KABNIS
RALPH KABNIS, propped in his bed, tries to read. To read himself to sleep. An oil lamp on a chair near his elbow burns unsteadily. The cabin room is spaced fantastically about it. Whitewashed hearth and chimney, black with sooty saw-teeth. Ceiling, patterned by the fringed globe of the lamp. The walls, unpainted, are seasoned a rosin yellow. And cracks between the boards are black. These cracks are the lips the night winds use for whispering. Night winds in Georgia are vagrant poets, whispering. Kabnis, against his will, lets his book slip down, and listens to them. The warm whiteness of his bed, the lamp-light, do not protect him from the weird chill of their song:
White-man’s land.Niggers, sing.Burn, bear black childrenTill poor rivers bringRest, and sweet gloryIn Camp Ground.
White-man’s land.Niggers, sing.Burn, bear black childrenTill poor rivers bringRest, and sweet gloryIn Camp Ground.
White-man’s land.Niggers, sing.Burn, bear black childrenTill poor rivers bringRest, and sweet gloryIn Camp Ground.
White-man’s land.
Niggers, sing.
Burn, bear black children
Till poor rivers bring
Rest, and sweet glory
In Camp Ground.
Kabnis’ thin hair is streaked on the pillow. His hand strokes the slim silk of his mustache. His thumb, pressed under his chin, seems to be trying to give squareness and projection to it. Brown eyes stare from a lemon face. Moisture gathers beneath his arm-pits. He slides down beneath the cover, seeking release.
Kabnis: Near me. Now. Whoever you are, my warm glowing sweetheart, do not think that the face that rests beside you is the real Kabnis. Ralph Kabnis is a dream. And dreams are faces with large eyes and weak chins and broad brows that get smashed by the fists of square faces. The body of the world is bull-necked. A dream is a soft face that fits uncertainly upon it... God, if I could develop that in words. Give what I know a bull-neck and a heaving body, all would go well with me, wouldnt it, sweetheart? If I could feel that I came to the South to face it. If I, the dream (not what is weak and afraid in me) could become the face of the South. How my lips would sing for it, my songs being the lips of its soul. Soul. Soul hell. There aint no such thing. What in hell was that?
A rat had run across the thin boards of the ceiling. Kabnis thrusts his 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.
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.
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.
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 hoppingbody, 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 thenight 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 ofthe 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 himselfto 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 deadthings 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 childrenTill poor rivers bringRest, and sweet gloryIn Camp Ground.
White-man’s land.Niggers, sing.Burn, bear black childrenTill poor rivers bringRest, and sweet gloryIn Camp Ground.
White-man’s land.Niggers, sing.Burn, bear black childrenTill poor rivers bringRest, and sweet gloryIn Camp Ground.
White-man’s land.
Niggers, sing.
Burn, bear black children
Till poor rivers bring
Rest, and sweet glory
In Camp Ground.
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 thatmoney 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 outon 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 toforce 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 ofcourse 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, Isecomin 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 ofthese 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 intervalsit 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 likeany 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, thecrumpled 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.
My Lord, what a mourning,My Lord, what a mourning,My Lord, what a mourning,When the stars begin to fall.
My Lord, what a mourning,My Lord, what a mourning,My Lord, what a mourning,When the stars begin to fall.
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...
A splotchy figure drives forward along the cane- and corn-stalk hemmed-in road. Ascarecrow 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 broomstrikes 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.
Kabnis: I tell you they are. I saw them. I heard the hounds.
Halsey: These aint th days of hounds an Uncle Tom’s Cabin, feller. White folks aint in fer all them theatrics these days. Theys more direct than that. If what they wanted was t get y, theyd have just marched right in an took y where y sat. Somebodys down by th branch chasin rabbits an atreein possums.
A shot is heard.
Halsey: Got him, I reckon. Saw Tom goin out with his gun. Tom’s pretty lucky most times.
He goes to the bureau and lights the lamp. The circular fringe is patterned on the ceiling. The moving shadows of the men are huge against the bare wall boards. Halsey walks up to Kabnis, takes the poker from his grip, and without more ado pushes him into a chair before the dark hearth.
Halsey: Youre a mess. Here, Layman. Get some trash an start a fire.
Layman fumbles around, finds some newspapers and old bags, puts them in the hearth, arranges the wood, and kindles the fire. Halsey sets a black iron kettle where it soon will be boiling. Then takes from his hip-pocket a bottle of corn licker which he passes to Kabnis.
Halsey: Here. This’ll straighten y out a bit.
Kabnis nervously draws the cork and gulps the licker down.
Kabnis: Ha. Good stuff. Thanks. Thank y, Halsey.
Halsey: Good stuff! Youre damn right. Hanby there dont think so. Wonder he doesnt come over t find out whos burnin his oil. Miserly bastard, him. Th boys what made this stuff—are y listenin t me, Kabnis? th boys what made this stuff have got th art down like I heard you say youd like t be with words. Eh? Have some, Layman?
Layman: Dont think I care for none, thank y jes th same, Mr. Halsey.
Halsey: Care hell. Course y care. Everybody cares around these parts. Preachers anschool teachers an everybody. Here. Here, take it. Dont try that line on me.
Layman limbers up a little, but he cannot quite forget that he is on school ground.
Layman: Thats right. Thats true, sho. Shinin is th only business what pays in these hard times.
He takes a nip, and passes the bottle to Kabnis. Kabnis is in the middle of a long swig when a rap sounds on the door. He almost spills the bottle, but manages to pass it to Halsey just as the door swings open and Hanby enters. He is a well-dressed, smooth, rich, black-skinned Negro who thinks there is no one quite so suave and polished as himself. To members of his own race, he affects the manners of a wealthy white planter. Or, when he is up North, he lets it be known that his ideas are those of the best New England tradition. To white men he bows, without ever completely humbling himself. Tradesmen in the town tolerate him because he spends his money with them. He delivers his words with a full consciousness of his moral superiority.
Hanby: Hum. Erer, Professor Kabnis, tocome straight to the point: the progress of the Negro race is jeopardized whenever the personal habits and examples set by its guides and mentors fall below the acknowledged and hard-won standard of its average member. This institution, of which I am the humble president, was founded, and has been maintained at a cost of great labor and untold sacrifice. Its purpose is to teach our youth to live better, cleaner, more noble lives. To prove to the world that the Negro race can be just like any other race. It hopes to attain this aim partly by the salutary examples set by its instructors. I cannot hinder the progress of a race simply to indulge a single member. I have thought the matter out beforehand, I can assure you. Therefore, if I find your resignation on my desk by to-morrow morning, Mr. Kabnis, I shall not feel obliged to call in the sheriff. Otherwise...”
Kabnis: A fellow can take a drink in his own room if he wants to, in the privacy of his own room.
Hanby: His room, but not the institution’s room, Mr. Kabnis.
Kabnis: This is my room while I’m in it.
Hanby: Mr. Clayborn (the sheriff) can inform you as to that.
Kabnis: Oh, well, what do I care—glad to get out of this mud-hole.
Hanby: I should think so from your looks.
Kabnis: You neednt get sarcastic about it.
Hanby: No, that is true. And I neednt wait for your resignation either, Mr. Kabnis.
Kabnis: Oh, you’ll get that all right. Dont worry.
Hanby: And I should like to have the room thoroughly aired and cleaned and ready for your successor by to-morrow noon, Professor.
Kabnis (trying to rise): You can have your godam room right away. I dont want it.
Hanby: But I wont have your cursing.
Halsey pushes Kabnis back into his chair.
Halsey: Sit down, Kabnis, till I wash y.
Hanby (to Halsey): I would rather not have drinking men on the premises, Mr. Halsey. You will oblige me—
Halsey: I’ll oblige you by stayin right on this spot, this spot, get me? till I get damned ready t leave.
He approaches Hanby. Hanby retreats, but manages to hold his dignity.
Halsey: Let me get you told right now, Mr. Samuel Hanby. Now listen t me. I aint no slick an span slave youve hired, an dont y think it for a minute. Youve bullied enough about this town. An besides, wheres that bill youve been owin me? Listen t me. If I dont get it paid in by tmorrer noon, Mr. Hanby (he mockingly assumes Hanby’s tone and manner), I shall feel obliged t call th sheriff. An that sheriff’ll be myself who’ll catch y in th road an pull y out your buggy an rightly attend t y. You heard me. Now leave him alone. I’m takin him home with me. I got it fixed. Before you came in. He’s goin t work with me. Shapin shafts and buildin wagons’ll make a man of him what nobody, y get me? what nobody can take advantage of. Thats all...
Halsey burrs off into vague and incoherent comment.
Pause. Disagreeable.
Layman’s eyes are glazed on the spurting fire.
Kabnis wants to rise and put both Halsey and Hanby in their places. He vaguely knows thathe must do this, else the power of direction will completely slip from him to those outside. The conviction is just strong enough to torture him. To bring a feverish, quick-passing flare into his eyes. To mutter words soggy in hot saliva. To jerk his arms upward in futile protest. Halsey, noticing his gestures, thinks it is water that he desires. He brings a glass to him. Kabnis slings it to the floor. Heat of the conviction dies. His arms crumple. His upper lip, his mustache, quiver. Rap! rap, on the door. The sounds slap Kabnis. They bring a hectic color to his cheeks. Like huge cold finger tips they touch his skin and goose-flesh it. Hanby strikes a commanding pose. He moves toward Layman. Layman’s face is innocently immobile.
Halsey: Whos there?
Voice: Lewis.
Halsey: Come in, Lewis. Come on in.
Lewis enters. He is the queer fellow who has been referred to. A tall wiry copper-colored man, thirty perhaps. His mouth and eyes suggest purpose guided by an adequate intelligence. He is what a stronger Kabnis might have been, and in an odd faint way resembles him. As hesteps towards the others, he seems to be issuing sharply from a vivid dream. Lewis shakes hands with Halsey. Nods perfunctorily to Hanby, who has stiffened to meet him. Smiles rapidly at Layman, and settles with real interest on Kabnis.
Lewis: Kabnis passed me on the road. Had a piece of business of my own, and couldnt get here any sooner. Thought I might be able to help in some way or other.
Halsey: A good baths bout all he needs now. An somethin t put his mind t rest.
Lewis: I think I can give him that. That note was meant for me. Some Negroes have grown uncomfortable at my being here—
Kabnis: You mean, Mr. Lewis, some colored folks threw it? Christ Amighty!
Halsey: Thats what he means. An just as I told y. White folks more direct than that.
Kabnis: What are they after you for?
Lewis: Its a long story, Kabnis. Too long for now. And it might involve present company. (He laughs pleasantly and gestures vaguely in the direction of Hanby.) Tell you about it later on perhaps.
Kabnis: Youre not going?
Lewis: Not till my month’s up.
Halsey: Hows that?
Lewis: I’m on a sort of contract with myself. (Is about to leave.) Well, glad its nothing serious—
Halsey: Come round t th shop sometime why dont y, Lewis? I’ve asked y enough. I’d like t have a talk with y. I aint as dumb as I look. Kabnis an me’ll be in most any time. Not much work these days. Wish t hell there was. This burg gets to me when there aint. (In answer to Lewis’ question.) He’s goin t work with me. Ya. Night air this side th branch aint good fer him. (Looks at Hanby. Laughs.)
Lewis: I see...
His eyes turn to Kabnis. In the instant of their shifting, a vision of the life they are to meet. Kabnis, a promise of a soil-soaked beauty; uprooted, thinning out. Suspended a few feet above the soil whose touch would resurrect him. Arm’s length removed from him whose will to help... There is a swift intuitive interchange of consciousness. Kabnis has a sudden need to rush into the arms of this man. His eyes call,“Brother.” And then a savage, cynical twist-about within him mocks his impulse and strengthens him to repulse Lewis. His lips curl cruelly. His eyes laugh. They are glittering needles, stitching. With a throbbing ache they draw Lewis to. Lewis brusquely wheels on Hanby.
Lewis: I’d like to see you, sir, a moment, if you dont mind.
Hanby’s tight collar and vest effectively preserve him.
Hanby: Yes, erer, Mr. Lewis. Right away.
Lewis: See you later, Halsey.
Halsey: So long—thanks—sho hope so, Lewis.
As he opens the door and Hanby passes out, a woman, miles down the valley, begins to sing. Her song is a spark that travels swiftly to the near-by cabins. Like purple tallow flames, songs jet up. They spread a ruddy haze over the heavens. The haze swings low. Now the whole countryside is a soft chorus. Lord. O Lord... Lewis closes the door behind him. A flame jets out...
The kettle is boiling. Halsey notices it. Hepulls the wash-tub from beneath the bed. He arranges for the bath before the fire.
Halsey: Told y them theatrics didnt fit a white man. Th niggers, just like I told y. An after him. Aint surprisin though. He aint bowed t none of them. Nassur. T nairy a one of them nairy an inch nairy a time. An only mixed when he was good an ready—
Kabnis: That song, Halsey, do you hear it?
Halsey: Thats a man. Hear me, Kabnis? A man—
Kabnis: Jesus, do you hear it.
Halsey: Hear it? Hear what? Course I hear it. Listen t what I’m tellin y. A man, get me? They’ll get him yet if he dont watch out.
Kabnis is jolted into his fear.
Kabnis: Get him? What do you mean? How? Not lynch him?
Halsey: Na. Take a shotgun an shoot his eyes clear out. Well, anyway, it wasnt fer you, just like I told y. You’ll stay over at th house an work with me, eh, boy? Good t get away from his nobs, eh? Damn big stiff though, him. An youre not th first an I can tell y. (Laughs.)
He bustles and fusses about Kabnis as if hewere a child. Kabnis submits, wearily. He has no will to resist him.
Layman (his voice is like a deep hollow echo): Thats right. Thats true, sho. Everybody’s been expectin that th bust up was comin. Surprised um all y held on as long as y did. Teachin in th South aint th thing fer y. Nassur. You ought t be way back up North where sometimes I wish I was. But I’ve hung on down this away so long—
Halsey: An there’ll never be no leavin time fer y.
A month has passed.
Halsey’s workshop. It is an old building just off the main street of Sempter. The walls to within a few feet of the ground are of an age-worn cement mixture. On the outside they are considerably crumbled and peppered with what looks like musket-shot. Inside, the plaster has fallen away in great chunks, leaving the laths, grayed and cobwebbed, exposed. A sort of loft above the shop proper serves as a break-waterfor the rain and sunshine which otherwise would have free entry to the main floor. The shop is filled with old wheels and parts of wheels, broken shafts, and wooden litter. A double door, midway the street wall. To the left of this, a work-bench that holds a vise and a variety of wood-work tools. A window with as many panes broken as whole, throws light on the bench. Opposite, in the rear wall, a second window looks out upon the back yard. In the left wall, a rickety smoke-blackened chimney, and hearth with fire blazing. Smooth-worn chairs grouped about the hearth suggest the village meeting-place. Several large wooden blocks, chipped and cut and sawed on their upper surfaces are in the middle of the floor. They are the supports used in almost any sort of wagon-work. Their idleness means that Halsey has no worth-while job on foot. To the right of the central door is a junk heap, and directly behind this, stairs that lead down into the cellar. The cellar is known as “The Hole.” Besides being the home of a very old man, it is used by Halsey on those occasions when he spices up the life of the small town.
Halsey, wonderfully himself in his work overalls, stands in the doorway and gazes up the street, expectantly. Then his eyes grow listless. He slouches against the smooth-rubbed frame. He lights a cigarette. Shifts his position. Braces an arm against the door. Kabnis passes the window and stoops to get in under Halsey’s arm. He is awkward and ludicrous, like a schoolboy in his big brother’s new overalls. He skirts the large blocks on the floor, and drops into a chair before the fire. Halsey saunters towards him.
Kabnis: Time f lunch.
Halsey: Ya.
He stands by the hearth, rocking backward and forward. He stretches his hands out to the fire. He washes them in the warm glow of the flames. They never get cold, but he warms them.
Kabnis: Saw Lewis up th street. Said he’d be down.
Halsey’s eyes brighten. He looks at Kabnis. Turns away. Says nothing. Kabnis fidgets. Twists his thin blue cloth-covered limbs. Pulls closer to the fire till the heat stings his shins. Pushes back. Pokes the burned logs. Puts onseveral fresh ones. Fidgets. The town bell strikes twelve.
Kabnis: Fix it up f tnight?
Halsey: Leave it t me.
Kabnis: Get Lewis in?
Halsey: Tryin t.
The air is heavy with the smell of pine and resin. Green logs spurt and sizzle. Sap trickles from an old pine-knot into the flames. Layman enters. He carries a lunch-pail. Kabnis, for the moment, thinks that he is a day laborer.
Layman: Evenin, gen’lemun.
Both: Whats say, Layman.
Layman squares a chair to the fire and droops into it. Several town fellows, silent unfathomable men for the most part, saunter in. Overalls. Thick tan shoes. Felt hats marvelously shaped and twisted. One asks Halsey for a cigarette. He gets it. The blacksmith, a tremendous black man, comes in from the forge. Not even a nod from him. He picks up an axle and goes out. Lewis enters. The town men look curiously at him. Suspicion and an open liking contest for possession of their faces. They are uncomfortable. One by one they drift into the street.
Layman: Heard y was leavin, Mr. Lewis.
Kabnis: Months up, eh? Hell of a month I’ve got.
Halsey: Sorry y goin, Lewis. Just getting acquainted like.
Lewis: Sorry myself, Halsey, in a way—
Layman: Gettin t like our town, Mr. Lewis?
Lewis: I’m afraid its on a different basis, Professor.
Halsey: An I’ve yet t hear about that basis. Been waitin long enough, God knows. Seems t me like youd take pity a feller if nothin more.
Kabnis: Somethin that old black cockroach over yonder doesnt like, whatever it is.
Layman: Thats right. Thats right, sho.
Halsey: A feller dropped in here tother day an said he knew what you was about. Said you had queer opinions. Well, I could have told him you was a queer one, myself. But not th way he was driftin. Didnt mean anything by it, but just let drop he thought you was a little wrong up here—crazy, y’know. (Laughs.)
Kabnis: Y mean old Blodson? Hell, he’s bats himself.
Lewis: I remember him. We had a talk. But what he found queer, I think, was not my opinions, but my lack of them. In half an hour he had settled everything: boll weevils, God, the World War. Weevils and wars are the pests that God sends against the sinful. People are too weak to correct themselves: the Redeemer is coming back. Get ready, ye sinners, for the advent of Our Lord. Interesting, eh, Kabnis? but not exactly what we want.
Halsey: Y could have come t me. I’ve sho been after y enough. Most every time I’ve seen y.
Kabnis (sarcastically): Hows it y never came t us professors?
Lewis: I did—to one.
Kabnis: Y mean t say y got somethin from that celluloid-collar-eraser-cleaned old codger over in th mud hole?
Halsey: Rough on th old boy, aint he? (Laughs.)
Lewis: Something, yes. Layman here could have given me quite a deal, but the incentive to his keeping quiet is so much greater than anything I could have offered him to open up, that I crossed him off my mind. And you—
Kabnis: What about me?
Halsey: Tell him, Lewis, for godsake tell him. I’ve told him. But its somethin else he wants so bad I’ve heard him downstairs mumblin with th old man.
Lewis: The old man?
Kabnis: What about me? Come on now, you know so much.
Halsey: Tell him, Lewis. Tell it t him.
Lewis: Life has already told him more than he is capable of knowing. It has given him in excess of what he can receive. I have been offered. Stuff in his stomach curdled, and he vomited me.
Kabnis’ face twitches. His body writhes.
Kabnis: You know a lot, you do. How about Halsey?
Lewis: Yes... Halsey? Fits here. Belongs here. An artist in your way, arent you, Halsey?
Halsey: Reckon I am, Lewis. Give me th work and fair pay an I aint askin nothin better. Went over-seas an saw France; an I come back. Been up North; an I come back. Went t school; but there aint no books whats got th feel t themof them there tools. Nassur. An I’m atellin y.
A shriveled, bony white man passes the window and enters the shop. He carries a broken hatchet-handle and the severed head. He speaks with a flat, drawn voice to Halsey, who comes forward to meet him.
Mr. Ramsay: Can y fix this fer me, Halsey?
Halsey (looking it over): Reckon so, Mr. Ramsay. Here, Kabnis. A little practice fer y.
Halsey directs Kabnis, showing him how to place the handle in the vise, and cut it down. The knife hangs. Kabnis thinks that it must be dull. He jerks it hard. The tool goes deep and shaves too much off. Mr. Ramsay smiles brokenly at him.
Mr. Ramsay (to Halsey): Still breakin in the new hand, eh, Halsey? Seems like a likely enough faller once he gets th hang of it.
He gives a tight laugh at his own good humor. Kabnis burns red. The back of his neck stings him beneath his collar. He feels stifled. Through Ramsay, the whole white South weighs down upon him. The pressure is terrific. He sweats under the arms. Chill beads run down his body. His brows concentrate upon the handleas though his own life was staked upon the perfect shaving of it. He begins to out and out botch the job. Halsey smiles.
Halsey: He’ll make a good un some of these days, Mr. Ramsay.
Mr. Ramsay: Y ought t know. Yer daddy was a good un before y. Runs in th family, seems like t me.
Halsey: Thats right, Mr. Ramsay.
Kabnis is hopeless. Halsey takes the handle from him. With a few deft strokes he shaves it. Fits it. Gives it to Ramsay.
Mr. Ramsay: How much on this?
Halsey: No charge, Mr. Ramsay.
Mr. Ramsay (going out): All right, Halsey. Come down an take it out in trade. Shoe-strings or something.
Halsey: Yassur, Mr. Ramsay.
Halsey rejoins Lewis and Layman. Kabnis, hangdog-fashion, follows him.
Halsey: They like y if y work fer them.
Layman: Thats right, Mr. Halsey. Thats right, sho.
The group is about to resume its talk whenHanby enters. He is all energy, bustle, and business. He goes direct to Kabnis.
Hanby: An axle is out in the buggy which I would like to have shaped into a crow-bar. You will see that it is fixed for me.
Without waiting for an answer, and knowing that Kabnis will follow, he passes out. Kabnis, scowling, silent, trudges after him.
Hanby (from the outside): Have that ready for me by three o’clock, young man. I shall call for it.
Kabnis (under his breath as he comes in): Th hell you say, you old black swamp-gut.
He slings the axle on the floor.
Halsey: Wheeee!
Layman, lunch finished long ago, rises, heavily. He shakes hands with Lewis.
Layman: Might not see y again befo y leave, Mr. Lewis. I enjoys t hear y talk. Y might have been a preacher. Maybe a bishop some day. Sho do hope t see y back this away again sometime, Mr. Lewis.
Lewis: Thanks, Professor. Hope I’ll see you.
Layman waves a long arm loosely to theothers, and leaves. Kabnis goes to the door. His eyes, sullen, gaze up the street.
Kabnis: Carrie K.’s comin with th lunch. Bout time.
She passes the window. Her red girl’s-cap, catching the sun, flashes vividly. With a stiff, awkward little movement she crosses the door-sill and gives Kabnis one of the two baskets which she is carrying. There is a slight stoop to her shoulders. The curves of her body blend with this to a soft rounded charm. Her gestures are stiffly variant. Black bangs curl over the forehead of her oval-olive face. Her expression is dazed, but on provocation it can melt into a wistful smile. Adolescent. She is easily the sister of Fred Halsey.
Carrie K.: Mother says excuse her, brother Fred an Ralph, fer bein late.
Kabnis: Everythings all right an O.K., Carrie Kate. O.K. an all right.
The two men settle on their lunch. Carrie, with hardly a glance in the direction of the hearth, as is her habit, is about to take the second basket down to the old man, when Lewis rises. In doing so he draws her unwitting attention.Their meeting is a swift sun-burst. Lewis impulsively moves towards her. His mind flashes images of her life in the southern town. He sees the nascent woman, her flesh already stiffening to cartilage, drying to bone. Her spirit-bloom, even now touched sullen, bitter. Her rich beauty fading... He wants to— He stretches forth his hands to hers. He takes them. They feel like warm cheeks against his palms. The sun-burst from her eyes floods up and haloes him. Christ-eyes, his eyes look to her. Fearlessly she loves into them. And then something happens. Her face blanches. Awkwardly she draws away. The sin-bogies of respectable southern colored folks clamor at her: “Look out! Be agoodgirl. Agoodgirl. Look out!” She gropes for her basket that has fallen to the floor. Finds it, and marches with a rigid gravity to her task of feeding the old man. Like the glowing white ash of burned paper, Lewis’ eyelids, wavering, settle down. He stirs in the direction of the rear window. From the back yard, mules tethered to odd trees and posts blink dumbly at him. They too seem burdened with an impotent pain. Kabnis and Halsey are still busy withtheir lunch. They havent noticed him. After a while he turns to them.
Lewis: Your sister, Halsey, whats to become of her? What are you going to do for her?
Halsey: Who? What? What am I goin t do?..
Lewis: What I mean is, what does she do down there?
Halsey: Oh. Feeds th old man. Had lunch, Lewis?
Lewis: Thanks, yes. You have never felt her, have you, Halsey? Well, no, I guess not. I dont suppose you can. Nor can she... Old man? Halsey, some one lives down there? I’ve never heard of him. Tell me—
Kabnis takes time from his meal to answer with some emphasis:
Kabnis: Theres lots of things you aint heard of.
Lewis: Dare say. I’d like to see him.
Kabnis: You’ll get all th chance you want tnight.
Halsey: Fixin a little somethin up fer tnight, Lewis. Th three of us an some girls. Come round bout ten-thirty.
Lewis: Glad to. But what under the sun does he do down there?
Halsey: Ask Kabnis. He blows off t him every chance he gets.
Kabnis gives a grunting laugh. His mouth twists. Carrie returns from the cellar. Avoiding Lewis, she speaks to her brother.
Carrie K.: Brother Fred, father hasnt eaten now goin on th second week, but mumbles an talks funny, or tries t talk when I put his hands ont th food. He frightens me, an I dunno what t do. An oh, I came near fergettin, brother, but Mr. Marmon—he was eatin lunch when I saw him—told me t tell y that th lumber wagon busted down an he wanted y t fix it fer him. Said he reckoned he could get it t y after he ate.
Halsey chucks a half-eaten sandwich in the fire. Gets up. Arranges his blocks. Goes to the door and looks anxiously up the street. The wind whirls a small spiral in the gray dust road.
Halsey: Why didnt y tell me sooner, little sister?
Carrie K.: I fergot t, an just remembered it now, brother.
Her soft rolled words are fresh pain to Lewis.He wants to take her North with him. What for? He wonders what Kabnis could do for her. What she could do for him. Mother him. Carrie gathers the lunch things, silently, and in her pinched manner, curtsies, and departs. Kabnis lights his after-lunch cigarette. Lewis, who has sensed a change, becomes aware that he is not included in it. He starts to ask again about the old man. Decides not to. Rises to go.
Lewis: Think I’ll run along, Halsey.
Halsey: Sure. Glad t see y any time.
Kabnis: Dont forget tnight.
Lewis: Dont worry. I wont. So long.
Kabnis: So long. We’ll be expectin y.
Lewis passes Halsey at the door. Halsey’s cheeks form a vacant smile. His eyes are wide awake, watching for the wagon to turn from Broad Street into his road.
Halsey: So long.
His words reach Lewis halfway to the corner.
Night, soft belly of a pregnant Negress, throbs evenly against the torso of the South. Night throbs a womb-song to the South. Cane- andcotton-fields, pine forests, cypress swamps, sawmills, and factories are fecund at her touch. Night’s womb-song sets them singing. Night winds are the breathing of the unborn child whose calm throbbing in the belly of a Negress sets them somnolently singing. Hear their song.