sake don’t destroy the heart and hope and life and will, the brave and dreaming soul of man, with the common, dull, soul-sickening, mean transactions of these little things!
Don’t break our heart, our hope, our ecstasy, don’t shatterirrevocably some brave adventure of the spirit, or some brooding dream, by sending us on errands which any stupid girl, or nigger wench, or soulless underling of life could just as well accomplish. Don’t break man’s heart, man’s life, man’s song, the soaring vision of his dream with—“Here, boy, trot around the corner for a loaf of bread,”—or “Here, boy; the telephone company has just called up—you’ll have to trot around there…”—Oh, for God’s sake, and my sake, please don’t say ‘ trot around’—“…and pay the bill before they cut us off!”
Or, fretful-wise, be-flusteredlike, all of a twitter, scattered and demoralized, fuming and stewing, complaining, whining, railing against the universe because of things undone you should have done yourself, because of errors you have made yourself, because of debts unpaid you should have paid on time, because of things forgotten you should have remembered—fretting, complaining, galloping off in all directions, unable to get your thoughts together, unable even to call a child by his proper name—as here:
“Ed, John, Bob—pshaw, boy! George , I mean!…”
Well, then for God’s sake, mean it!
“Why, pshaw!—to think that that fool nigger—I could wring her neck when I think of it—well, as I say now….”
Then, in God’s name, say it!
“…why, you know …”
No! I do not know!
“…here I was dependin’ on her—here she told me she would come—and all the work to be done—and here she’s sneaked out on me after dinner—and I’m left here in the lurch.”
Yes, of course you are; because you failed to pay the poor wench on Saturday night the three dollars which is her princely emolument for fourteen hours a day of sweaty drudgery seven days a week; because “it slipped your mind,” because you couldn’t bear to let it go in one gigantic lump— could you?—because you thought you’d hang on to the good green smell of money just a little longer, didn’t you?—let it sweat away in your stocking and smell good just a little longer—didn’tyou?—break the poor brute’s heart on Saturday night just when she had her mind all set on fried fish, gin, and f——g, just because you wanted to hold on to three wadded, soiled, and rumpled greenbacks just a little longer—dole it out to her a dollar at a time—tonight a dollar, Wednesday night a dollar, Friday night the same…and so are left here strapped and stranded and forlorn, where my father would have paid and paid at once , and kept his nigger and his nigger’s loyalty. And all because you are a woman, with a woman’s niggard smallness about money, a woman’s niggard dealing towards her servants, a woman’s selfishness, her small humanity of feeling for the dumb, the suffering, and afflicted soul of man—and so will fret and fume and fidget now, all flustered and undone, to call me forth with:
“Here, boy!—Pshaw, now!—To think that she would play a trick like this!—Why as I say, now—child! child!—I don’t know what I shall do—I’m left here all alone—you’ll have to trot right down and see if you can find someone at once.”
Aye! to call me forth from coolness, and the gladed sweetness of cool grass to sweat my way through Niggertown in the dreary torpor of the afternoon; to sweat my way up and down that grassless, treeless horror of baked clay; to draw my breath in stench and sourness, breathe in the funky nigger stench, sour wash-pots and branch-sewage, nigger privies and the sour shambles of the nigger shacks; to scar my sight and soul with little snot-nosed nigger children fouled with dung, and so bowed out with rickets that their little legs look like twin sausages of fat, soft rubber; so to hunt, and
Don’t break our heart, our hope, our ecstasy, don’t shatterirrevocably some brave adventure of the spirit, or some brooding dream, by sending us on errands which any stupid girl, or nigger wench, or soulless underling of life could just as well accomplish. Don’t break man’s heart, man’s life, man’s song, the soaring vision of his dream with—“Here, boy, trot around the corner for a loaf of bread,”—or “Here, boy; the telephone company has just called up—you’ll have to trot around there…”—Oh, for God’s sake, and my sake, please don’t say ‘ trot around’—“…and pay the bill before they cut us off!”
Or, fretful-wise, be-flusteredlike, all of a twitter, scattered and demoralized, fuming and stewing, complaining, whining, railing against the universe because of things undone you should have done yourself, because of errors you have made yourself, because of debts unpaid you should have paid on time, because of things forgotten you should have remembered—fretting, complaining, galloping off in all directions, unable to get your thoughts together, unable even to call a child by his proper name—as here:
“Ed, John, Bob—pshaw, boy! George , I mean!…”
Well, then for God’s sake, mean it!
“Why, pshaw!—to think that that fool nigger—I could wring her neck when I think of it—well, as I say now….”
Then, in God’s name, say it!
“…why, you know …”
No! I do not know!
“…here I was dependin’ on her—here she told me she would come—and all the work to be done—and here she’s sneaked out on me after dinner—and I’m left here in the lurch.”
Yes, of course you are; because you failed to pay the poor wench on Saturday night the three dollars which is her princely emolument for fourteen hours a day of sweaty drudgery seven days a week; because “it slipped your mind,” because you couldn’t bear to let it go in one gigantic lump— could you?—because you thought you’d hang on to the good green smell of money just a little longer, didn’t you?—let it sweat away in your stocking and smell good just a little longer—didn’tyou?—break the poor brute’s heart on Saturday night just when she had her mind all set on fried fish, gin, and f——g, just because you wanted to hold on to three wadded, soiled, and rumpled greenbacks just a little longer—dole it out to her a dollar at a time—tonight a dollar, Wednesday night a dollar, Friday night the same…and so are left here strapped and stranded and forlorn, where my father would have paid and paid at once , and kept his nigger and his nigger’s loyalty. And all because you are a woman, with a woman’s niggard smallness about money, a woman’s niggard dealing towards her servants, a woman’s selfishness, her small humanity of feeling for the dumb, the suffering, and afflicted soul of man—and so will fret and fume and fidget now, all flustered and undone, to call me forth with:
“Here, boy!—Pshaw, now!—To think that she would play a trick like this!—Why as I say, now—child! child!—I don’t know what I shall do—I’m left here all alone—you’ll have to trot right down and see if you can find someone at once.”
Aye! to call me forth from coolness, and the gladed sweetness of cool grass to sweat my way through Niggertown in the dreary torpor of the afternoon; to sweat my way up and down that grassless, treeless horror of baked clay; to draw my breath in stench and sourness, breathe in the funky nigger stench, sour wash-pots and branch-sewage, nigger privies and the sour shambles of the nigger shacks; to scar my sight and soul with little snot-nosed nigger children fouled with dung, and so bowed out with rickets that their little legs look like twin sausages of fat, soft rubber; so to hunt, and
Similar Books
