Part Two-7
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The writer of the essay that troubled him was Lancy Davis. He had known the identity of the author before he turhe last sheet over and saw the signature. Already he had some trouble with Lancy. His older sister had go to work as a servant when she was eleven years old and she had been raped by her employer, a white man past middle age. Then a year or so later he had received an emergency call to attend Lancy.Doctor Copelao the filing case in his bedroom where he kept notes on all of his patients. He took out the card marked Mrs. Dan Davis and Family and glahrough the notations until he reached Laname. The date was four years ago. The entries on him were written with more care thahers and in ink: thirteen years old—past puberty.
Unsuccessful attempt self-emasculation. Oversexed and hyperthyroid. Wept boisterously during two visits, though little pain. Voluble—very glad to see Lucy Davis—mother washerwoman. Intelligent talk through paranoiac.
Enviro fair with one exception and well worth watg and all possible help. Keep tact. Fee: $ (?)’
It is a difficult decision to make this year, he said to Portia.
"But I suppose I will have to fer the award on Lancy Davis.’
If you done decide, then—e tell me about some of these here presents.’
The gifts to be distributed at the party were i.
There were paper sacks of groceries and clothing, all marked with a red Christmas card. Anyone who cared to e was io the party, but those who meant to attend had stopped by the house and written (or had asked a friend to write) their names in a guest book kept oable in the hall for that purpose. The sacks were piled on the floor. There were about forty of them, eae depending in size on the need of the receiver. Some gifts were only small packages of nuts or raisins and others were boxes almost too heavy for a man to lift The kit was crowded with good things. Doctor Copeland stood in the doorway and his nostrils quivered with pride.
think you dht well this year. Folks certainly have been kindly.’
Tshaw! he said. This is not a huh part of what is needed.’
?Now, there you go, Father! I know good and well you just as pleased as you be. But you dont want to show it.
You got to find something to grumble about. Here we haves about four pecks of peas, twenty saeaL about fifteen pounds of side meat, mullet, six dozen eggs, plenty grits, jars of tomatoes and peaches. Apples and two dozen es. Also garments. And two mattresses and four blas. I call this something!’
A drop in the bucket.’
Portia poio a large box in the er. These here —what you io do with them?’
The box tained nothing but junk—a headless doll, some duty lace, a rabbitskin. Doctor Copeland scrutinized each article. Do not throw them away. There is use for everything.
These are the gifts from uests who have nothier to tribute. I will find some purpose for them later."Then suppose you look over these here boxes and sacks so I
eo tie them up. There aint going to be room here i. Time they all pile in for the refreshments.
I just going to put these here presents out on the back steps and in the yard.’
The m sun had risen. The day would be bright and cold.
I there were rich, sweet odors. A dishpan of coffee was oove and iced cakes filled a shelf in the cupboard.
And none of this es from white people. All from colored.’
No, said Doctor Copeland. That is not wholly true. Mr.
Singer tributed a check for twelve dollars to be used for coal. And I have invited him to be present today. Holy Jesus! Portia said. Twelve dollars! I felt that it roper to ask him. He is not like other people of the Caucasian race.’
Yht, Portia said. But I keep thinking about my Willie. I sure do wish he could enjoy this here party today. And I sure do wish I could get a letter from him. It just prey on my mind.
But here! Us got to quit this here talking a ready. It mighty ime for the party to e.’
Time enough remained. Doctor Copeland washed and clothed himself carefully. For a while he tried to rehearse what he would say when the people had all e. But expectation alessness would not let him trate. Then at ten oclock the first guests arrived and within half an hour they were all assembled.
Joyful Christmas to you! said John Roberts, the postman. He moved happily about the crowded room, one shoulder held higher thaher, mopping his face with a white silk handkerchief.
Many happy returns of the day! The front of the house was thronged. Guests were blocked at the door and they formed groups on the front pord in the yard. There was no pushing or rudeness; the turmoil was orderly. Friends called out to each other and strangers were introduced and clasped hands. Children and young people clotted together and moved back toward the kit. Christmas gift!’
Doctor Copeland stood in the ter of the front room by the tree. He was dizzy. He shook hands and answered salutations with fusion. Personal gifts, some tied elaborately with
ribbons and others ed in neers, were thrust into his hands. He could find no place to put them. The air thied and voices grew louder. Faces whirled about him so that he could reize no one. His posure returo him gradually. He found space to lay aside the presents in his arms. The dizziness lessehe room cleared. He settled his spectacles and began to look around him.
Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! There was Marshall Nicolls, the pharmacist, in a long-tailed coat, versing with his son-in-laorked on a garbage truck. The preacher from the Most Holy Assion Church had e. And two deas from other churches. Highboy, wearing a loud checked suit, moved sociably through the crowd. Husky young dandies bowed to young women in long, bright-colored dresses. There were mothers with children and deliberate old men who spat into gaudy handkerchiefs. The room was warm andnoisy.
Mr. Siood in the doorway. Many people stared at him.
Doctor Copeland could not remember if he had weled him or not. The mute stood by himself. His face resembled somewhat a picture of Spinoza. A Jewish face. It was good to see him.
The doors and the windows were open. Draughts blew through the room so that the fire roared. The noises quieted.
The seats were all filled and the young people sat in rows on the floor. The hall, the porch, even the yard were crowded with silent guests. The time had e for him to speak—and what was he to say? Panic tightened his throat. The room waited. At a sign from John Roberts all sounds were hushed.
My People, began Doctor Copeland blankly. There ause. Then suddenly the words came to him.
This is the eenth year that we have gathered together in this room to celebrate Christmas Day. When our people first heard of the birth of Jesus Christ it was a dark time. Our people were sold as slaves in this town on the courthouse square. Sihen we have heard and told thestory of His life more times than we could remember. So today our story will be a different one.
One hundred and twenty years ago another man was born in the try that is known as Germany—a try far across the Atlantic O. This man uood as did Jesus. But his thoughts were not ed with Heaven or the future of the dead. His mission was for the living. For the great masses of human beings who work and suffer and work until they die.
For people who take in washing and work as cooks, who pick cotton and work at the hot dye vats of the factories. His mission was for us, and the name of this man was Karl Marx.
Karl Marx was a wise maudied and worked and uood the world around him. He said that the world was divided into two classes, the poor and the rich. For every rich man there were a thousand poor people who worked for this rich man to make him richer. He did not divide the world into Negroes or white people or ese—to Karl Marx it seemed that being one of the millions of poor people or one of the few rich was more important to a man than the color of his skin.
The life mission of Karl Marx was to make all human beings equal and to divide the great wealth of the world so that there would be no poor or rid each person would have his share. This is one of the as Karl Marx left to us: "From each acc to his ability, to each acc to his needs."‘
A wrinkled, yellow palm waved timidly from the halL Were he the Mark in the Bible<mark></mark>?’
Doctor Copeland explained. He spelled the two names and cited dates. Are there any more questions? I wish eae of you to feel free to start or enter into any discussion.’
I presume Mr. Marx was a Christian church man? asked the preacher.
He believed in the holiness of the human spirit*
Were he a white man?’
Yes. But he did not think of himself as a white man. He said, "I sider nothing human as alien to myself." He thought of himself as a brother to all people.’
Doctor Copeland paused a moment lohe faces around him were waiting.
"What is the value of any piece of property, of any
merdise we buy in a store? The value depends only ohing—and that is the work it took to make or to raise this article. Why does a brick house ore than a cabbage? Because the work of many men goes into the making of one brick house. There are the people who made the bricks and mortar and the people who cut dowrees to make the planks used for the floor. There are the men who made the building of the brick house possible. There are the men who carried the materials to the ground where the house was to be built. There are the men who made the wheelbarrows and trucks that carried the materials to this place. Then finally there are the workmen who built the house. A brick house involves the labor of many, many people—while any of us raise a cabbage in his back yard. A brick house costs more than a cabbage because it takes more work to make. So when a man buys this brick house he is paying for the labor that went to make it. But who gets the mohe profit? Not the many men who did the work—but the bosses who trol them. And if you study this further you will find that these bosses have bosses above them and those bosses have bosses higher up —so that the real people who trol all this work, which makes any article worth money, are very few. Is this clear so far?’
Us uand!’
But did they? He started all over aold what he had said.
This time there were questions.
But dont clay for these here bricks oney? And dont it take moo rent land and raise crops on?’
That is a good point, said Doctor Copeland. Land, clay, timber—those things are called natural resources. Man does not make these natural resources—man only develops them, only uses them for work. Therefore should any one persroup of persons owhings? How a man own ground and spad sunlight and rain for crops? How a man say "this is mine" about those things and refuse to let others share them? Therefore Marx says that these natural resources should belong to everyone, not divided into little pieces but used by all the people acc to their ability to work. It is like this. Say a man died a his mule to his four sons. The sons
rwould not wish to cut up the mule to four parts and each take his share. They would own and work the mule together. That is the way Marx says all of the natural resources should be owned—not by one group of rich people but by all the workers of the world as a whole.
"We in this room have no private properties. Perhaps one or two of us may own the homes we live in, or have a dollar or two set aside—but we own nothing that does not tribute directly toward keeping us alive. All that we own is our bodies. And we sell our bodies every day we live. We sell them when we go out in the m to our jobs and when we labor all day. We are forced to sell at any price, at any time, for any purpose. We are forced to sell our bodies so that we eat and live. And the price which is given us for this is only enough so that we will have the strength to labor longer for the profits of others. Today we are not put up on the platforms and sold at the courthouse square. But we are forced to sell our strength, our time, our souls during almost every hour that we live. We have been freed from one kind of slavery only to be delivered into another. Is this freedom? Are we yet free men?"A deep voice called out from the front yard. "That the real truth!’
That how things is!’
?And we are not alone in this slavery. There are millions of others throughout the world, of all colors and races and creeds. This we must remember. There are many of our people who hate the poor of the white race, and they hate us. The people in this town living by the river who work in the mills.
People who are almost as mu need as we are ourselves.
This hatred is a great evil, and no good ever e from it.
We must remember the words of Karl Marx ahe truth acc to his teags. The injustice of need must bring us all together and not separate us. We must remember that we all make the things of this earth of value because of our labor.
These main truths from Karl Marx we must keep in our hearts
always and not fet.
But my people! We in this room—we Negroes—have another mission that is for ourselves alone. Within us there is a strong, true purpose, and if we fail in this purpose we will be forever lost. Let us see, then, what is the nature of this special mission.’
Doctor Copeland loosehe collar of his shirt, for in his throat there was a choked f eeling. The grievous love he felt within him was too much. He looked around him at the hushed guests. They waited. The groups of people in the yard and on the porch stood with the same quiet attention as did those in the room. A deaf old man leaned forward with his hand to his ear. A woman hushed a fretful baby with a pacifier. Mr.
Siood attentively in the doorway. Most of the young people sat on the floor. Among them was Lancy Davis. The boys lips were nervous and pale. He clasped his knees very tightly with his arms, and his young face was sullen. All the eyes in the room watched, and ihere was hunger for truth.
Today we are to fer the five-dollar award upon the high-school student who wrote the best essay oopic, "My Ambition: How I Better the Position of the Negro Ra Society." This year the award goes to Lancy Davis. Doctor Copeland took an envelope from his pocket "There is no need for me to tell you that the value of this award is not wholly in the sum of mo represents— but the sacred trust and faith that goes with it.’
Lancy rose awkwardly to his feet. His sullen lips trembled. He bowed and accepted the award. Do you wish me to read the essay I have written?’
No, said Doctor Copeland. But I wish you to e and talk with me sometime this week.’
Yes, sir. The room was quiet again.
"I do not wish to be a servant!" That is the desire I have read over and over in these essays. Servant? Only one in a thousand of us is allowed to be a servant. We do not work! We do not serve!’
The laughter in the room was uneasy.
Listen! O of five of us labors to build roads, or to take
care of the sanitation of this city, or works in a sawmill or on a farm. Another o of the five is uo get any work at all. But the other three out of this five— the greatest number of our people? Many of us cook for those who are inpetent to prepare the food that they themselves eat.
Many work a lifetime tending flar-dens for the pleasure of one or two people. Many of us polish slick waxed floors of fine houses. Or we drive automobiles for rich people who are too lazy to drive themselves. We spend our lives doing thousands of jobs that are of no real use to anybody. We labor and all of our labor is wasted. Is that servio, that is slavery.
We labor, but our labor is wasted. We are not allowed to serve. You students here this m represent the fortunate few of our race. Most of our people are not allowed to go to school at all. For eae of you there are dozens of young people who hardly write their names. We are dehe dignity of study and wisdom.
"From each acc to his ability, to each acc to his needs." All of us here know what it is to suffer for real need.
That is a great injustice. But there is one injustice bitterer even than that—to be dehe right to work acc to ones ability. To labor a lifetime uselessly. To be dehe ce to serve. It is far better for the profits of our purse to be taken from us than to be robbed of the riches of our minds and souls.
Some of you young people here this m may feel the o be teachers or nurses or leaders of your race. But most of you will be denied. You will have to sell yourselves for a useless purpose in order to keep alive. You will be thrust bad defeated. The young chemist picks cotton.<var></var> The young writer is uo learn to read. The teacher is held in useless slavery at some ironing board. We have no representatives in gover. We have no vote. In all of this great try we are the most oppressed of all people. We ot lift up our voices. Our tongues rot in our mouths from lack of use. Our hearts grow empty and lose strength for our purpose.
People of the Negro race! We bring with us all the riches of the human mind and soul. We offer the most precious of all
gifts. And our s are held in s and pt. ifts are trampled in the mud and made useless. ut to labor more useless than the work of beasts. Negroes! We must arise and be whole again! We must be free!’
In the room there was a murmur. Hysteria mounted. Doctor Copeland choked and ched his fists. He felt as though he had swelled up to the size of a giant. The love inhim made his chest a dynamo, and he wao shout so that his voice could be heard throughout the town. He wao fall upon the floor and call out in a giant voice. The room was full of moans an>?９９lib.</a>d shouts.
Save us!’
Mighty Lord! Lead us from this wilderness of death！
Hallelujah! Save us, Lord!’
He struggled for the trol in htm. He struggled and at last the discipliurned. He pushed down the shout in him and sought for the strong, true voice.
Attention! he called. We will save ourselves. But not by prayers of m. Not by indolence or strong drink. Not by the pleasures of the body or by ignoranot by submission and humbleness. But by pride. By dignity. By being hard and strong. We must build strength for our real true purpose.’
He stopped abruptly and held himself very straight. Each year at this time we illustrate in our small way the first a from Karl Marx. Every one of you at this gathering has brought in advane gift. Many of you have denied yourselves fort that the needs of others may be lessened. Each of you has given acc to his best ability, without thought to the value of the gift he will receive iurn. It is natural for us to share with each other. We have long realized that it is more blessed to give than to receive.
The words of Karl Marx have always been known in our hearts: "From each acc to his ability, to each acc to his needs." ‘
Doctor Copeland was silent a long time as though his words were plete. Then he spoke again:Our mission is to walk with strength and dignity through the days of our humiliation. Our pride must be strong, for we
know the value of the human mind and soul. We must teach our children. We must sacrifice so that they may earn the dignity of study and wisdom. For the time will e. The time will e when the riches in us will not be held in s and pt. The time will e when we will be allowed to serve. When we will labor and our labor will not be wasted.
And our mission is to await this time with strength and faith.’
It was finished. Hands were clapped, feet were stamped upon the floor ahe hard winter ground outside. Theodor of hot, strong coffee floated from the kit. John Roberts took charge of the presents, calling out the names written on the cards. Portia ladled the coffee from the dish-pan oove while Marshall Nicolls passed slices of cake.
Doctor Copeland moved about among the guests, a little crowd always surrounding him.
Someone his elbow: He the one your Buddy named for? He answered yes. Lancy Davis followed him with questions; he answered yes to everything. The joy made him feel like a drunken man. To tead exhort and explain to his people—and to have them uand. That was the best of all. To speak the truth aended.
Us certainly have had one fiime at this party.’
He stood in the vestibule saying good-bye. Over and over he shook hands. He leaned heavily against the wall and only his eyes moved, for he was tired.
I certainly do appreciate.’
Mr. Singer was the last to leave. He was a truly good man. He was a white man of intelled true knowledge. In him there was none of the mean insolence. When all had departed he was the last to remain. He waited and seemed to expee final word.
Doctor Copeland held his hand to his throat because his larynx was sore. Teachers, he said huskily. That is reatest need. Leaders. Someoo unite and guide us.’
After the festivity the rooms had a bare, ruined look. The house was cold. Portia was washing the cups i.
The silver snow on the Christmas tree had been tracked over the floors and two of the ors were broken.
He was tired, but the joy and the fever would not let him rest
Beginning with the bedroom, he set to work to put the house in order. Oop of the filing case there was a loose card—the note on Lancy Davis. The words that he would say to him began to form in his mind, and he was restless because he could not speak them now. The boys sullen face was full of heart and he could not thrust it from his thoughts. He opehe top drawer of the file to replace the card, A, B, C—he thumbed through the letters nervously. Then his eye was fixed on his own name: Copeland, Be Mady.
In the folder were several lung X-rays and a short case history.
He held an X-ray up to the light. On the upper left lung there was a bright place like a calcified star. And lower down a large clouded spot that duplicated itself in the right lung farther up. Doctor Copeland quickly replaced the X-rays in the folder. Only the brief notes he had written on himself were still in his hand. The words stretched out large and scrawling so that he could hardly read them. —calcif. of lymph glands—very pronouhiing of hili. Lesions arrested—duties resumed. —lesion reopened—X-ray shows------ Hecould not read the notes. At first he could not make out the words, and then when he read them clearly they made no reason. At the finish there were three words: Prognosis: Dont know.’
The old black, violent feeling came in him again. He leaned down and wrenched open a drawer at the bottom of the case.
A jumbled pile of letters. Notes from the Association for the Adva of Colored People. A yellowed letter from Daisy. A note from Hamilton asking for a dollar and a half.
What was he looking for? His hands rummaged in the drawer and then at last he arose stiffly.
Time wasted. The past hone.
Portia peeled potatoes at the kit table. She was slumped over and her face was dolorous.
Hold up your shoulders, he said angrily. And cease moping.
You mope and drool around until I ot bear to look on you.’
I were just thinking about Willie, she said. Course the letter is only three days due. But he got no busio worry me like
this. He not that kind of a boy. And I got this queer feeling.’
Have patience, Daughter.’
I re I have to.’
There are a few calls I must make, but I will be back shortly.’
O.K.’
All will be well, he said.
Most of his joy was gone in the bright, cool noonday sun. The diseases of his patients lay scattered in his mind. An abscessed kidney. Spinal meningitis. Potts disease. He lifted the k of the automobile from the back seatUsually he hailed some passing Negro from the street to k the car for him. His people were always glad to help and serve. But today he fitted the k and tur vigorously himself. He wiped the perspiration from his face with the sleeve of his overcoat and hurried to get beh the wheel and on his way.
How much that he had said today was uood? How much would be of any value? He recalled the words he had used, and they seemed to fade and lose their strength. The words left unsaid were heavier on his heart. They rolled up to his lips and fretted them. The faces of his suffering people moved in a swelling mass before his eyes. And as he steered the automobile slowly dowreet his heart turned with this angry, restless love.
J. HE town had not known a winter as cold as this one for years. Frost formed on the windowpanes and whitehe roofs of houses. The winter afternoons glowed with a hazy lemon light a?９９lｉｂ?nd shadows were a delicate blue. A thin coat of ice crusted the puddles ireets, and it was said on the day after Christmas that only ten miles to the north there was a light fall of snow.
A ge came over Singer. Often he went out for the long walks that had occupied him during the months when Antonapoulos was first gohese walks extended for miles in every dire and covered the whole of the town. He rambled through the dense neighborhoods along the river that were more squalid than ever sihe mills had been slack this winter. In many eyes there was a look of somber loneliness. Noeople were forced to be idle, a certain
restlessness could be felt. There was a fervid outbreak of new beliefs. A young man who had worked at the dye vats in a mill claimed suddenly that a great holy power had e in him. He said it was his duty to deliver a new set of as from the Lord, The young ma up a tabernacle and hundreds of people came eaight to roll on the ground and shake each other, for they believed that they were in the presence of something more than human. There was murder, too. A woman who couldnot make enough to eat believed that a foreman had cheated on her work tokens and she stabbed him ihroat. A family of Negroes moved into the end house on one of the most dismal streets, and this caused so mudignation that the house was burned and the black maen by his neighbors. But these were is. Nothing had really ged. The strike that was talked about never came off because they could not get together. All was the same as before. Even on the coldest nights the Sunny Dixie Shoen. The people dreamed and fought and slept as much as ever. And by habit they shorteheir thoughts so that they would not wander out into the darkness beyond tomorrow.
Singer walked through the scattered odorous parts of towhe Negroes crowded together. There was maiety and violence here. Often the fine, sharp smell of gin lingered in the alleys. Warm, sleepy firelight colored the windows.
Meetings were held in the churches almost every night.
fortable little houses set off in plots of brown grass—Singer walked in these parts also. Here the children were huskier and more friendly ters. He roamed through the neighborhoods of the rich. There were houses, very grand and old, with white ns and intricate fences ht iron.
He walked past the big brick houses where automobiles honked in the driveways and where the plumes of smoke rolled lavishly from eys. And out to the very edges of the roads that led from the town to general stores where fanners came on Saturday nights and sat around the stove. He wandered often about the four main business blocks that were brightly lighted and then through the black, deserted alleys
behind. There was no part of the town that Singer did not know. He watched the yellow squares of light reflect from a thousand windows. The winter nights were beautiful. The sky was a cold azure and the stars were very brightOften it happened now that he would be spoken to and stopped during these walks. All kinds of people became acquainted with him. If the person who spoke to him was a stranger, Singer presented his card so that his silence would be uood. He came to be known through all the town. He walked with his shoulders very straight a his hands always stuffed down into his pockets. Hisgray eyes seemed to take ihing around him, and in his face there was still the l<samp>..</samp>ook of peace that is seen most often in those who are very wise or very sorrowful. He was always glad to stop with anyone wishing his pany. For after all he was only walking and going nowhere.
百度搜索 The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter 天涯 或 The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter 天涯在线书库 即可找到本书最新章节.