THE SOLUTION OF A TEXT

THERE is a conviction among certain educated people that with increased intellectual culture comes a keener susceptibility to pleasure and pain. Is it so? Turn anywhere among the “short and simple annals of the poor,” and we can find passion, and romance, and tragedy. They do not call these incidents of life by such names; they only live them. When love or suffering—and what else is life?—comes to us, we can analyze our emotions, and label them with high-sounding words; we can tell of them in verse, or in language compared to which theirs is but an inarticulate cry. Are our feelings, therefore, deeper?

“Slave! Yassum, an’ sot free by de prockelmation. Hab I lib in dis yer house so long an’ yo’ nebah know I’se done been a slave?” And Aunty Smith, the African dame, who represented that domestic institution known as “our girl,” gave the fire a vigorous poke.

“Tell yo’ ’bout it? Dar ain’t nuffin’ to tell wuth the while for yo’ to listen. An’ ole niggah ain’t got no hist’ry—dat’s for white folkses. Didn’t I heah yo’ a readin’ ’bout de hist’ry ob Jawge Washin’ton—an’ den talkin’ to me? Sho!”

The black lips parted over broad white teeth in a quick laugh, but no smile touched the solemn eyes given to her race by generations of bondage.

“Time to be a-takin’ yo’ quinine, honey; bettah take it mighty reg’lah ef yo’ specks to get dem chills bruck. ‘Trouble?’ Yas, indeedy, I’s had heaps ob trouble, but I nebah did go roun’ talkin’ ’bout it. Makes mattahs wuss to be forebber a-talkin’ an’ a-talkin’ ob yer trials. An’ I’s allus noticed dis yer fac’, dat mos’ people likes to tell deir own ’sperience ’stiddy o’ hearin’ ’bout yours. Co’se I has to tell somebody an’ I tells de Lawd, but ’pears like de Lawd’s a long way off, sometimes. Ef I could be shore dat He allus heard a pore niggah I couldn’t nebah grieve no mo’.”

“Has doubt seized the believers?” I thought. “If the rest of us were sure of that one thing what burdens would be lifted!”

“I’s done been mahied fo’ times. Yassum! By de preachah ebry time; dey couldn’t hab no foolishness wid dis chile. My first husband’s name was Cæsah Mahshall. He b’longed to Kunnel Mahshall, who at dat time was courtin’ my mastah’s daughtah, Miss Betty, an’ ob course Cæsah he spen’ a heap ob time ’round dar. Cæsah he a likely boy, an’ all de gals tort dey gwine git him. But laws! I knowed he didn’t keer for none o’ dem niggahs. I did keep a mighty keen eye, dough, on Lize. She a yaller gal allus a-rollin’ her eyes an’ tossin’ her head, an’ thinkin’ herself good as white folkses; one o’ dese yer sly kind, too, a sayin’ flatterin’ things dat make a man think she a-dyin’ for lub o’ him. I gib her mighty little chance to try any of her sassy tricks on Cæsah. Men’s dat pow’ful vain—you des know it’s so, honey—dey swallahs ebry soft an’ sugary speech ob de female sect as ef ’twar de libin’ trufe. But Cæsah he wouldn’t hab no one but des’ me. He sayed I was like Solomon’s wife dat de Bible tells ob, ‘black but comely.’ I ax de preachah once ef Solomon was a cullud gemlan. He look scared, an’ sayed he couldn’t ’splain dat tex’ to an ig’nant pusson like me; sayed it didn’t mean what it sayed, but was a yallerglory ’bout de chu’ch. Preachahs don’t know ebry thing more’n we’uns, an’ what’s de use for twis’ de words ob de good book diff’rent from what dey is?

“Well, Cæsah an’ me we done got mahied, an’ lived in a little cabin neah my mastah’s house, cause I had to wo’k hahd waitin’ on ole mistis an’ de young ladies. Dey wore heaps ob fine muslins an’ lawns in dem days an’ no one could do de washin’ an’ i’nin’ to suit dem but me. But I had a little time in my own house an’ Cæsah he come often. I was dat happy I went roun’ singin’ from mawnin’ twel night; neber tort ’bout the nex’ day an’ what it might bring fo’th. Ef I was too happy with de things ob dis worl’, de Lawd knows my heart been heavy dis many yeahs to pay foh it. ’Pears like all dat’s happen since has des’ teched de outside ob my feelin’s an’ lef’ all de heavenly sweetness ob dat time shet off to itself.

“De time went by twel one mawnin’ in de summah Cæsah he agwine to come an’ tote de chile ober in de hills to a camp-meetin’. She was two munce old, an’ I hadn’t neber had her ’way from home befo’. Dar’s no tellin’ how proud we bofe was ob dat baby.

“Dat mawnin’ I dress her an’ I waited. De people roun’ de place dey get ready an’ go. None ob dem stopped to talk, but I ’membered aft’wards dey look mighty queah at me. Lize, dat yaller gal I’se tellin’ yo’ ob, she run back an’ hug de baby. Yo’ pore crittah, I thought, yo’d gib all dat finery for sich a honey-drop!

“An’ I waited. Plenty things might ob happen for to keep Cæsah away, so I sang Rosy to sleep. Den somehow I ’gan to ’member de looks an’ de whispers dat I hadn’t noticed at de time, an’ it seem to grow dark, dough de sun was a-shinin’; an’ de chills crep ober me. Ole mistis’s mockin’-bird up at de big house, how it did sing! I ’spise a mockin’-bird eber sence. I waited—an’ aft’ while ole mistis come walkin’ down the paf. She was bawn an’ raised in de Nawf, was ole mistis, an’ neber ’peared to like de black people. She hab berry sharp eyes—’bout de color ob de blade ob a new razah,—an’ when she come close an’ look at me I felt as ef dey cut me clean froo. She hab a soft voice, an’ dar was a little smile on her face when she tole me—she tole me—she stretch up an’ pick some yaller roses from de bush dat grow’d ober de do’, an’ she say dat if I ’spect to git to camp-meetin’ I better be agwine; dat I’d haf to pack de chile de whole way, for Cæsah he fur ’nough off now. She tole me he been sold down Souf, whar he’d be ’bliged to pick cotton an’ git ober some ob his fine notions.

“When she were gone ’way I tore de yaller rosebush down an’ tromp it undah my feet. Aftah dat for a spell I don’t rightly ’member what happened. Dey tole me dat Cæsah he try to ’scape frum de tradahs; dat dey chase him wid de dogs, an’ when de men tort he gwine to cross de ribah dey done shoot him dead. Heabenly Mastah! an’ I lubed him so!

“I lib through it all. Many a woman, black or white, could tell yo’ dat she goes on a-libin’ an’ every night a-prayin’ de Lawd her soul to take.

“I foun’ out dat Kunnel Mahshall he felt so mighty pore dat he had to sell some of his people. De Kunnel he one o’ de real Kentucky gemlen; great man to be a-bettin’ an’ a-hoss racin’. He’d loss a heap of money on his fas’ hoss, ’kase it wasn’t so fas’ as some o’ de rest, an’ he an’ Miss Betty gwine to be mahied; so ob co’se he must hab money—an’ he sold Cæsah.

“Den Rosy died; an’ when I look at her in de little coffin I’s dat glad I couldn’t cry. I’s glad, honey, ’kase she nebber hab no trouble.

“Well, de time go on, an’ diff’rent men dey ax me to marry, but I tole dem to go off ’bout deir business. But laws! a man cain’t b’lieve a woman don’t keer nuffin fer him! So dey kep hangin’ roun’ twel Mistis she say I mus’ marry. Mistis she hab a thrifty turn an’ wanted all her people to marry an’ raise chillen, kase chillen proputty in dem days. Bless de Lawd! I didn’t hab no mo’ chillen fer her to count as I do de pigs.

“At las’ I mahied Big Tom to git shet ob him, but I done miss it, fer shore as yo’ lib, dat crittah tuck de kinsumption. He war de mos’ misable, no-’count niggah I ’member to hab knowed. I waited on dat man night an’ day, an’ like to run my laigs off; tried to be as good to him as ef he were de light ob my eyes; but nuffin pleased him no ways. One day he shied a flat-i’n at me an’ cut a gash ober my lef’ year. De scar’s dah yit. I’s pow’ful mad den, an’ says I, ‘Ole man, ye kin cough yo’ livah an’ lights up foh all me, an’ de soonah de bettah.’

“’Bout dat time mastah done send him down de ribah on some business. Tom he were mastah’s right han’, an’ mastah didn’t pay no ’tention to de kinsumption dat he say ailded him. Well, de steamboat blowed up, an’ I s’pose Tom done get blowed up too, for I’s neber seed him since.

“Aft’ dat, a spell, I mahied Joe, ’kase he was lively, an’ kept us all a-laughin’ with his jokes. He played de fiddle like an angel, too, an’ when I sot an’ listened, seemed as ef I could see beyond the stahs clar into de New Jerusalem. But Joe didn’t have good jedgment ’bout some mattahs. De wah was gwine on by dis time, an’ nuffin’ would do but Joe he mus’ go with Kunnel Mahshall down into Jawgy for to jine de ’federate ahmy. De Kunnel was his mastah, but he didn’t hab to go. He was gwine to be a drummah, an’ was dat heedless he nevah ’flected dad he was on de wrong side; reckon he nevah s’posed dar’d be anything else but playin’ on de fife an’ drum. In de berry fust’ skrimmage dey had, Joe was killed. Might a knowed he’d hab bad luck, an’ I tole him so ’fore he went. Joe had a good heart, dough, an’ I don’t ‘spect de Lawd will be hahd on him for habin’ been bawn so giddy.

“Aftah while, when de prockelmation set de culled people free, de family bruck up, an’ I went up to Louieville for to get washin’ an i’nin’. Dah I met Mistah Smith at pra’r-meetin’. He were pow’ful in pra’r, an’ he seem struck with my ’pearance (I had on my violent dress for de fust time). At de second pra’r-meetin’ he tole me he’d had a hebenly vision which sayed I was to be his second pahtnah. Co’se I couldn’t stan’ out ’gainst de will ob de Lawd, an’ dat’s why I’s now Mrs. Smith. His name was Obadiah, but he ’quested me for to call him Mistah Smith; sayed it ’corded bettah wid de condition ob de woman to be ’spectful to de husban’; man, he say, bein’ so s’perior.

“Mistah Smith an’ me we done git along comf’tably twel he died, which was des befo’ I come heah. I nebah had no fault to fine, ’cept dat he did talk too much ’bout de fust Mrs. Smith. I’s had a heap ob trouble wid dat boy ob hers, but I’s tried to do my juty by him. I’s whipped him once a week reg’lah, ’kase he’s pow’ful bad, but he’s mos’ too big for me now, an’ I’se ’fraid de debbil’ll ketch him.

“What’ll I do in hebben wid so many husban’s? I won’t hab but one, bless de Lawd, an’ dat’s Cæsah. Tom he won’t be dah; Joe he’ll be so tuck up wid de harps an’ de banjos dat he won’t think ob nuffin’ else; an’ Mistah Smith can ’joy hisself wid dat fust wife.

“I’ll hab Cæsah an’ I’ll hab Rosy, an’ we’ll hab a little mansion with a passion vine an’ roses roun’ de do’; an’ we’ll be happy for ebber an’ ebber. Glory! Glory!”

The light that shone on the black face as she turned away was a token of faith and hope; an outward sign of an inward grace the whitest of us seldom wear.

Floating back to the room, like an echo of a thought, came a triumphant voice: