first the stagnant fumes of the dry leaf mingling with the odours of
so many tightly packed bodies, caused me to turn suddenly dizzy, and the
rows of shining black faces swam before my eyes in a blur with the
brilliantly dyed turbans of the women. Then I gritted my teeth fiercely,
the mist cleared, and I listened undisturbed to the melancholy chant
which accompanied the rhythmic movements of the lithe brown fingers.
At either end of the room, which covered the entire length and breadth
of the building, the windows were shut fast, and on the outside, close
against the greenish panes, innumerable flies swarmed like a black
curtain. Before the long troughs stretching waist high from wall to
wall, hundreds of negroes stood ceaselessly stripping the dry leaves
from the stems; and above the soft golden brown piles of tobacco, the
blur of colour separated into distinct and vivid splashes of red, blue,
and orange. Back and forth in the obscurity these brilliantly coloured
turbans nodded like savage flowers amid a crowd of black faces, in which
the eyes alone, very large, wide open, and with gleaming white circles
around the pupils, appeared to me to be really alive and human. They
were singing as we entered, and the sound did not stop while the manager
crossed the floor and paused for an instant beside the nearest worker, a
brawny, coal-black negro, with a red shirt open at his throat, on which
I saw a strange, jagged scar, running from ear to chest, like the
enigmatical symbol of some savage rite I could not understand. Without
turning his head at the manager's approach, he picked up a great leaf
and stripped it from the stem at a single stroke, while his tremendous
bass voice rolled like the music of an organ over the deep piles of
tobacco before which he stood. Above this rich volume of sound fluted
the piercing thin sopranos of the women, piping higher, higher, until
the ancient hymn resolved itself into something that was neither human
nor animal, but so elemental, so primeval, that it was like a voice
imprisoned in the soil--a dumb and inarticulate music, rooted deep, and
without consciousness, in the passionate earth. Over the mass of dark
faces, as they rocked back and forth, I saw light shadows tremble, as
faint and swift as the shadows of passing clouds, while here and there a
bright red or yellow head-dress rose slightly higher than its
neighbours, and floated above the rippling mass like a flower on a
stream. And it seemed to me as I stood there, half terrified by the
close, hot smells and the savage colours, that something within me
stirred and awakened like a secret that I had carried shut up in myself
since birth. The music grew louder in my ears, as if I, too, were a part
of it, and for the first time I heard clearly the words:--
"Christ totes de young lambs in his bosom, bosom,
Christ totes de young lambs in his bosom, bosom,
Christ totes de young lambs in his bosom, bosom,
Fa-ther, de ye-ar-ur Ju-bi-le-e!"
Bob, the manager, picked up a leaf from the nearest trough, examined it
carefully, and tossed it aside. The great black negro turned his head
slowly toward him, the jagged scar standing out like a cord above the
open collar of his red shirt.
"Christ leads de ole sheep by still watah, watah,
Christ leads de ole sheep by still watah, watah,
Christ leads de ole sheep by still watah, watah,
Fa-ther, de ye-ar-ur Ju-bi-le-e!"
"If I were to leave you here an hour what would you do, Ben?" asked the
manager suddenly, speaking close to my ear.
I thought for a moment. "Learn to stem tobacco quick'en they do," I
replied at last.
"What have you found out since you came in?"
"That you must strip the leaf off clean and throw it into the big trough
that slides it downstairs somewhere."
A smile crossed his face. "If I give you a job it won't be much more
than running up and down stairs with messages," he said; "that's what a
nigger can't do." He hesitated an instant; "but that's the way I began,"
he added kindly, "under General Bolingbroke."
I looked up quickly, "And was it the way _he_ began?"
"Oh, well, hardly. He belongs to one of the old families, you know. His
father was a great planter and he started on top."
My crestfallen look must have moved his pity, I think, for he said as he
turned away and we walked down the long room, "It ain't the start that
makes the man, youngster, but the man that makes the start."
The doors swung together behind us, and we descended the dark staircase,
with the piercing soprano voices fluting in our ears.
"Christ leads de ole sheep by still watah, watah,
Christ leads de ole sheep by still watah, watah."
* * * * *
That afternoon I went home, full of hope, to my attic in the Old Market
quarter. Then as the weeks went on, and I took my place gradually as a
small laborious worker in the buzzing hive of human industry, whatever
romance had attached itself to the tobacco factory, scattered and
vanished in the hard, dry atmosphere of the reality. My part was to run
errands up and down the dark staircase for the manager of the leaf
department, or to stand for hours on hot days in the stagnant air, amid
the reeking smells of the big room, where the army of "stemmers" rocked
ceaselessly back and forth to the sound of their savage music. In all
those weary weeks I had passed General Bolingbroke but once, and by the
blank look on his great perspiring face, I saw that my hero had
forgotten utterly the incident of my existence. Yet as I turned on the
curbing and looked after him, while he ploughed, wiping his forehead, up
the long hill, under the leaves of mulberry and catalpa trees, I felt
instinctively that my future triumphs would be in a measure the
overthrow of the things for which he and his generation had stood. The
manager's casual phrase "the old families," had bred in me a secret
resentment, for I knew in my heart that the genial aristocracy,
represented by the president of the Great South Midland and Atlantic
Railroad, was in reality the enemy, and not the friend, of such as I.
The long, hot summer unfolded slowly while I trudged to the factory in
the blinding mornings and back again to the Old Market at the
suffocating hour of sunset. Over the doors of the negro hovels luxuriant
gourd vines hung in festoons of large fan-shaped leaves, and above the
high plank fences at the back, gaudy sunflowers nodded their heads to me
as I went wearily by. The richer quarter of the city had blossomed into
a fragrant bower, but I saw only the squalid surroundings of the Old
Market, with its covered wagons, its overripe melons, its prowling dogs
hunting in refuse heaps, and beyond this the crooked street, which led
to the tobacco factory and then sagged slowly down to the river-bottom.
Sometimes I would lean from my little window at night into the stifling
atmosphere, where the humming of a mosquito, or the whirring of a moth,
made the only noise, and think of the enchanted garden lying desolate
and lovely under the soft shining of the stars. Were the ghosts moving
up and down the terraces in the mazes of scented box, I wondered? Then
the garden would fade far away from me into a cool, still distance,
while I knelt with my head in my hands, panting for breath in the
motionless air. Outside the shadow of the Old Market lay over all,
stretching sombre and black to where I crouched, a lonely, half-naked
child at my attic window. And so at last, bathed in sweat, I would fall
asleep, to awaken at dawn when the covered wagons passed through the
streets below, and the cry of "Wa-ter-mil-lion! Wa-ter-mil-lion!" rang
in the silence. Then the sun would rise slowly, the day begin, and Mrs.
Chitling's cheerful bustle would start anew. Tired, sleepless,
despairing, I would set off to work at last, while the Great South
Midland Railroad receded farther and farther into the dim province of
inaccessible things.
After a long August day, when the factory had shut down while it was yet
afternoon, I crept up to Church Hill, and looked again over the spiked
wall into the enchanted garden. It was deserted and seemed very sad, I
thought, for its only tenants appeared to be the swallows that flew,
with short cries, in and out of the white columns. On the front door a
large sign hung, reading "For Sale"; and turning away with a sinking
heart, I went on to Mrs. Cudlip's in the hope of catching a glimpse of
baby Jessy, whom I had not seen since I ran away. She was playing on the
sidewalk, a pretty, golden-haired little girl, with the melting blue
eyes of my father; and when she caught sight of me, she gave a gurgling
cry and ran straight to me out of the arms of President, who, I saw to
my surprise, was standing in the doorway of our old home. He was taller
than my father now, with the same kind, sheepish face, and the awkward
movements as of an overgrown boy.
"Wall, if it ain't Benjy!" he exclaimed, his slow wits paralysed by my
unexpected appearance. "If it ain't Benjy!"
Turning aside he spat a wad of tobacco into the gutter, and then coming
toward me, seized both my hands and wrung them in his big fists with a
grip that hurt.
"You're comin' along now, ain't you, Benjy?" he inquired proudly.
"Tith my Pethedent," lisped baby Jessy at his knees, and he stooped from
his great height and lifted her in his arms with the gentleness of a
woman.
"What about an eddication, Benjy boy?" he asked over the golden curls.
"I can't get an education and work, too," I answered, "and I've got to
work. How's pa?"
"He's taken an awful fondness to the bottle," replied President, with a
sly wink, "an' if thar's a thing on earth that can fill a man's thoughts
till it crowds out everything else in it, it's the bottle. But speakin'
of an eddication, you see I never had one either, an' I tell you, when
you don't have it, you miss it every blessed minute of yo' life.
Whenever I see a man step on ahead of me in the race, I say to myself,
'Thar goes an eddication. It's the eddication in him that's a-movin' an'
not the man.' You mark my words, Benjy, I've stood stock still an' seen
'em stridin' on that didn't have one bloomin' thing inside of 'em except
an eddication."
"But how am I to get it, President?" I asked dolefully. "I've got to
work."
"Get it out of books, Benjy. It's in 'em if you only have the patience
to stick at 'em till you get it out. I never had on o'count of my eyes
and my slowness, but you're young an' peart an' you don't get confused
by the printed letters."
Diving into his bulging pockets, he took out a big leather purse, from
which he extracted a dollar and handed it to me. "Let that go toward an
eddication," he said, adding: "If you can get it out of books I'll send
you a dollar toward it every week I live. That's a kind of starter,
anyway, ain't it?"
I replied that I thought it was, and carefully twisted the money into
the torn lining of my pocket.
"I'm goin' back to West Virginy to-night," he resumed. "Arter I've seen
you an' the little sister thar ain't any use my hangin' on out of work."
"Have you got a good place, President?"
"As good as can be expected for a plain man without an eddication," he
responded sadly, and a half hour later, when I said good-by to him, with
a sob, he came to the brow of the hill, with little Jessy clinging to
his hand, and called after me solemnly, "Remember, Benjy boy, what you
want is an eddication!"
So impressed was I by the earnestness of this advice, that as I went
back down the dreary hill, with its musty second-hand clothes' shops,
its noisy barrooms, and its general aspect of decay and poverty, I felt
that my surroundings smothered me because I lacked the peculiar virtue
which enabled a man to overcome the adverse circumstances in which he
was born. The hot August day was drawing to its end, and the stagnant
air in which I moved seemed burdened with sweat until it had become a
tangible thing. The gourd vines were hanging limp now over the negro
hovels, as if the weight of the yellow globes dragged them to the earth;
and in the small square yards at the back, the wilted sunflowers seemed
trying to hide their scorched faces from the last gaze of a too ardent
lover. Whole families had swarmed out into the streets, and from time to
time I stepped over a negro urchin, who lay flat on his stomach,
drinking the juice of an overripe watermelon out of the rind. Above the
dirt and squalor the street cries still rang out from covered wagons
which crawled ceaslessly back and forth from the country to the Old
Market. "Wa-ter-mil-lion. Wa-ter-mil-l-i-o-n! Hyer's yo' Wa-ter-mil-lion
fresh f'om de vi-ne!" And as I shut my eyes against the dirt, and my
nostrils against the odours, I saw always in my imagination the
enchanted garden, with its cool sweet magnolias and laburnums, and its
great white columns from which the swallows flew, with short cries,
toward the sunset.
A white shopkeeper and a mulatto woman had got into a quarrel on the
pavement, and turning away to avoid them, I stumbled by accident into
the open door of a second-hand shop, where the proprietor sat on an old
cooking-stove drinking a glass of beer. As I started back my frightened
glance lit on a heap of dusty volumes in one corner, and in reply to a
question, which I put the next instant in a trembling voice, I was
informed that I might have the whole pile for fifty cents, provided I'd
clear them out on the spot. The bargain was no sooner clinched than I
gathered the books in my arms and staggered under their weight in the
direction of Mrs. Chitling's. Even for a grown man they would have made
a big armful, and when at last I toiled up to my attic, and dropped on
my knees by the open window, I was shaking from head to foot with
exhaustion. The dust was thick on my hands and arms, and as I turned
them over eagerly by the red light of the sunset, the worm-eaten
bindings left queer greenish stains on my fingers. Among a number of
loose magazines called _The Farmer's Friend_, I found an illustrated,
rather handsome copy of "Pilgrim's Progress," presented, as an
inscription on the flyleaf testified, to one Jeremiah Wakefield as a
reward for deportment; the entire eight volumes of "Sir Charles
Grandison"; a complete Johnson's Dictionary, with the binding missing;
and Burton's "Anatomy of Melancholy" in faded crimson morocco. When I
had dusted them carefully on an old shirt, and arranged them on the
three-cornered shelf at the head of my cot, I felt, with a glow of
satisfaction, that the foundations of that education to which President
had contributed were already laid in my brain. If the secret of the
future had been imprisoned in those mouldy books, I could hardly have
attacked them with greater earnestness; and there was probably no
accident in my life which directed so powerfully my fortunes as the one
that sent me stumbling into that second-hand shop on that afternoon in
mid-August. I can imagine what I should have been if I had never had the
help of a friend in my career, but when I try to think of myself as
unaided by Johnson's Dictionary, or by "Sir Charles Grandison," whose
prosiest speeches I committed joyfully to memory, my fancy stumbles in
vain in the attempt. For five drudging years those books were my
constant companions, my one resource, and to conceive of myself without
them is to conceive of another and an entirely different man. If there
was harm in any of them, which I doubt, it was clothed to appeal to an
older and a less ignorant imagination than mine; and from the elaborate
treatises on love melancholy in Burton's "Anatomy," I extracted merely
the fine aromatic flavour of his quotations.