Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison Page A

thinking about what he had said. Then as we took a hill we were swept by a wave of scorching air and it was as though we were approaching a desert. It almost took my breath away and I leaned over and switched on the fan, hearing its sudden whirr.
    "Thank you," he said as a slight breeze filled the car.
    We were passing a collection of shacks and log cabins now, bleached white and warped by the weather. Sun-tortured shingles lay on the roofs like decks of water-soaked cards spread out to dry. The houses consisted of two square rooms joined together by a common floor and roof with a porch in between. As we passed we could look through to the fields beyond. I stopped the car at his excited command in front of a house set off from the rest.
    "Is that a log cabin?"
    It was an old cabin with its chinks filled with chalk-white clay, with bright new shingles patching its roof. Suddenly I was sorry that I had blundered down this road. I recognized the place as soon as I saw the group of children in stiff new overalls who played near a rickety fence.
    "Yes, sir. It is a log cabin," I said.
    It was the cabin of Jim Trueblood, a sharecropper who had brought disgrace upon the black community. Several months before he had caused quite a bit of outrage up at the school, and now his name was never mentioned above a whisper. Even before that he had seldom come near the campus but had been well liked as a hard worker who took good care of his family's needs, and as one who told the old stories with a sense of humor and a magic that made them come alive. He was also a good tenor singer, and sometimes when special white guests visited the school he was brought up along with the members of a country quartet to sing what the officials called "their primitive spirituals" when we assembled in the chapel on Sunday evenings. We were embarrassed by the earthy harmonies they sang, but since the visitors were awed we dared not laugh at the crude, high, plaintively animal sounds Jim Trueblood made as he led the quartet. That had all passed now with his disgrace, and what on the part of the school officials had been an attitude of contempt blunted by tolerance, had now become a contempt sharpened by hate. I didn't understand in those pre-invisible days that their hate, and mine too, was charged with fear. How all of us at the college hated the black-belt people, the "peasants," during those days! We were trying to lift them up and they, like Trueblood, did everything it seemed to pull us down.
    "It appears quite old," Mr. Norton said, looking across the bare, hard stretch of yard where two women dressed in new blue-and-white checked ginghams were washing clothes in an iron pot. The pot was soot-black and the feeble flames that licked its sides showed pale pink and bordered with black, like flames in mourning. Both women moved with the weary, full-fronted motions of far-gone pregnancy.
    "It is, sir," I said. "That one and the other two like it were built during slavery times."
    "You don't say! I would never have believed that they were so enduring. Since slavery times!"
    "That's true, sir. And the white family that owned the land when it was a big plantation still lives in town."
    "Yes," he said, "I know that many of the old families still survive. And individuals too, the human stock goes on, even though it degenerates. But these cabinsl" He seemed surprised and confounded.
    "Do you suppose those women know anything about the age and history of the place? The older one looks as though she might."
    "I doubt it, sir. They --they don't seem very bright."
    "Bright?" he said, removing his cigar. "You mean that they wouldn't talk with me?" he asked suspiciously.
    "Yes, sir. That's it."
    "Why not?"
    I didn't want to explain. It made me feel ashamed, but he sensed that I knew something and pressed me.
    "It's not very nice, sir. But I don't think those women would talk to us."
    "We can explain that we're from the school. Surely they'll talk then. You may tell them