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CANE
Jean Toomer
pomer
:
With a Foreword
by
Waldo Frank
Oracular.
Redolent of fermenting syrup,
Purple of the dusk,
Deep-rooted cane.
LIVERIGHT
NEW YORK


acergraduate
Library
ps
COPYRIGHT © 1923 BY BONI & LIVERIGHT
® 1951 BY JEAN TOOMER
1.987654
CA,5
STANDARD Book NUMBER: 87140-535-0
[ LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER: 23-12749
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


1116617-250
To my grandmother ...





FOREWORD
R EADING this book, I had the vision of a
I land, heretofore sunk in the mists of mute-
ness,suddenly rising up into the eminence of song,
Innumerable books have been written about the
South; some good books have been written in the
South. This book is the South. I do not mean
that Cane covers the South or is the South's full
voice. Merely this: a poet has arisen among our
American youth who has known how to turn the
essences and materials of his Southland into the
essences and materials of literature. A poet has
arisen in that land who writes, not as a South-
erner, not as a rebel against Southerners, not as
a Negro, not as apologist or priest or critic: who
writes as a poet. The fashioning of beauty is
ever foremost in his inspiration: not forcedly but
simply, and because these ultimate aspects of his
world are to him more real than all its specific
problems. He has made songs and lovely sto-
ries of his land ... not of its yesterday, but of
its immediate life. And that has been enough.
How rare this is will be clear to those who
[vii]


FOREWORD
have followed with concern the struggle of the
South toward literary expression, and the par-
ticular trial of that portion of its folk whose skin
is dark. The gifted Negro has been too often
thwarted from becoming a poet because his
world was forever forcing him to recollect that
he was a Negro. The artist must lose such
lesser identities in the great well of life. The
English poet is not forever protesting and recall-
ing that he is English. It is so natural and easy
for him to be English that he can sing as a man.
The French novelist is not forever noting: “This
is French.” It is so atmospheric for him to be
French, that he can devote himself to saying:
“This is human.” This is an imperative con-
dition for the creating of deep art. The whole
will and mind of the creator must go below the
surfaces of race. And this has been an almost
impossible condition for the American Negro to
achieve, forced every moment of his life into a
specific and superficial plane of consciousness.
The first negative significance of Cane is that
this so natural and restrictive state of mind is
completely lacking. For Toomer, the Southland
is not a problem to be solved; it is a field of love-
(viii]


FOREWORD
liness to be sung: the Georgia Negro is not a
downtrodden soul to be uplifted; he is material
for gorgeous painting: the segregated self-
conscious brown belt of Washington is not a
topic to be discussed and exposed; it is a subject
of beauty and of drama, worthy of creation in
literary form.
It seems to me, therefore, that this is a first
book in more ways than one. It is a harbinger
of the South's literary maturity: of its emergence
from the obsession put upon its minds by the
unending racial crisis—an obsession from which
writers have made their indirect escape through
sentimentalism, exoticism, polemic, “problem”
fiction, and moral melodrama. It marks the
dawn of direct and unafraid creation. And, as
the initial work of a man of twenty-seven, it is
the harbinger of a literary force of whose incal-
culable future I believe no reader of this book
will be in doubt.
How typical is Cane of the South's still virgin
soil and of its pressing seeds! and the book's
chaos of verse, tale, drama, its rhythmic rolling
shift from lyrism to narrative, from mystery to
intimate. pathos! But read the book through
[ix]


FOREWORD
and you will see a complex and significant form
take substance from its chaos. Part One is the
primitive and evanescent black world of Georgia.
Part Two is the threshing and suffering brown
world of Washington, lifted by opportunity and
contact into the anguish of self-conscious strug-
gle. Part Three is Georgia again . . . the in-
vasion into this black womb of the ferment
seed: the neurotic, educated, spiritually stirring
Negro. As a broad form this is superb, and the
very looseness and unexpected waves of the
book's parts make Cane still more South, still
more of an æsthetic equivalent of the land,
What a land it is! What an Æschylean
beauty to its fateful problem! Those of you
who love our South will find here some of your
love. Those of you who know it not will per-
haps begin to understand what a warm splendor
is at last at dawn.
A feast of moon and men and barking hounds,
An orgy for some genius of the South
With bloodshot eyes and cane-lipped scented mouth
Surprised in making folk-songs ....
So, in his still sometimes clumsy stride (for


FOREWORD
Toomer is finally a poet in prose) the author
gives you an inkling of his revelation. An indi-
vidual force, wise enough to drink humbly at
this great spring of his land . . . such is the
first impression of Jean Toomer. But beyond
this wisdom and this power (which shows itself
perhaps most splendidly in his complete free-
dom from the sense of persecution), there rises
a figure more significant: the artist, hard, self-
immolating, the artist who is not interested in
races, whose domain is Life. The book's final
Part is no longer "promise"; it is achievement.
It is no mere dawn: it is a bit of the full morn-
ing. These materials ... the ancient black
man, mute, inaccessible, and yet so mystically
close to the new tumultuous members of his race,
the simple slave Past, the shredding Negro
Present, the iridescent passionate dream of the
To-morrow . . . are made and measured by a
craftsman into an unforgettable music. The
notes of his counterpoint are particular, the
themes are of intimate connection with us Amer-
icans. But the result is that abstract and abso-
lute thing called Art.
WALDO FRANK.
(xi)





KARINTHA
Her skin is like dusk on the eastern horizon,
O cant you see it, О cant you see it,
Her skin is like dusk on the eastern horizon
... When the sun goes down.
EN had always wanted her, this Karintha,
I even as a child, Karintha carrying beauty,
perfect as dusk when the sun goes down. Old
men rode her hobby-horse upon their knees.
Young men danced with her at frolics when
they should have been dancing with their grown-
up girls. God grant us youth, secretly prayed
the old men. The young fellows counted the
time to pass before she would be old enough to
mate with them. This interest of the male, who
wishes to ripen a growing thing too soon, could
mean no good to her.
Manage
Karintha, at twelve, was a wild flash that
told the other folks just what it was to live. At
sunset, when there was no wind, and the pine-
[1]


CANE
smoke from over by the sawmill hugged the
earth, and you couldnt see more than a few feet
in front, her sudden darting past you was a bit
of vivid color, like a black bird that flashes in
light. With the other children one could hear,
some distance off, their feet flopping in the two-
inch dust. Karintha's running was a whir. It
had the sound of the red dust that sometimes
makes a spiral in the road. At dusk, during
the hush just after the sawmill had closed
down, and before any of the women had started
their supper-getting-ready songs, her voice, high-
pitched, shrill, would put one's ears to itching.
But no one ever thought to make her stop be-
cause of it. She stoned the cows, and beat her
dog, and fought the other children. . . Even
the preacher, who caught her at mischief, told
himself that she was as innocently lovely as a
November cotton flower. Already, rumors were
out about her. Homes in Georgia are most often
built on the two-room plan. In one, you cook
and eat, in the other you sleep, and there love
goes on. Karintha had seen or heard, perhaps
she had felt her parents loving. One could but
imitate one's parents, for to follow them was the
[2]


KARINTHA
way of God. She played "home" with a small
boy who was not afraid to do her bidding. That
started the whole thing. Old men could no
longer ride her hobby-horse upon their knees.
But young men counted faster.
Her skin is like dusk,
O cant you see it,
Her skin is like dusk,
When the sun goes down.
Karintha is a woman. She who carries beauty,
perfect as dusk when the sun goes down. She
has been married many times. Old men remind
her that a few years back they rode her hobby-
horse upon their knees. Karintha smiles, and
indulges them when she is in the mood for it.
She has contempt for them. Karintha is a
woman. Young men run stills to make her
money. Young men go to the big cities and run
on the road. Young men go away to college.
They all want to bring her money. These are
the young men who thought that all they had to
[3]


CANE
do was to count time. But Karintha is a woman,
and she has had a child. A child fell out of
her womb onto a bed of pine-needles in the for-
est. Pine-needles are smooth and sweet. They
are elastic to the feet of rabbits. . . A sawmill
was nearby. Its pyramidal sawdust pile
smouldered. It is a year before one completely
burns. Meanwhile, the smoke curls up and
hangs in odd wraiths about the trees, curls up,
and spreads itself out over the valley. . . Weeks
after Karintha returned home the smoke was
so heavy you tasted it in water. Some one
made a song:
Smoke is on the hills. Rise up.
Smoke is on the hills, O rise
And take my soul to Jesus.
Karintha is a woman. Men do not know that
the soul of her was a growing thing ripened
too soon. They will bring their money; they
will die not having found it out. . . Karintha at
[4]


REAPERS
Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones
Are sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones
In their hip-pockets as a thing that's done,
And start their silent swinging, one by one.
Black horses drive a mower through the weeds,
And there, a field rat, startled, squealing bleeds,
His belly close to ground. I see the blade,
Blood-stained, continue cutting weeds and shade.


NOVEMBER COTTON FLOWER
Boll-weevil's coming, and the winter's cold,
Made cotton-stalks look rusty, seasons old,
And cotton, scarce as any southern snow,
Was vanishing; the branch, so pinched and slow,
Failed in its function as the autumn rake;
Drouth fighting soil had caused the soil to take
All water from the streams; dead birds were found
In wells a hundred feet below the ground-
Such was the season when the flower bloomed.
Old folks were startled, and it soon assumed
Significance. Superstition saw
Something it had never seen before:
Brown eyes that loved without a trace of fear,
Beauty so sudden for that time of year.


BECKY
Becky was the white woman who had two
Negro sons. She's dead; they've gone away.
The pines whisper to Jesus. The Bible flaps
its leaves with an aimless rustle on her mound.
RECKY had one Negro son. Who gave it to
her? Damn buck nigger, said the white
folks' mouths. She wouldnt tell. Common,
God-forsaken, insane white shameless wench,
said the white folks' mouths. Her eyes were
sunken, her neck stringy, her breasts fallen, till
then. Taking their words, they filled her, like
a bubble rising—then she broke. Mouth setting
in a twist that held her eyes, harsh, vacant,
staring. . . Who gave it to her? Low-down
nigger with no self-respect, said the black folks'
mouths. She wouldnt tell. Poor Catholic poor-
white crazy woman, said the black folks' mouths.
White folks and black folks built her cabin, fed
her and her growing baby, prayed secretly to
God who'd put His cross upon her and cast her
out.
[8]


BECKY
When the first was born, the white folks said
they'd have no more to do with her. And black
folks, they too joined hands to cast her out. . .
The pines whispered to Jesus. . The railroad
boss said not to say he said it, but she could
live, if she wanted to, on the narrow strip
of land between the railroad and the road. John
Stone, who owned the lumber and the bricks,
would have shot the man who told he gave the
stuff to Lonnie Deacon, who stole out there at
night and built the cabin. A single room held
down to earth. . . O fly away to Jesus ...
by a leaning chimney. . .
Six trains each day rumbled past and shook
the ground under her cabin. Fords, and horse-
and mule-drawn buggies went back and forth
along the road. No one ever saw her. Train-
men, and passengers who'd heard about her,
threw out papers and food. Threw out little
- crumpled slips of paper scribbled with prayers,
as they passed her eye-shaped piece of sandy
ground. Ground islandized between the road
and railroad track. Pushed up where a blue-
sheen God with listless eyes could look at it.
[9]


BECKY
No one knew, and least of all themselves. They
drifted around from job to job. We, who had
cast out their mother because of them, could we
take them in? They answered black and white
folks by shooting up two men and leaving town.
"Godam the white folks; godam the niggers,"
they shouted as they left town. Becky? Smoke
curled up from her chimney; she must be there.
Trains passing shook the ground. The ground
shook the leaning chimney. Nobody noticed it.
A creepy feeling came over all who saw that thin
wraith of smoke and felt the trembling of the
ground. Folks began to take her food again.
They quit it soon because they had a fear.
Becky if dead might be a hant, and if alive-it
took some nerve even to mention it. . . O pines,
whisper to Jesus. . .
It was Sunday. Our congregation had been
visiting at Pulverton, and were coming home.
There was no wind. The autumn sun, the bell
from Ebenezer Church, listless and heavy. Even
the pines were stale, sticky, like the smell of food
that makes you sick. Before we turned the bend
of the road that would show us the Becky cabin,
[11]


CANE
the horses stopped stock-still, pushed back their
ears, and nervously whinnied. We urged, then
whipped them on. Quarter of a mile away thin
smoke curled up from the leaning chimney. . .
Opines, whisper to Jesus. . . Goose-flesh
came on my skin though there still was neither
chill nor wind. Eyes left their sockets for the
cabin. Ears burned and throbbed. Uncanny
eclipse! fear closed my mind. We were just
about to pass. .. Pines shout to Jesus! ..
the ground trembled as a ghost train rumbled by.
The chimney fell into the cabin. Its thud was
like a hollow report, ages having passed since it
went off. Barlo and I were pulled out of our
seats. Dragged to the door that had swung
open. Through the dust we saw the bricks in a
mound upon the floor. Becky, if she was there,
lay under them. I thought I heard a groan.
Barlo, mumbling something, threw his Bible on
the pile. (No one has ever touched it.) Some-
how we got away. My buggy was still on the
road. The last thing that I remember was whip-
ping old Dan like fury; I remember nothing
after that—that is, until I reached town and
[12]


BECKY
folks crowded round to get the true word of it.
Becky was the white woman who had two
Negro sons. She's dead; they've gone away.
The pines whisper to Jesus. The Bible flaps
its leaves with an aimless rustle on her mound.
[13]


FACE
Hair-
silver-gray,
like streams of stars,
Brows-
recurved canoes
quivered by the ripples blown by pain,
Her eyes—
mist of tears
condensing on the flesh below
And her channeled muscles
are cluster grapes of sorrow
purple in the evening sun
nearly ripe for worms.
(14)


COTTON SONG
Come, brother, come. Lets lift it;
Come now, hewit! roll away!
Shackles fall upon the Judgment Day
But lets not wait for it.
God's body's got a soul,
Bodies like to roll the soul,
Cant blame God if we dont roll,
Come, brother, roll, roll!
Cotton bales are the fleecy way
Weary sinner's bare feet trod,
Softly, softly to the throne of God,
“We aint agwine t wait until th Judgment Day!
Nassur; nassur,
Hump.
Eoho, eoho, roll away!
We aint agwine t wait until th Judgment Day!"
God's body's got a soul,
Bodies like to roll the soul,
Cant blame God if we dont roll,
Come, brother, roll, roll!
[15]


CARMA
Wind is in the cane. Come along.
Cane leaves swaying, rusty with talk,,
Scratching choruses above the guinea's squawk,
Wind is in the cane. Come along.
CARMA, in overalls, and strong as any man,
stands behind the old brown mule, driving
the wagon home. It bumps, and groans, and
shakes as it crosses the railroad track. She, rid-
ing it easy. I leave the men around the stove to
follow her with my eyes down the red dust road.
Nigger woman driving a Georgia chariot down
an old dust road. Dixie Pike is what they call
it. Maybe she feels my gaze, perhaps she ex-
pects it. Anyway, she turns. The sun, which
has been slanting over her shoulder, shoots prim-
itive rockets into her mangrove-gloomed, yellow
flower face. Hi! Yip! God has left the Moses-
people for the nigger. "Gedap.” Using reins
to slap the mule, she disappears in a cloudy
rumble at some indefinite point along the road.
[16]


CARMA
(The sun is hammered to a band of gold.
Pine-needles, like mazda, are brilliantly aglow.
No rain has come to take the rustle from the
falling sweet-gum leaves. Over in the forest,
across the swamp, a sawmill blows its closing
whistle. Smoke curls up. Marvelous web spun
by the spider sawdust pile. Curls up and
spreads itself pine-high above the branch, a
single silver band along the eastern valley. A
black boy . . . you are the most sleepiest man
I ever seed, Sleeping Beauty . . . cradled on a
gray mule, guided by the hollow sound of cow-
bells, heads for them through a rusty cotton
field. From down the railroad track, the chug-
chug of a gas engine announces that the repair
gang is coming home. A girl in the yard of a
whitewashed shack not much larger than the
stack of worn ties piled before it, sings. Her
voice is loud. Echoes, like rain, sweep the
valley. Dusk takes the polish from the rails.
Lights twinkle in scattered houses. From far
away, a sad strong song. Pungent and com,
posite, the smell of farmyards is the fragrance
of the woman. She does not sing; her body is
a song. She is in the forest, dancing. Torches
[17]


CANE
flare . . juju men, greegree, witch-doctors . .
torches go out. . . The Dixie Pike has grown
from a goat path in Africa.
Night.
Foxie, the bitch, slicks back her ears and barks
at the rising moon.)
Wind is in the corn. Come along.
Corn leaves swaying, rusty with talk,
Scratching choruses above the guinea's squawk,
Wind is in the corn. Come along.
Carma's tale is the crudest melodrama. Her
husband's in the gang. And its her fault he
got there. Working with a contractor, he was
away most of the time. She had others. No one
blames her for that. He returned one day and
hung around the town where he picked up week-
old boasts and rumors. . . Bane accused her.
She denied. He couldnt see that she was be-
coming hysterical. He would have liked to take
his fists and beat her. Who was strong as a man.
Stronger. Words, like corkscrews, wormed to
her strength. It fizzled out. Grabbing a gun,
she rushed from the house and plunged across
[18]


CANE
who'd stumbled over her. Now he's in the gang.
Who was her husband. Should she not take
others, this Carma, strong as a man, whose tale
as I have told it is the crudest melodrama?
Wind is in the cane. Come along.
Cane leaves swaying, rusty with talk,
Scratching choruses above the guinea's squawk,
Wind is in the cane. Come along.
[20]


Be aware of
SONG OF THE SON
who you
I were.
Pour 0 pour that parting soul in song,
O pour it in the sawdust glow of night,
Into the velvet pine-smoke air to-night,
And let the valley carry it along.
And let the valley carry it along.
O land and soil, red soil and sweet-gum tree,
So scant of grass, so profligate of pines,
Now just before an epoch's sun declines
Thy son, in time, I have returned to thee,
Thy son, I have in time returned to thee.
In time, for though the sun is setting on
A song-lit race of slaves, it has not set;
Though late, O soil, it is not too late yet
To catch thy plaintive soul, leaving, soon gone,
Leaving, to catch thy plaintive soul soon gone.
O Negro slaves, dark purple ripened plums,
Squeezed, and bursting in the pine-wood air,
Passing, before they stripped the old tree bare
One plum was saved for me, one seed becomes
An everlasting song, a singing tree,
Caroling softly souls of slavery,
What they were, and what they are to me,
Caroling softly souls of slavery.
[21]


GEORGIA DUSK
The sky, lazily disdaining to pursue
The setting sun, too indolent to hold
A lengthened tournament for flashing gold,
Passively darkens for night's barbecue,
A feast of moon and men, and barking hounds,
An orgy for some genius of the South
With blood-hot eyes and cane-lipped scented
mouth,
Surprised in making folk-songs from soul sounds.
The sawmill blows its whistle, buzz-saws stop,
And silence breaks the bud of knoll and hill,
Soft settling pollen where plowed lands fulfill
Their early promise of a bumper crop.
Smoke from the pyramidal sawdust pile
Curls up, blue ghosts of trees, tarrying low
Where only chips and stumps are left to show
The solid proof of former domicile.
remains
Meanwhile, the men, with vestiges of pomp,
Race memories of king and caravan,
High-priests, an ostrich, and a juju-man,
Go singing through the footpaths of the swamp.
Pindo lo
[22]


Their voices rise . . the pine trees are guitars,
Strumming, pine-needles fall like sheets of rain . .
Their voices rise : . the chorus of the cane
Is caroling a vesper to the stars. .
stresor
O singers, resinous and soft your songs
Above the sacred whisper of the pines,
Give virgin lips to cornfield concubines,
Bring dreams of Christ to dusky cane-lipped throngs.
ents a
Gaublique
singing
[23]


FERN
FACE flowed into her eyes. Flowed in soft
1 cream foam and plaintive ripples, in such
a way that wherever your glance may mo-
mentarily have rested, it immediately thereafter
wavered in the direction of her eyes. The soft
suggestion of down slightly darkened, like the
shadow of a bird's wing might, the creamy
brown color of her upper lip. Why, after notic-
ing it, you sought her eyes, I cannot tell you.
Her nose was aquiline, Semitic. If you have
heard a Jewish cantor sing, if he has touched
you and made your own sorrow seem trivial
when compared with his, you will know my feel-
ing when I follow the curves of her profile, like
mobile rivers, to their common delta. They were
strange eyes. In this, that they sought noth-
ing—that is, nothing that was obvious and tan-
gible and that one could see, and they gave the
impression that nothing was to be denied. When
a woman seeks, you will have observed, her eyes
deny. Fern's eyes desired nothing that you
[24]


FERN
could give her; there was no reason why they
should withhold. Men saw her eyes and fooled
themselves. Fern's eyes said to them that she
was easy. When she was young, a few men
took her, but got no joy from it. And then, once
done, they felt bound to her (quite unlike their
hit and run with other girls), felt as though it
would take them a lifetime to fulfill an obliga-
tion which they could find no name for. They
became attached to her, and hungered after find-
ing the barest trace of what she might desire.
As she grew up, new men who came to town felt
as almost everyone did who ever saw her: that
they would not be denied. Men were everlast-
ingly bringing her their bodies. Something in-
side of her got tired of them, I guess, for I am
certain that for the life of her she could not tell
why or how she began to turn them off. A man
in fever is no trifling thing to send away. They
began to leave her, baffled and ashamed, yet
vowing to themselves that some day they would
do some fine thing for her: send her candy every
week and not let her know whom it came from,
watch out for her wedding-day and give her a
magnificent something with no name on it, buy
[25]


CANE
a house and deed it to her, rescue her from some
unworthy fellow who had tricked her into marry-
ing him. As you know, men are apt to idolize
or fear that which they cannot understand, es-
pecially if it be a woman. She did not deny
them, yet the fact was that they were denied. A
sort of superstition crept into their consciousness
of her being somehow above them. Being above
them meant that she was not to be approached
by anyone. She became a virgin. Now a virgin
in a small southern town is by no means the
usual thing, if you will believe me. That the
sexes were made to mate is the practice of the
South. Particularly, black folks were made to
mate. And it is black folks whom I have been
talking about thus far. What white men thought
of Fern I can arrive at only by analogy. They
let her alone.
Anyone, of course, could see her, could see her
eyes. If you walked up the Dixie Pike most
any time of day, you'd be most like to see her
resting listless-like on the railing of her porch,
back propped against a post, head tilted a little
forward because there was a nail in the porch
[26]


FERN
post just where her head came which for some
reason or other she never took the trouble to pull
out. Her eyes, if it were sunset, rested idly
where the sun, molten and glorious, was pouring
down between the fringe of pines. Or maybe
they gazed at the gray cabin on the knoll from
which an evening folk-song was coming. Per-
haps they followed a cow that had been turned
loose to roam and feed on cotton-stalks and corn
leaves. Like as not they'd settle on some vague
spot above the horizon, though hardly a trace of
wistfulness would come to them. If it were dusk,
then they'd wait for the search-light of the
evening train which you could see miles up the
track before it flared across the Dixie Pike, close
to her home. Wherever they looked, you'd follow
them and then waver back. Like her face, the
whole countryside seemed to flow into her eyes.
Flowed into them with the soft listless cadence of
Georgia's South A young Negro, once, was
looking at her, spellbound, from the road. A
white man passing in a buggy had to flick him
with his whip if he was to get by without run-
ning him over. I first saw her on her porch. I
was passing with a fellow whose crusty numb-
[27]


CANE
ness (I was from the North and suspected of be-
ing prejudiced and stuck-up) was melting as he
found me warm. I asked him who she was.
“That's Fern,” was all that I could get from
him. Some folks already thought that I was
given to nosing around; I let it go at that, so far
as questions were concerned. But at first sight
of her I felt as if I heard a Jewish cantor sing.
As if his singing rose above the unheard chorus
of a folk-song. And I felt bound to her. I too
had my dreams: something I would do for her.
I have knocked about from town to town too
much not to know the futility of mere change of
place. Besides, picture if you can, this cream-
colored solitary girl sitting at a tenement window
looking down on the indifferent throngs of Har-
lem. Better that she listen to folk-songs at dusk
in Georgia, you would say, and so would I.
Or, suppose she came up North and married.
Even a doctor or a lawyer, say, one who would
be sure to get along—that is, make money. You
and I know, who have had experience in such
things, that love is not a thing like prejudice
which can be bettered by changes of town. Could
men in Washington, Chicago, or New York,
[28]


FERN
more than the men of Georgia, bring her some-
thing left vacant by the bestowal of their bodies?
You and I who know men in these cities will
have to say, they could not. See her out and
out a prostitute along State Street in Chicago.
See her move into a southern town where white
men are more aggressive. See her become a
white man's concubine... Something I must
do for her. There was myself. What could I
do for her? Talk, of course. Push back the
fringe of pines upon new horizons. To what
purpose? and what for? Her? Myself? Men
in her case seem to lose their selfishness. I lost
mine before I touched her. I ask you, friend (it
makes no difference if you sit in the Pullman or
the Jim Crow as the train crosses her road),
what thoughts would come to you—that is, after
you'd finished with the thoughts that leap into
men's minds at the sight of a pretty woman who
will not deny them; what thoughts would come
to you, had you seen her in a quick flash, keen
and intuitively, as she sat there on her porch
when your train thundered by? Would you
have got off at the next station and come back
for her to take her where? Would you have
[29]


FERN
before me had said just that as a prelude to the
offering of their bodies. I tried to tell her with
my eyes. I think she understood. The thing
from her that made my throat catch, vanished.
Its passing left her visible in a way I'd thought,
but never seen. We walked down the Pike with
people on all the porches gaping at us. “Doesnt
it make you mad?” She meant the row of petty
gossiping people. She meant the world.
Through a canebrake that was ripe for cutting,
the branch was reached. Under a sweet-gum
tree, and where reddish leaves had dammed the
creek a little, we sat down. Dusk, suggesting
the almost imperceptible procession of giant
trees, settled with a purple haze about the cane.
I felt strange, as I always do in Georgia, par-
ticularly at dusk. I felt that things unseen to,
men were tangibly immediate. It would not
have surprised me had I had vision. People
have them in Georgia more often than you would
suppose. A black woman once saw the mother
of Christ and drew her in charcoal on the court-
house wall. . . When one is on the soil of one's
ancestors, most anything can come to one...
From force of habit, I suppose, I held Fern in
[31]


CANE
my arms—that is, without at first noticing it.
Then my mind came back to her. Her eyes,
unusually weird and open, held me. Held God.
He flowed in as I've seen the countryside flow
in. Seen men. I must have done something-
what, I dont know, in the confusion of my
emotion. She sprang up. Rushed some distance
from me. Fell to her knees, and began swaying,
swaying. Her body was tortured with some-
thing it could not let out. Like boiling sap it
flooded arms and fingers till she shook them as
if they burned her. It found her throat, and
spattered inarticulately in plaintive, convulsive
sounds, mingled with calls to Christ Jesus. And
then she sang, brokenly. A Jewish cantor sing-
ing with a broken voice. A child's voice, un-
certain, or an old man's. Dusk hid her; I could
hear only her song. It seemed to me as though
she were pounding her head in anguish upon
the ground. I rushed to her. She fainted in
my arms.
There was talk about her fainting with me in
the canefield. And I got one or two ugly looks
from town men who'd set themselves up to pro-
[32]


FERN
tect her. In fact, there was talk of making me
leave town. But they never did. They kept a
watch-out for me, though. Shortly after, I came
back North. From the train window I saw her as
I crossed her road. Saw her on her porch, head
tilted a little forward where the nail was, eyes
vaguely focused on the sunset. Saw her face
flow into them, the countryside and something
that I call God, flowing into them. . . Nothing
ever really happened. Nothing ever came to
Fern, not even I. Something I would do for her.
Some fine unnamed thing. . . And, friend, you?
She is still living, I have reason to know. Her
name, against the chance that you might happen
down that way, is Fernie May Rosen.
[33]


NULLO
A spray of pine-needles,
Dipped in western horizon gold,
Fell onto a path.
Dry moulds of cow-hoofs.
In the forest.
Rabbits knew not of their falling,
Nor did the forest catch aflame.
[34]


ESTHER
Nine.
ESTHER'S hair falls in soft curls about
L her high-cheek-boned chalk-white face.
Esther's hair would be beautiful if there were
more gloss to it. And if her face were not pre-
maturely serious, one would call it pretty. Her
cheeks are too flat and dead for a girl of nine.
Esther looks like a little white child, starched,
frilled, as she walks slowly from her home
towards her father's grocery store. She is about
to turn in Broad from Maple Street. White and
black men loafing on the corner hold no inter-
est for her. Then a strange thing happens.
A clean-muscled, magnificent, black-skinned
Negro, whom she had heard her father mention
as King Barlo, suddenly drops to his knees on
a spot called the Spittoon. White men, unaware
of him, continue squirting tobacco juice in his
direction. The saffron fluid splashes on his
[36]


ESTHER
coast wasnt free, he left the old-coast brothers,
t give birth t you an me. O Lord, great God
Almighty, t give birth t you an me.”.
Barlo pauses. Old gray mothers are in tears.
Fragments of melodies are being hummed.
White folks are touched and curiously awed.
Off to themselves, white and black preachers
confer as to how best to rid themselves of the
vagrant, usurping fellow. Barlo looks as
though he is struggling to continue. People are
hushed. One can hear weevils work. Dusk is
falling rapidly, and the customary store lights
fail to throw their feeble glow across the gray
dust and flagging of the Georgia town. Barlo
rises to his full height. He is immense. To
the people he assumes the outlines of his visioned
African. In a mighty voice he bellows:
"Brothers an sisters, turn your faces t th sweet
face of the Lord, an fill your hearts with glory.
Open your eyes an see th dawnin of th mornin
light. Open your ears—".
Years afterwards Esther was told that at that
very moment a great, heavy, rumbling voice ac-
tually was heard. That hosts of angels and of
demons paraded up and down the streets all
[39]


CANE
night. That King Barlo rode out of town astride
a pitch-black bull that had a glowing gold ring
in its nose. And that old Limp Underwood,
who hated niggers, woke up next morning to find
that he held a black man in his arms. This
much is certain: an inspired Negress, of wide
reputation for being sanctified, drew a portrait
of a black madonna on the court-house wall.
And King Barlo left town. He left his image
indelibly upon the mind of Esther. He became
the starting point of the only living patterns that
her mind was to know.
i
2.
Sixteen.
Esther begins to dream. The low evening sun
sets the windows of McGregor's notion shop
aflame. Esther makes believe that they really
are aflame. The town fire department rushes
madly down the road. It ruthlessly shoves
black and white idlers to one side. It whoops.
It clangs. It rescues from the second-story win-
dow a dimpled infant which she claims for her
own. How had she come by it? She thinks of
[40]


ESTHER
M
it immaculately. It is a sin to think of it im-
maculately. She must dream no more. She
must repent her sin. Another dream comes.
There is no fire department. There are no
heroic men. The fire starts. The loafers on the
corner form a circle, chew their tobacco faster,
and squirt juice just as fast as they can chew.
Gallons on top of gallons they squirt upon the
flames. The air reeks with the stench of
scorched tobacco juice. Women, fat chunky
Negro women, lean scrawny white women, pull
their skirts up above their heads and display
the most ludicrous underclothes. The women
scoot in all directions from the danger zone.
She alone is left to take the baby in her arms.
But what a baby! Black, singed, woolly,
tobacco-juice baby-ugly as sin. Once held to
her breast, miraculous thing: its breath is sweet
and its lips can nibble. She loves it frantically.
Her joy in it changes the town folks' jeers to
harmless jealousy, and she is left alone.
Twenty-two.
Esther's schooling is over. She works behind
[41]


CANE
the counter of her father's grocery store. “To
keep the money in the family,” so he said. She
is learning to make distinctions between the busi-
ness and the social worlds. “Good business
comes from remembering that the white folks
dont divide the niggers, Esther. Be just as
black as any man who has a silver dollar."
Esther listlessly forgets that she is near white,
and that her father is the richest colored man in
town. Black folk who drift in to buy lard and
snuff and flour of her, call her a sweet-natured,
accommodating girl. She learns their names.
She forgets them. She thinks about men. "I
dont appeal to them. I wonder why." She re-
calls an affair she had with a little fair boy while
still in school. It had ended in her shame when
he as much as told her that for sweetness he pre-
ferred a lollipop. She remembers the salesman
from the North who wanted to take her to the
movies that first night he was in town. She
refused, of course. And he never came back,
having found out who she was. She thinks of
Barlo. Barlo's image gives her a slightly stale
thrill. She spices it by telling herself his glories.
Black. Magnetically so. Best cotton picker in
[42]


ESTHER
the county, in the state, in the whole world for
that matter. Best man with his fists, best man
with dice, with a razor. Promoter of church
benefits. Of colored fairs. Vagrant preacher.
Lover of all the women for miles and miles
around. Esther decides that she loves him. And
with a vague sense of life slipping by, she re-
solves that she will tell him so, whatever people
say, the next time he comes to town. After the
making of this resolution which becomes a sort
of wedding cake for her to tuck beneath her pil-
low and go to sleep upon, she sees nothing of
Barlo for five years. Her hair thins. It looks
like the dull silk on puny corn ears. Her face
pales until it is the color of the gray dust that
dances with dead cotton leaves. .
Esther is twenty-seven.
Esther sells lard and snuff and flour to vague
black faces that drift in her store to ask for
them. Her eyes hardly see the people to
whom she gives change. Her body is lean and
[43]


CANE
beaten. She rests listlessly against the counter,
too weary to sit down. From the street some one
shouts, "King Barlo has come back to town.”
He passes her window, driving a large new car.
Cut-out open. He veers to the curb, and steps
out. Barlo has made money on cotton during
the war. He is as rich as anyone. Esther sud-
denly is animate. She goes to her door. She
sees him at a distance, the center of a group of
credulous men. She hears the deep-bass rumble
of his talk. The sun swings low. McGregor's
windows are aflame again. Pale flame. A
sharply dressed white girl passes by. For a
moment Esther wishes that she might be like
her. Not white; she has no need for being that.
But sharp, sporty, with get-up about her. Barlo
is connected with that wish. She mustnt wish.
Wishes only make you restless. Emptiness is a
thing that grows by being moved. "I'll not
think. Not wish. Just set my mind against it.”
Then the thought comes to her that those pur-
poseless, easy-going men will possess him, if
she doesnt. Purpose is not dead in her, now
that she comes to think of it. That loose women
will have their arms around him at Nat Bowle's
[44]


ESTHER
place to-night. As if her veins are full of fired
sun-bleached southern shanties, a swift heat
sweeps them. Dead dreams, and a forgotten
resolution are carried upward by the flames.
Pale flames. “They shant have him. Oh, they
shall not. Not if it kills me they shant have
him.” Jerky, aflutter, she closes the store and
starts home. Folks lazing on store window-
sills wonder what on earth can be the matter with
Jim Crane's gal, as she passes them. “Come to
remember, she always was a little off, a little
crazy, I reckon." Esther seeks her own room,
and locks the door. Her mind is a pink mesh-
bag filled with baby toes.
Using the noise of the town clock striking
twelve to cover the creaks of her departure,
Esther slips into the quiet road. The town, her
parents, most everyone is sound asleep. This
fact is a stable thing that comforts her. After
sundown a chill wind came up from the west.
It is still blowing, but to her it is a steady, settled
thing like the cold. She wants her mind to be
like that. Solid, contained, and blank as a sheet
of darkened ice. She will not permit herself to
[45]


CANE
m-
notice the peculiar phosphorescent glitter of the
sweet-gum leaves. Their movement would ex-
cite her. Exciting too, the recession of the dull
familiar homes she knows so well. She doesnt
know them at all. She closes her eyes, and holds
them tightly. Wont do. Her being aware that
they are closed recalls her purpose. She does not
want to think of it. She opens them. She turns
now into the deserted business street. The cor-
rugated iron canopies and mule- and horse-
gnawed hitching posts bring her a strange com-
posure. Ghosts of the commonplaces of her
daily life take stride with her and become her
companions. And the echoes of her heels upon
the flagging are rhythmically monotonous and
soothing. Crossing the street at the corner of
McGregor's notion shop, she thinks that the
windows are a dull flame. Only a fancy. She
walks faster. Then runs. A turn into a side
street brings her abruptly to Nat Bowle's place.
The house is squat and dark. It is always dark.
Barlo is within. Quietly she opens the outside
door and steps in. She passes through a small
room. Pauses before a flight of stairs down
which people's voices, muffled, come. The air
[46]


ESTHER
is heavy with fresh tobacco smoke. It makes her
sick. She wants to turn back. She goes up the
steps. As if she were mounting to some great
height, her head spins. She is violently dizzy.
Blackness rushes to her eyes. And then she
finds that she is in a large room. Barlo is be-
fore her.
“Well, I'm sholy damned—skuse me, but
what, what brought you here, lil milk-white
gal?"
“You.” Her voice sounds like a frightened
child's that calls homeward from some point
miles away.
"Me?"
“Yes, you Barlo."
“This aint th place fer y. This aint th place
fer y."
“I know. I know. But I've come for you.”
"For me for what?”
She manages to look deep and straight into
his eyes. He is slow at understanding. Guf-
faws and giggles break out from all around the
room. A coarse woman's voice remarks, “So
thats how th dictie niggers does it.” Laughs.
“Mus give em credit fo their gall."
[47]


CANE
Esther doesnt hear. Barlo does. His fac-
ulties are jogged. She sees a smile, ugly and
repulsive to her, working upward through thick
licker fumes. Barlo seems hideous. The
thought comes suddenly, that conception with a
drunken man must be a mighty sin. She draws
away, frozen. Like a somnambulist she wheels
around and walks stitily to the stairs. Down
them. Jeers and hoots pelter bluntly upon her
back. She steps out. There is no air, no street,
and the town has completely disappeared.
VS
are
[48]


PORTRAIT IN GEORGIA
Hair-braided chestnut,
coiled like a lyncher's rope,
Eyes-fagots, worrien stres
Lips-old scars, or the first red blisters,
Breath—the last sweet scent of cane,
And her slim body, white as the ash
of black flesh after flame.
[50]


BLOOD-BURNING MOON
1
I JP from the skeleton stone walls, up from
U the rotting floor boards and the solid hand-
hewn beams of oak of the pre-war cotton factory,
dusk came. Up from the dusk the full moon
came. Glowing like a fired pine-knot, it illu-
mined the great door and soft showered the
Negro shanties aligned along the single street of
factory town. The full moon in the great door
was an omen. Negro women improvised songs
against its spell.
Louisa sang as she came over the crest of the
hill from the white folks' kitchen. Her skin was
the color of oak leaves on young trees in fall.
Her breasts, firm and up-pointed like ripe
acorns. And her singing had the low murmur of
winds in fig trees. Bob Stone, younger son of
the people she worked for, loved her. By the
way the world reckons things, he had won her.
By measure of that warm glow which came into
her mind at thought of him, he had won her.
[51]


BLOOD-BURNING MOON
ne
in her. Her lips trembled. The slow rhythm of
her song grew agitant and restless. Rusty black
and tan spotted hounds, lying in the dark cor-
ners of porches or prowling around back yards,
put their noses in the air and caught its tremor.
They began plaintively to yelp and howl. Chick-
ens woke up and cackled. Intermittently, all
over the countryside dogs barked and roosters
crowed as if heralding a weird dawn or some
ungodly awakening. The women sang lustily.
Their songs were cotton-wads to stop their ears.
Louisa came down into factory town and sank
wearily upon the step before her home. The
moon was rising towards a thick cloud-bank
which soon would hide it.
Red nigger moon. Sinner!
Blood-burning moon. Sinner!
Come out that fact'ry door.
Up from the deep dusk of a cleared spot on
the edge of the forest a mellow glow arose and
spread fan-wise into the low-hanging heavens.
And all around the air was heavy with the scent
[53]


BLOOD-BURNING MOON
stove to listen to him. Tom Burwell chewed
cane-stalk and laughed with the others till some-
one mentioned Louisa. Till some one said some-
thing about Louisa and Bob Stone, about the
silk stockings she must have gotten from him.
Blood ran up Tom's neck hotter than the glow
that flooded from the stove. He sprang up.
Glared at the men and said, "She's my gal.”
Will Manning laughed. Tom strode over to
him. Yanked him up and knocked him to the
ground. Several of Manning's friends got up
to fight for him. Tom whipped out a long knife
and would have cut them to shreds if they hadnt
ducked into the woods. Tom had had enough.
He nodded to Old David Georgia and swung
down the path to factory town. Just then, the
dogs started barking and the roosters began to
crow. Tom felt funny. Away from the fight,
away from the stove, chill got to him. He shiv-
ered. He shuddered when he saw the full moon
rising towards the cloud-bank. He who didnt
give a godam for the fears of old women. He
forced his mind to fasten on Louisa. Bob Stone.
Better pot be. He turned into the street and saw
Louisa sitting before her home. He went
[55]


CANE
towards her, ambling, touched the brim of a
marvelously shaped, spotted, felt hat, said he
wanted to say something to her, and then found
that he didnt know what he had to say, or if he
did, that he couldnt say it. He shoved his big
fists in his overalls, grinned, and started to move
off.
“Youall want me, Tom?”.
“Thats what us wants, sho, Louisa."
"Well, here I am,”
“An here I is, but that aint ahelpin none, all
th same.”
“You wanted to say something? . ."
"I did that, sho. But words is like th spots on
dice: no matter how y fumbles em, there's times
when they jes wont come. I dunno why. Seems
like th love I feels fo yo done stole m tongue. I
got it now. Whee! Louisa, honey, I oughtnt
tell y, I feel I oughtnt cause yo is young an goes
t church an I has had other gals, but Louisa I
sho do love y. Lil gal, Ise watched y from them
first days when youall sat right here befo yo
door befo th well an sang sometimes in a way
that like t broke m heart. Ise carried y with me
into th fields, day after day, an after that, an I
[56]


BLOOD-BURNING MOON
sho can plow when yo is there, an I can pick
cotton. Yassur! Come near beatin Barlo yes.
terday. I sho did. Yassur! An next year if
ole Stone'll trust me, I'll have a farm. My own.
My bales will buy yo what y gets from white
folks now. Silk stockings an purple dresses-
course I dont believe what some folks been
whisperin as t how y gets them things now.
White folks always did do for niggers what
they likes. An they jes cant help alikin yo,
Louisa. Bob Stone likes y. Course he does.
But not th way folks is awhisperin. Does he,
hon?"
"I dont know what you mean, Tom.”
“Course y dont. Ise already cut two niggers.
Had t hon, t tell em so. Niggers always tryin t
make somethin out a nothin. An then besides,
white folks aint up t them tricks so much nowa-
days. Godam better not be. Leastawise not
with yo. Cause I wouldnt stand f it. Nassur.”
“What would you do, Tom?”
"Cut him jes like I cut a nigger.”
“No, Tom ”
“I said I would an there aint no mo to it.
But that aint th talk f now. Sing, honey Louisa,
[57]


CANE
an while I'm listenint y I'll be makin love."
Tom took her hand in his. Against the tough
thickness of his own, hers felt soft and small.
His huge body slipped down to the step beside
her. The full moon sank upward into the deep
purple of the cloud-bank. An old woman
brought a lighted lamp and hung it on the com-
mon well whose bulky shadow squatted in the
middle of the road, opposite Tom and Louisa.
The old woman lifted the well-lid, took hold the
chain, and began drawing up the heavy bucket.
As she did so, she sang. Figures shifted, restless-
like, between lamp and window in the front
rooms of the shanties. Shadows of the figures
fought each other on the gray dust of the road.
Figures raised the windows and joined the old
woman in song. Louisa and Tom, the whole
street, singing:
Red nigger moon. Sinner!
Blood-burning moon. Sinner!
Come out that fact'ry door.
Bob Stone sauntered from his veranda out into
[58]


BLOOD-BURNING MOON
the gloom of fir trees and magnolias. The clear
white of his skin paled, and the flush of his
cheeks turned purple. As if to balance this outer
change, his mind became consciously a white
man's. He passed the house with its huge open
hearth which, in the days of slavery, was the
plantation cookery. He saw Louisa bent over
that hearth. He went in as a master should and
took her. Direct, honest, bold. None of this
sneaking that he had to go through now. The
contrast was repulsive to him. His family had
lost ground. Hell no, his family still owned the
niggers, practically. Damned if they did, or he
wouldnt have to duck around so. What would
they think if they knew? His mother? His
sister? He shouldnt mention them, shouldnt
think of them in this connection. There in the
dusk he blushed at doing so. Fellows about
town were all right, but how about his friends up
North? He could see them incredible, repulsed.
They didnt know. The thought first made him
laugh. Then, with their eyes still upon him, he
began to feel embarrassed. He felt the need of
explaining things to them. Explain hell. They
wouldnt understand, and moreover, who ever
[59]


CANE
heard of a Southerner getting on his knees to any
Yankee, or anyone. No sir. He was going to
see Louisa to-night, and love her. She was
lovely—in her way. Nigger way. What way
was that? Damned if he knew. Must know.
He'd known her long enough to know. Was
there something about niggers that you couldnt
know? Listening to them at church didnt tell
you anything. Looking at them didnt tell you
- anything. Talking to them didnt tell you any-
thing—unless it was gossip, unless they wanted
to talk. Of course, about farming, and licker,
and craps—but those werent nigger. Nigger
was something more. How much more? Some-
thing to be afraid of, more? Hell no. Who
ever heard of being afraid of a nigger? Tom
Burwell. Cartwell had told him that Tom went
with Louisa after she reached home. No sir.
No nigger had ever been with his girl. He'd
like to see one try. Some position for him to be
in. Him, Bob Stone, of the old Stone family, in
a scrap with a nigger over a nigger girl. In
the good old days. . . Ha! Those were the
days. His family had lost ground. Not so much,
though. Enough for him to have to cut through
[60]


BLOOD-BURNING MOON
old Lemon's canefield by way of the woods, that
he might meet her. She was worth it. Beautiful
nigger gal. Why nigger? Why not, just gal?
No, it was because she was nigger that he went to
her. Sweet. . . The scent of boiling cane came
to him. Then he saw the rich glow of the stove.
He heard the voices of the men circled around it.
He was about to skirt the clearing when he heard
his own name mentioned. He stopped. Quiver-
ing. Leaning against a tree, he listened.
"Bad nigger. Yassur, he sho is one bad
nigger when he gets started.”
"Tom Burwell's been on th gang three times
fo cuttin men."
“What y think he's agwine t do t Bob Stone?”
"Dunno yet. He aint found out. When he
does— Baby!”
“Aint no tellin.”
“Young Stone aint no quitter an I ken tell y
that. Blood of th old uns in his veins."
“Thats right. He'll scrap, sho.”
"Be gettin too hot f niggers round this away."
"Shut up, nigger. Y dont know what y talkin
bout."
Bob Stone's ears burned as though he had
[61]


CANE
been holding them over the stove. Sizzling heat
welled up within him. His feet felt as if they
rested on red-hot coals. They stung him to
quick movement. He circled the fringe of the
glowing. Not a twig cracked beneath his feet.
He reached the path that led to factory town.
Plunged furiously down it. Halfway along, a
blindness within him veered him aside. He
crashed into the bordering canebrake. Cane
leaves cut his face and lips. He tasted blood.
He threw himself down and dug his fingers in
the ground. The earth was cool. Cane-roots
took the fever from his hands. After a long
while, or so it seemed to him, the thought came
to him that it must be time to see Louisa. He
got to his feet and walked calmly to their meet-
ing place. No Louisa. Tom Burwell had her.
Veins in his forehead bulged and distended.
Saliva moistened the dried blood on his lips.
He bit down on his lips. He tasted blood. Not
his own blood; Tom Burwell's blood. Bob
drove through the cane and out again upon the
road. A hound swung down the path before him
towards factory town. Bob couldnt see it. The
dog loped aside to let him pass. Bob's blind
[62]


CANE
Again he lunged. Tom side-stepped and flung
him to the ground. Straddled him.
“Get off me, you godam nigger you.”
"Yo sho has started somethin now. Get up.”
Tom yanked him up and began hammering at
him. Each blow sounded as if it smashed into
a precious, irreplaceable soft something. Be-
neath them, Bob staggered back. He reached in
his pocket and whipped out a knife.
“Thats my game, sho."
Blue flash, a steel blade slashed across Bob
Stone's throat. He had a sweetish sick feel-
ing. Blood began to flow. Then he felt a sharp
twitch of pain. He let his knife drop. He
slapped one hand against his neck. He pressed
the other on top of his head as if to hold it down.
He groaned. He turned, and staggered towards
the crest of the hill in the direction of white
town. Negroes who had seen the fight slunk
into their homes and blew the lamps out.
Louisa, dazed, hysterical, refused to go indoors.
She slipped, crumbled, her body loosely propped
against the woodwork of the well. Tom Burwell
leaned against it. He seemed rooted there.
[64]


CANE
Tom's wrist were bound. The big man shoved
him to the well. Burn him over it, and when the
woodwork caved in, his body would drop to the
bottom. Two deaths for a godam nigger.
Louisa was driven back. The mob pushed in.
Its pressure, its momentum was too great. Drag
him to the factory. Wood and stakes already
there. Tom moved in the direction indicated.
But they had to drag him. They reached the
great door. Too many to get in there. The mob
divided and flowed around the walls to either
side. The big man shoved him through the door.
The mob pressed in from the sides. Taut hum-
ming. No words. A stake was sunk into the
ground. Rotting floor boards piled around it.
Kerosene poured on the rotting floor boards.
Tom bound to the stake. His breast was bare.
Nails scratches let little lines of blood trickle
down and mat into the hair. His face, his eyes
were set and stony. Except for irregular breath-
ing, one would have thought him already dead.
Torches were flung onto the pile. A great flare
muffled in black smoke shot upward. The mob
yelled. The mob was silent. Now Tom could
be seen within the flames. Only his head, erect,
[66]


BLOOD-BURNING MOON
lean, like a blackened stone. Stench of burning
flesh soaked the air. Tom's eyes popped. His
head settled downward. The mob yelled. Its
yell echoed against the skeleton stone walls and
sounded like a hundred yells. Like a hundred
mobs yelling. Its yell thudded against the thick
front wall and fell back. Ghost of a yell slipped
through the flames and out the great door of the
factory. It fluttered like a dying thing down
the single street of factory town. Louisa, upon
the step before her home, did not hear it, but her
eyes opened slowly. They saw the full moon
glowing in the great door. The full moon, an
evil thing, an omen, soft showering the homes of
folks she knew. Where were they, these people?
She'd sing, and perhaps they'd come out and
join her. Perhaps Tom Burwell would come.
At any rate, the full moon in the great door was
an omen which she must sing to:
Red nigger moon. Sinner!
Blood-burning moon. Sinner!
Come out that fact'ry door.
[67]








SEVENTH STREET
Money burns the pocket, pocket hurts,
Bootleggers in silken shirts,
Ballooned, zooming Cadillacs,
Whizzing, whizzing down the street-car tracks.
SEVENTH STREET is a bastard of Prohibi-
tion and the War. A crude-boned, soft-
skinned wedge of nigger life breathing its loafer
air, jazz songs and love, thrusting unconscious
rhythms, black reddish blood into the white and
whitewashed wood of Washington. Stale soggy
wood of Washington.) Wedges rust in soggy
wood. . . Split it! 'In two! Again! Shred
it! . . the sun. Wedges are brilliant in the sun;
ribbons of wet wood dry and blow away. Black
reddish blood. Pouring for crude-boned soft-
skinned life, who set you flowing? Blood suck-
ers of the War would spin in a frenzy of dizzi-
ness if they drank your blood. Prohibition
would put a stop to it. Who set you flowing?
White and whitewash disappear in blood. Who
set you flowing? Flowing down the smooth
asphalt of Seventh Street, in shanties, brick
[711


CANE
office buildings, theaters, drug stores, restaurants,
and cabarets ? Eddying on the corners ? Swirl-
ing like a blood-red smoke up where the buz-
zards fly in heaven God would not dare to
suck black red blood. A Nigger God! He
would duck his head in shame and call for the
Judgment Day. Who set you flowing?
Money burns the pocket, pocket hurts,
Bootleggers in silken shirts,
Ballooned, zooming Cadillacs,
Whizzing, whizzing down the street-car tracks.
[72]


RHOBERT
DHOBERT wears a house, like a monstrous
" diver's helmet, on his head. His legs are
banty-bowed and shaky because as a child he
had rickets. He is way down. Rods of the
house like antennæ of a dead thing, stuffed,
prop up in the air. He is way down. He is
sinking. His house is a dead thing that weights
him down. He is sinking as a diver would
sink in mud should the water be drawn off. Life
is a murky, wiggling, microscopic water that
compresses him. Compresses his helmet and
would crush it the minute that he pulled his head
out. He has to keep it in. Life is water that is
being drawn off.
Brother, life is water that is being drawn off.
Brother, life is water that is being drawn off.
The dead house is stuffed. The stuffing is
alive. It is sinful to draw one's head out of live
stuffing in a dead house. The propped-up
antennæ would cave in and the stuffing be
strewn . . shredded life-pulp . . in the water.
sinful to have one's own head crushed.
[73]


CANE
Rhobert is an upright man whose legs are banty-
.. bowed and shaky because as a child he had
rickets. The earth is round. Heaven is a
sphere that surrounds it. Sink where you will.
God is a Red Cross man with a dredge and a
respiration-pump who's waiting for you at the
opposite periphery. God built the house. He
blew His breath into its stuffing. It is good to
to die obeying Him who can do these things.
A futile something like the dead house wraps
the live stuffing of the question: how long before
the water will be drawn off? Rhobert does not
care. Like most men who wear monstrous hel-
mets, the pressure it exerts is enough to con-
vince him of its practical infinity. And he cares
not two straws as to whether or not he will ever
see his wife and children again. Many a time
he's seen them drown in his dreams and has
kicked about joyously in the mud for days after.
One thing about him goes straight to the heart.
He has an Adam's-apple which strains some-
times as if he were painfully gulping great
globules of air . . air floating shredded life-
pulp. It is a sad thing to see a banty-bowed,
shaky, ricket-legged man straining the raw in-
sides of his throat against smooth air. Holding
furtive thoughts about-the glory of pulp-heads
[74]


RHOBERT
strewn in water. . He is way down. Down.
Mud, coming to his banty knees, almost hides
them. Soon people will be looking at him and
calling him a strong man. No doubt he is for
one who has had rickets. Lets give it to him.
Lets call him great when the water shall have
been all drawn off. Lets build a monument and
set it in the ooze where he goes down. A monu-
ment of hewn oak, carved in nigger-heads. Lets
open our throats, brother, and sing "Deep
River" when he goes down.
Brother, Rhobert is sinking.
Lets open our throats, brother,
Lets sing Deep River when he goes down.
[75]


AVEY
FOR a long while she was nothing more to me
1 than one of those skirted beings whom boys
at a certain age disdain to play with. Just how
I came to love her, timidly, and with secret
blushes, I do not know. But that I did was
brought home to me one night, the first night
that Ned wore his long pants. Us fellers were
seated on the curb before an apartment house
where she had gone in. The young trees had
not outgrown their boxes then. V Street was
lined with them. When our legs grew cramped
and stiff from the cold of the stone, we'd stand
around a box and whittle it. I like to think now
that there was a hidden purpose in the way we
hacked them with our knives. I like to feel that
something deep in me responded to the trees,
the young trees that whinnied like colts impatient
to be let free. . . On the particular night I have
in mind, we were waiting for the top-floor light
to go out. We wanted to see Avey leave the flat.
This night she stayed longer than usual and gave
[76]


AVEY
in the way she said hello. She never took the
trouble to call me by my name. On the days for
drill, I'd let my voice down a tone and call for a
complicated maneuver when I saw her coming.
She'd smile appreciation, but it was an imper-
sonal smile, never for me. It was on a summer
excursion down to Riverview that she first
seemed to take me into account. The day had
been spent riding merry-go-rounds, scenic-rail-
ways, and shoot-the-chutes. We had been in
swimming and we had danced. I was a crack
swimmer then. She didnt know how. I held
her up and showed her how to kick her legs and
draw her arms. Of course she didnt learn in
one day, but she thanked me for bothering with
her. I was also somewhat of a dancer. And I
had already noticed that love can start on a
dance floor. We danced. But though I held
her tightly in my arms, she was way away. That
college feller who lived on the top floor was
somewhere making money for the next year. I
imagined that she was thinking, wishing for
him. Ned was along. He treated her until his
money gave out. She went with another feller.
Ned got sore. One by one the boys' money gave
[79]


CANE
rom
out. She left them. And they got sore. Every
one of them but me got sore. This is the reason,
I guess, why I had her to myself on the top deck
of the Jane Mosely that night as we puffed
up the Potomac, coming home. The moon was
brilliant. The air was sweet like clover. And
every now and then, a salt tang, a stale drift of
sea-weed. It was not my mind's fault if it went
romancing. I should have taken her in my
arms the minute we were stowed in that old
lifeboat. I dallied, dreaming. She took me in
hers. And I could feel by the touch of it that it
wasnt a man-to-woman love. It made me rest-
less. I felt chagrined. I didnt know what it
was, but I did know that I couldnt handle it.
She ran her fingers through my hair and kissed
my forehead. I itched to break through her
tenderness to passion. I wanted her to take me
in her arms as I knew she had that college feller.
I wanted her to love me passionately as she
did him. I gave her one burning kiss. Then
she laid me in her lap as if I were a child. Help-
less. I got sore when she started to hum a lull-
aby. She wouldnt let me go. I talked. I knew
damned well that I could beat her at that. Her
[80]


AVEY
eyes were soft and misty, the curves of her lips
were wistful, and her smile seemed indulgent of
the irrelevance of my remarks. I gave up at
last and let her love me, silently, in her own way.
The moon was brilliant. The air was sweet like
clover, and every now and then, a salt tang, a
stale drift of sea-weed. ..
The next time I came close to her was the
following summer at Harpers Ferry. We were
sitting on a flat projecting rock they give the
name of Lover's Leap. Some one is supposed to
have jumped off it. The river is about six hun-
dred feet beneath. A railroad track runs up the
valley and curves out of sight where part of the
mountain rock had to be blasted away to make
room for it. The engines of this valley have a
whistle, the echoes of which sound like iterated
gasps and sobs. I always think of them as crude
music from the soul of Avey. We sat there
holding hands. Our palms were soft and warm
against each other. Our fingers were not tight.
She would not let them be. She would not let
me twist them. I wanted to talk. To explain
what I meant to her. Avey was as silent as
those great trees whose tops we looked down
[81]


CANE
upon. She has always been like that. At least,
to me. I had the notion that if I really wanted
to, I could do with her just what I pleased. Like
one can strip a tree. I did kiss her. I even let
my hands cup her breasts. When I was through,
she'd seek my hand and hold it till my pulse
cooled down. Evening after evening we sat
there. I tried to get her to talk about that college
feller. She never would. There was no set
time to go home. None of my family had come
down. And as for hers, she didnt give a hang
about them. The general gossips could hardly
say more than they had. The boarding-house
porch was always deserted when we returned.
No one saw us enter, so the time was set con-
veniently for scandal. This worried me a little,
for I thought it might keep Avey from getting an
appointment in the schools. She didnt care.
She had finished normal school. They could
give her a job if they wanted to. As time went
on, her indifference to things began to pique me;
I was ambitious. I left the Ferry earlier than
she did. I was going off to college. The more I
thought of it, the more I resented, yes, hell, thats
what it was, her downright laziness. Sloppy
[82]


CANE
her. She was no better than a whore. I saw
her mother on the street. The same old pinch-
beck, jerky-gaited creature that I'd always
known.
Perhaps five years passed. The business of
hunting a job or something or other had bruised
my vanity so that I could recognize it. I felt old.
Avey and my real relation to her, I thought I
came to know. I wanted to see her. I had been
told that she was in New York. As I had no
money, I hiked and bummed my way there. I
got work in a ship-yard and walked the streets
at night, hoping to meet her. Failing in this, I
saved enough to pay my fare back home. One
evening in early June, just at the time when dusk
is most lovely on the eastern horizon, I saw
Avey, indolent as ever, leaning on the arm of a
man, strolling under the recently lit arc-lights
of U Street. She had almost passed before she
recognized me. She showed no surprise. The
puff over her eyes had grown heavier. The eyes
themselves were still sleepy-large, and beautiful.
I had almost concluded-indifferent. “You look
older," was what she said. I wanted to con-
[84]


AVEY
vince her that I was, so I asked her to walk with
me. The man whom she was with, and whom
she never took the trouble to introduce, at a nod
from her, hailed a taxi, and drove away. That
gave me a notion of what she had been used to.
Her dress was of some fine, costly stuff. I sug-
gested the park, and then added that the grass
might stain her skirt. Let it get stained, she
said, for where it came from there are others.
I have a spot in Soldier's Home to which I
always go when I want the simple beauty of
another's soul. Robins spring about the lawn
all day. They leave their footprints in the
grass. I imagine that the grass at night smells
sweet and fresh because of them. The ground
is high. Washington lies below. Its light spreads
like a blush against the darkened sky. Against
the soft dusk sky of Washington. And when
the wind is from the South, soil of my homeland
falls like a fertile shower upon the lean streets
of the city. Upon my hill in Soldier's Home. I
know the policeman who watches the place of
nights. When I go there alone, I talk to him. I
tell him I come there to find the truth that people
[85]


CANE
bury in their hearts. I tell him that I do not
come there with a girl to do the thing he's paid
to watch out for. I look deep in his eyes when
I say these things, and he believes me. He comes
over to see who it is on the grass. I say hello to
him. He greets me in the same way and goes
off searching for other black splotches upon the
lawn. Avey and I went there. A band in one
of the buildings a fair distance off was playing
a march. I wished they would stop. Their
playing was like a tin spoon in one's mouth. I
wanted the Howard Glee Club to sing "Deep
River," from the road. To sing "Deep River,
Deep River," from the road. . . Other than
the first comments, Avey had been silent. I
started to hum a folk-tune. She slipped her
hand in mine. Pillowed her head as best she
could upon my arm. Kissed the hand that she
was holding and listened, or so I thought, to
what I had to say. I traced my development
from the early days up to the present time, the
phase in which I could understand her. I de-
scribed her own nature and temperament. Told
how they needed a larger life for their expres-
sion. How incapable Washington was of un-
[86]


AVEY
derstanding that need. How it could not meet
it. I pointed out that in lieu of proper channels,
her emotions had overflowed into paths that dis-
sipated them. I talked, beautifully I thought,
about an art that would be born, an art that
would open the way for women the likes of her.
I asked her to hope, and build up an inner life
against the coming of that day. I recited some
of my own things to her. I sang, with a strange
quiver in my voice, a promise-song. And then
I began to wonder why her hand had not once
returned a single pressure. My old-time feeling
about her laziness came back. I spoke sharply.
My policeman friend passed by. I said hello
to him. As he went away, I began to visualize
certain possibilities. An immediate and urgent
passion swept over me. Then I looked at Avey.
Her heavy eyes were closed. Her breathing was
as faint and regular as a child's in slumber.
My passion died. I was afraid to move lest I
disturb her. Hours and hours, I guess it was,
she lay there. My body grew numb. I shiv-
ered. I coughed. I wanted to get up and
whittle at the boxes of young trees. I withdrew
my hand. I raised her head to waken her. She
[87]


CANE
did not stir. I got up and walked around. I
found my policeman friend and talked to him.
We both came up, and bent over her. He said it
would be all right for her to stay there just so
long as she got away before the workmen came
at dawn. A blanket was borrowed from a neigh-
bor house. I sat beside her through the night.
I saw the dawn steal over Washington. The
Capitol dome looked like a gray ghost ship
drifting in from sea. Avey's face was pale, and
her eyes were heavy. She did not have the gray
crimson-splashed beauty of the dawn. I hated
to wake her. Orphan-woman. . .
[88]


BEEHIVE
Within this black hive to-night
There swarm a million bees;
Bees passing in and out the moon,
Bees escaping out the moon,
Bees returning through the moon,
Silver bees intently buzzing,
Silver honey dripping from the swarm of bees
Earth is a waxen cell of the world comb,
And I, a drone,
Lying on my back,
Lipping honey,
Getting drunk with silver honey,
Wish that I might fly out past the moon
And curl forever in some far-off farmyard flower.
MayPuhh
iver honeve
[89]


STORM ENDING
Thunder blossoms gorgeously above our heads,
Great, hollow, bell-like flowers,
Rumbling in the wind,
Stretching clappers to strike our ears . .
Full-lipped flowers
Bitten by the sun
Bleeding rain
Dripping rain like golden honey-
And the sweet earth flying from the thunder.
[90]


THEATER
| IFE of nigger alleys, of pool rooms and
L restaurants and near-beer saloons soaks
into the walls of Howard Theater and sets them
throbbing jazz songs. Black-skinned, they
dance and shout above the tick and trill of white-
walled buildings. At night, they open doors to
people who come in to stamp their feet and
shout. At night, road-shows volley songs into
the mass-heart of black people. Songs soak the
walls and seep out to the nigger life of alleys and
near-beer saloons, of the Poodle Dog and Black
Bear cabarets. Afternoons, the house is dark,
and the walls are sleeping singers until rehearsal
begins. Or until John comes within them. Then
they start throbbing to a subtle syncopation.
And the space-dark air grows softly luminous.
John is the manager's brother. He is seated
at the center of the theater, just before rehearsal.
Light streaks down upon him from a window
high above. One half his face is orange in it.
One half his face is in shadow. The soft glow
(91)


CANE
GOLG-ASI)
of the house rushes to, and compacts about, the
shaft of light. Tohn's mind coincides with the
shaft of light. Thoughts rush to, and compact
about it. Life of the house and of the slowly
awakening stage swirls to the body of John, and
thrills it. John's body is separate from the
thoughts that pack his mind.
Stage-lights, soft, as if they shine through
clear pink fingers. Beneath them, hid by the
shadow of a set, Dorris. Other chorus girls drift
in. John feels them in the mass. And as if his
own body were the mass-heart of a black audi-
ence listening to them singing, he wants to
stamp his feet and shout. His mind, contained
above desires of his body, singles the girls out,
and tries to trace origins and plot destinies.
A pianist slips into the pit and improvises
jazz. The walls awake. Arms of the girls, and
their limbs, which . . jazz, jazz . . by lifting
up their tight street skirts they set free, jab the
air and clog the floor in rhythm to the music.
(Lift your skirts, Baby, and talk t papa!)
Crude, individualized, and yet . . monoto-
nous. . .
John: Soon the director will herd you, my
[92]


THEATER
let her feel the slimness of his diluted passion.
“Who's that?” she asks her dancing part-
ner.
"Th manager's brother. Dictię. Nothin
doin, hon.”
Dorris tosses her head and dances for him
until she feels she has him. Then, withdrawing
disdainfully, she flirts with the director.
Dorris: Nothin doin? How come? Aint I
as good as him? Couldnt I have got an educa-
tion if I'd wanted one? Dont I know respect-
able folks, lots of em, in Philadelphia and New
York and Chicago? Aint I had men as good as
him? Better. Doctors an lawyers. Whats a
manager's brother, anyhow?
Two steps back, and two steps front.
“Say, Mame, where do you get that stuff?”
“Whatshmean, Dorris?"
"If you two girls cant listen to what I'm tell-
ing you, I know where I can get some who can.
Now listen."
Mame: Go to hell, you black bastard.
Dorris: Whats eatin at him, anyway?
“Now follow me in this, you girls. Its three
[95]


CANE
counts to the right, three counts to the left, and
then you shimmy".
John: —and then you shimmy. I'll bet she
can. Some good cabaret, with rooms upstairs.
And what in hell do you think you'd get from it?
Youre going wrong. Here's right: get her to
herself—(Christ, but how she'd bore you after
the first five minutes)—not if you get her right
she wouldnt. Touch her, I mean. To herself-
in some room perhaps. Some cheap, dingy bed-
room. Hell no. Cant be done. But the point
is, brother John, it can be done. Get her to her-
self somewhere, anywhere. Go down in your-
self—and she'd be calling you all sorts of asses
while you were in the process of going down.
Hold em, bud. Cant be done. Let her go.
(Dance and I'll love you!) And keep her
loveliness.
“All right now, Chicken Chaser. Dorris and
girls. Where's Dorris? I told you to stay on the
stage, didnt I? Well? Now thats enough. All
right. All right there, Professor? All right.
One, two, three"
Dorris swings to the front. The line of girls,
four deep, blurs within the shadow of sus-
[96]


THEATER
pended scenes. Dorris wants to dance. The
director feels that and steps to one side. He
smiles, and picks her for a leading lady, one of
these days. Odd ends of stage-men emerge
from the wings, and stare and clap. A crap
game in the alley suddenly ends. Black faces
crowd the rear stage doors. The girls, catching
joy from Dorris, whip up within the footlights'
glow. They forget set steps; they find their own.
The director forgets to bawl them out. Dorris
dances.
John: Her head bobs to Broadway. Dance
from yourself. Dance! O just a little more.
Dorris' eyes burn across the space of seats to
him.
Dorris: I bet he can love. Hell, he cant love.
He's too skinny. His lips are too skinny. He
wouldnt love me anyway, only for that. But
I'd get a pair of silk stockings out of it. Red
silk. I got purple. Cut it, kid. You cant win
him to respect you that away. He wouldnt any-
way. Maybe he would. Maybe he'd love. I've
heard em say that men who look like him (what
does he look like?) will marry if they love. O
will you love me? And give me kids, and a
[97]


CANE
home, and everything? (I'd like to make your
nest, and honest, hon, I wouldnt run out on you.).
You will if I make you. Just watch me.
Dorris dances. She forgets her tricks. She
dances.
Glorious songs are the muscles of her limbs.
And her singing is of canebrake loves and
mangrove feastings.
The walls press in, singing. Flesh of a throb-
bing body, they press close to John and Dorris.
They close them in. John's heart beats tensely
against her dancing body. Walls press his mind
within his heart. And then, the shaft of light
goes out the window high above him. John's
mind sweeps up to follow it. Mind pulls him
upward into dream. Dorris dances. . .
John dreams:
Dorris is dressed in a loose black gown splashed
with lemon ribbons. Her feet taper long and slim
from trim ankles. She waits for him just inside
the stage door. John, collar and tie colorful and
flaring, walks towards the stage door. There are
no trees in the alley. But his feet feel as though
they step on autumn leaves whose rustle has been
pressed out of them by the passing of a million
satin slippers. The air is sweet with roasting
[98]


CANE
the stage. Falls down the steps into her dress-
ing-room. Pulls her hair. Her eyes, over a
floor of tears, stare at the whitewashed ceiling.
(Smell of dry paste, and paint, and soiled cloth-
ing.) Her pal comes in. Dorris flings herself
into the old safe arms, and cries bitterly.
“I told you nothin doin,” is what Mame says
to comfort her.
[100]


HER LIPS ARE COPPER WIRE
whisper of yellow globes .
gleaming on lamp-posts that sway
like bootleg licker drinkers in the fog
and let your breath be moist against me
like bright beads on yellow globes
telephone the power-house
that the main wires are insulate
(her words play softly up and down
dewy corridors of billboards)
then with your tongue remove the tape
and press your lips to mine
till they are incandescent
[101]


CALLING JESUS
HER soul is like a little thrust-tailed dog that
" follows her, whimpering. She is large
enough, I know, to find a warm spot for it. But
each night when she comes home and closes the
big outside storm door, the little dog is left in
the vestibule, filled with chills till morning.
Some one . . . eoho Jesus ... soft as a cotton
boll brushed against the milk-pod cheek of
Christ, will steal in and cover it that it need not
shiver, and carry it to her where she sleeps upon
clean hay cut in her dreams.
When you meet her in the daytime on the
streets, the little dog keeps coming. Nothing
happens at first, and then, when she has forgot-
ten the streets and alleys, and the large house
where she goes to bed of nights, a soft thing like
fur begins to rub your limbs, and you hear a low,
scared voice, lonely, calling, and you know that
a cool something nozzles moisture in your palms.
Sensitive things like nostrils, quiver. Her
breath comes sweet as honeysuckle whose pistils
bear the life of coming song. And her eyes carry
[102]


CALLING JESUS
to where builders find no need for vestibules, for
swinging on iron hinges, storm doors.
Her soul is like a little thrust-tailed dog, that
follows her, whimpering. I've seen it tagging on
behind her, up streets where chestnut trees flow-
ered, where dusty asphalt had been freshly
sprinkled with clean water. Up alleys where
niggers sat on low door-steps before tumbled
shanties and sang and loved. At night, when
she comes home, the little dog is left in the vesti-
bule, nosing the crack beneath the big storm
door, filled with chills till morning. Some
one . . . eoho Jesus . . . soft as the bare feet of
Christ moving across bales of southern cotton,
will steal in and cover it that it need not shiver,
and carry it to her where she sleeps: cradled in
dream-fluted cane.
[103]


BOX SEAT
HOUSES are shy girls whose eyes shine
11 reticently upon the dusk body of the street.
Upon the gleaming limbs and asphalt torso of a
dreaming nigger. Shake your curled wool-
blossoms, nigger. Open your liver lips to the
lean, white spring. Stir the root-life of a with-
ered people. Call them from their houses, and
teach them to dream.
Dark swaying forms of Negroes are street
songs that woo virginal houses.
Dan Moore walks southward on Thirteenth
Street. The low limbs of budding chestnut trees
recede above his head. Chestnut buds and blos-
soms are wool he walks upon. The eyes of
houses faintly touch him as he passes them.
Soft girl-eyes, they set him singing. Girl-eyes
within him widen upward to promised faces.
Floating away, they dally wistfully over the
dusk body of the street. Come on, Dan Moore,
come on. Dan sings. His voice is a little hoarse.
[104]


BOX SEAT
It cracks. He strains to produce tones in keep-
ing with the houses' loveliness. Cant be done.
He whistles. His notes are shrill. They hurt
him. Negroes open gates, and go indoors, per-
fectly. Dan thinks of the house he's going to.
Of the girl. Lips, flesh-notes of a forgotten
song, plead with him. ..
Dan turns into a side-street, opens an iron
gate, bangs it to. Mounts the steps, and searches
for the bell. Funny, he cant find it. He fumbles
around. The thought comes to him that some one
passing by might see him, and not understand.
Might think that he is trying to sneak, to break
in.
Dan: Break in. Get an ax and smash in.
Smash in their faces. I'll show em. Break into
an engine-house, steal a thousand horse-power
fire truck. Smash in with the truck. I'll show
em. Grab an ax and brain em. Cut em up.
Jack the Ripper. Baboon from the zoo. And
then the cops come. “No, I aint a baboon. I
aint Jack the Ripper. I'm a poor man out of
work. Take your hands off me, you bull-necked
bears. Look into my eyes. I am Dan Moore.
I was born in a canefield. The hands of Jesus
[105]


CANE
touched me. I am come to a sick world to heal
it. Only the other day, a dope fiend brushed
against me Dont laugh, you mighty, juicy,
meat-hook men. Give me your fingers and I
will peel them as if they were ripe bananas."
Some one might think he is trying to break in.
He'd better knock. His knuckles are raw bone
against the thick glass door. He waits. No one
comes. Perhaps they havent heard him. He
raps again. This time, harder. He waits. No
one comes. Some one is surely in. He fancies
that he sees their shadows on the glass. Shadows
of gorillas. Perhaps they saw him coming and
dont want to let him in. He knocks. The
tension of his arms makes the glass rattle. Hur-
ried steps come towards him. The door opens.
"Please, you might break the glass—the bell-
oh, Mr. Moore! I thought it must be some
stranger. How do you do? Come in, wont you?
Muriel? Yes. I'll call her. Take your things
off, wont you? And have a seat in the parlor.
Muriel will be right down. Muriel! Oh
Muriel! Mr. Moore to see you. She'll be right
down. You'll pardon me, wont you? So glad
to see you."
[106]


BOX SEAT
Her eyes are weak. They are bluish and
watery from reading newspapers. The blue is
steel. It gimlets Dan while her mouth flaps
amiably to him.
Dan: Nothing for you to see, old mussel-
head. Dare I show you? If I did, delirium
would furnish you headlines for a month. Now
look here. Thats enough. Go long, woman.
Say some nasty thing and I'll kill you. Huh.
Better damned sight not. Ta-ta, Mrs. Pribby.
Mrs. Pribby retreats to the rear of the house.
She takes up a newspaper. There is a sharp
click as she fits into her chair and draws it to
the table. The click is metallic like the sound
of a bolt being shot into place. Dan's eyes sting.
Sinking into a soft couch, he closes them. The
house contracts about him. It is a sharp-edged,
massed, metallic house. Bolted. About Mrs.
Pribby. Bolted to the endless rows of metal
houses. Mrs. Pribby's house. The rows of
houses belong to other Mrs. Pribbys. No won-
der he couldn't sing to them.
Dan: What's Muriel doing here? God,
what a place for her. Whats she doing? Put-
ting her stockings on? In the bathroom. Come
[107]


CANE
out of there, Dan Moore. People must have their
privacy. Peeping-toms. I'll never peep. I'll
listen. I like to listen.
Dan goes to the wall and places his ear against
it. A passing street car and something vibrant
from the earth sends a rumble to him. That
rumble comes from the earth's deep core. It is
the mutter of powerful underground races. Dan
has a picture of all the people rushing to put
their ears against walls, to listen to it. The next
world-savior is coming up that way. Coming
up. A continent sinks down. The new-world
Christ will need consummate skill to walk upon
the waters where huge bubbles burst... Thuds
of Muriel coming down. Dan turns to the piano
and glances through a stack of jazz music sheets.
Ji-ji-bo, JI-JI-BO!”..
"Hello, Dan, stranger, what brought you
here?”
Muriel comes in, shakes hands, and then
clicks into a high-armed seat under the orange
glow of a floor-lamp. Her face is fleshy. It
would tend to coarseness but for the fresh fra-
grant something which is the life of it. Her hair
like an Indian's. But more curly and bushed
[108]


BOX SEAT
and vagrant. Her nostrils flare. The flushed
ginger of her cheeks is touched orange by the
shower of color from the lamp.
“Well, you havent told me, you havent an-
swered my question, stranger. What brought
you here?”
Dan feels the pressure of the house, of the
rear room, of the rows of houses, shift to Muriel.
He is light. He loves her. He is doubly heavy.
"Dont know, Muriel-wanted to see you-
wanted to talk to you—to see you and tell you
that I know what you've been through-what
pain the last few months must have been—"
"Lets dont mention that.”
"But why not, Muriel? 14"
“Please.”
“But Muriel, life is full of things like that.
One grows strong and beautiful in facing them.
What else is life?”.
"I dont know, Dan. And I dont believe I
care. Whats the use? Lets talk about some-
thing else. I hear there's a good show at the
Lincoln this week.”
“Yes, so Harry was telling me. Going?”
“To-night."
[109]


CANE
Dan starts to rise.
"I didnt know. I dont want to keep you."
“Its all right. You dont have to go till Ber-
nice comes. And she wont be here till eight. I'm
all dressed. I'll let you know.”
“Thanks.”
Silence. The rustle of a newspaper being
turned comes from the rear room.
Muriel: Shame about Dan. Something
awfully good and fine about him. But he don't
fit in. In where? Me? Dan, I could love you
if I tried. I dont have to try. I do. O Dan,
dont you know I do? Timid lover, brave talker
that you are. Whats the good of all you know if
you dont know that? I wont let myself. I?
Mrs. Pribby who reads newspapers all night
wont. What has she got to do with me? She
is me, somehow. No she's not. Yes she is.
She is the town, and the town wont let me love
you, Dan. Dont you know? You could make it
let me if you would. Why wont you? Youre
selfish. I'm not strong enough to buck it. Youre
too selfish to buck it, for me. I wish you'd go.
You irritate me. Dan, please go.
“What are you doing now, Dan?”
[110] -


BOX SEAT
"Same old thing, Muriel. Nothing, as the
world would have it. Living, as I look at
things. Living as much as I can without"
"But you cant live without money, Dan. Why
dont you get a good job and settle down?”
Dan: Same old line. Shoot it at me, sister.
Hell of a note, this loving business. For ten
minutes of it youve got to stand the torture of an
intolerable heaviness and a hundred platitudes.
Well, damit, shoot on.
“To what? my dear. Rustling newspapers?”
“You mustnt say that, Dan. It isnt right.
Mrs. Pribby has been awfully good to me."
"Dare say she has. Whats that got to do
with it?”
“Oh, Dan, youre so unconsiderate and selfish.
All you think of is yourself.”
“I think of you."
“Too much-I mean, you ought to work more
and think less. Thats the best way to get
along."
“Mussel-heads get along, Muriel. There is
more to you than that"
"Sometimes I think there is, Dan. But I
dont know. I've tried. I've tried to do some-
[111]


CANE
thing with myself. Something real and beau-
tiful, I mean. But whats the good of trying?
I've tried to make people, every one I come in
contact with, happy—"
Dan looks at her, directly. Her animalism,
still unconquered by zoo-restrictions and keeper-
taboos, stirs him. Passion tilts upward, bring-
ing with it the elements of an old desire. Muriel's
lips become the flesh-notes of a futile, plaintive
longing. Dan's impulse to direct her is its fresh
life.
"Happy, Muriel? No, not happy. Your aim
is wrong. There is no such thing as happiness.
Life bends joy and pain, beauty and ugliness, in
such a way that no one may isolate them. No
one should want to. Perfect joy, or perfect
pain, with no contrasting element to define them,
would mean a monotony of consciousness, would
mean death. Not happy, Muriel. Say that you
have tried to make them create. Say that you
have used your own capacity for life to cradle
them. To start them upward-flowing. Or if you
cant say that you have, then say that you will.
My talking to you will make you aware of your
[112]


BOX SEAT
power to do so. Say that you will love, that you
will give yourself in love"
“To you, Dan?"
Dan's consciousness crudely swerves into his
passions. They flare up in his eyes. They set
up quivers in his abdomen. He is suddenly
over-tense and nervous.
"Muriel"
The newspaper rustles in the rear room.
"Muriel"
Dan rises. His arms stretch towards her.
His fingers and his palms, pink in the lamp-
light, are glowing irons. Muriel's chair is close
and stiff about her. The house, the rows of
houses locked about her chair. Dan's fingers
and arms are fire to melt and bars to wrench and
force and pry. Her arms hang loose. Her hands
are hot and moist. Dan takes them. He slips
to his knees before her.
“Dan, you mustnt."
"Muriel"
“Dan, really you mustnt. No, Dan. No."
“Oh, come, Muriel. Must 1".
"Shhh. Dan, please get up. Please. Mrs.
Pribby is right in the next room. She'll hear
[113]


CANE
you. She may come in. Dont, Dan. She'll see
you."
“Well then, lets go out.”
“I cant. Let go, Dan. Oh, wont you please
let go."
Muriel tries to pull her hands away. Dan
tightens his grip. He feels the strength of his
fingers. His muscles are tight and strong. He
stands up. Thrusts out his chest. Muriel
shrinks from him. Dan becomes aware of his
crude absurdity. His lips curl. His passion
chills. He has an obstinate desire to possess her.
"Muriel, I love you. I want you, whatever
the world of Pribby says. Damn your Pribby.
Who is she to dictate my love? I've stood
enough of her. Enough of you. Come here.”
Muriel's mouth works in and out. Her eyes
flash and waggle. She wrenches her hands
loose and forces them against his breast to keep
him off. Dan grabs her wrists. Wedges in be-
tween her arms. Her face is close to him. It is
hot and blue and moist. Ugly.
“Come here now."
. “Dont, Dan. Oh, dont. What are you
killing?"
[114]


CANE
chair scraping as Mrs. Pribby rises from it,
ratchets down the hall. Dan stops. He makes
a wry face, wheels round, goes out, and slams
the door.
People come in slowly . . . mutter, laughs,
flutter, whishadwash, “I've changed my work-
clothes—"... and fill vacant seats of Lincoln
Theater. Muriel, leading Bernice who is a cross
between a washerwoman and a blue-blood lady,
a washer-blue, a washer-lady, wanders down the
right aisle to the lower front box. Muriel has
, on an orange dress. Its color would clash with
· the crimson box-draperies, its color would con-
tradict the sweet rose smile her face is bathed
in, should she take her coat off. She'll keep it
on. Pale purple shadows rest on the planes of
her cheeks. Deep purple comes from her thick-
shocked hair. Orange of the dress goes well
with these. Muriel presses her coat down from
around her shoulders. Teachers are not sup-
posed to have bobbed hair. She'll keep her hat
on. She takes the first chair, and indicates that
[116]


BOX SEAT
Bernice is to take the one directly behind her.
Seated thus, her eyes are level with, and near to,
the face of an imaginary man upon the stage.
To speak to Berny she must turn. When she
does, the audience is square upon her.
People come in slowly ..."_for my Sun-
day-go-to-meeting dress. O glory God! O
shout Amen!" ... and fill vacant seats of
Lincoln Theater. Each one is a bolt that shoots
into a slot, and is locked there. Suppose the Lord
should ask, where was Moses when the light
went out? Suppose Gabriel should blow his
trumpet! The seats are slots. The seats are
bolted houses. The mass grows denser. Its
weight at first is impalpable upon the box. Then
Muriel begins to feel it. She props her arm
against the brass box-rail, to ward it off. Silly.
These people are friends of hers: a parent of a
child she teaches, an old school friend. She
smiles at them. They return her courtesy, and
she is free to chat with Berny. Berny's tongue,
started, runs on, and on. O washer-blue! O
washer-lady!
Muriel: Never see Dan again. He makes
me feel queer. Starts things he doesnt finish.
[117]


CANE
Upsets me. I am not upset. I am perfectly
calm. I am going to enjoy the show. Good
show. I've had some show! This damn tame
thing. O Dan. Wont see Dan again. Not
alone. Have Mrs. Pribby come in. She was in.
Keep Dan out. If I love him, can I keep him
out? Well then, I dont love him. Now he's
out. Who is that coming in? Blind as a bat.
Ding-bat. Looks like Dan. He mustnt see
me. Silly. He cant reach me. He wont dare
come in here. He'd put his head down like a
goring bull and charge me. He'd trample them.
He'd gore. He'd rape! Berny! He won't dare
come in here.
"Berny, who was that who just came in? I
havent my glasses."
“A friend of yours, a good friend so I hear.
Mr. Daniel Moore, Lord.”
“Oh. He's no friend of mine.”
“No? I hear he is."
"Well, he isnt."
Dan is ushered down the aisle. He has to
squeeze past the knees of seated people to reach
his own seat. He treads on a man's corns. The
man grumbles, and shoves him off. He shrivels
[118]


BOX SEAT
close beside a portly Negress whose huge rolls
of flesh meet about the bones of seat-arms. A
soil-soaked fragrance comes from her. Through
the cement floor her strong roots sink down.
They spread under the asphalt streets. Dream-
ing, the streets roll over on their bellies, and suck
their glossy health from them. Her strong roots
sink down and spread under the river and dis-
appear in blood-lines that waver south. Her
roots shoot down. Dan's hands follow them.
Roots throb. Dan's heart beats violently. He
places his palms upon the earth to cool them.
Earth throbs. Dan's heart beats violently. He
sees all the people in the house rush to the walls
to listen to the rumble. A new-world Christ is
coming up. Dan comes up. He is startled.
The eyes of the woman dont belong to her. They
look at him unpleasantly. From either aisle,
bolted masses press in. He doesnt fit. The
mass grows agitant. For an instant, Dan's and
Muriel's eyes meet. His weight there slides
the weight on her. She braces an arm against the
brass rail, and turns her head away.
Muriel: Damn fool; dear Dan, what did you
want to follow me here for? Oh cant you
[119]


CANE
ever do anything right? Must you always pain
me, and make me hate you? I do hate you. I
wish some one would come in with a horse-whip
and lash you out. I wish some one would drag
you up a back alley and brain you with the
whip-butt.
Muriel glances at her wrist-watch.
“Quarter of nine. Berny, what time have
you?”
"Eight-forty. Time to begin. Oh, look
Muriel, that woman with the plume; doesnt she
look good! They say she's going with, oh,
whats his name. You know. Too much powder.
I can see it from here. Here's the orchestra now.
O fine! Jim Clem at the piano!”
The men fill the pit. Instruments run the
scale and tune. The saxophone moans and
throws a fit. Jim Clem, poised over the piano,
is ready to begin. His head nods forward.
Opening crash. The house snaps dark. The
curtain recedes upward from the blush of the
footlights. Jazz overture is over. The first
act is on.
Dan: Old stuff. Muriel-bored. Must be.
But she'll smile and she'll clap. Do what youre
[120]


BOX SEAT
bid, you she-slave. Look at her. Sweet, tame
woman in a brass box seat. Clap, smile, fawn,
clap. Do what youre bid. Drag me in with you.
Dirty me. Prop me in your brass box seat. I'm
there, am I not? because of you. He-slave.
Slave of a woman who is a slave. I'm a
damned sight worse than you are. I sing your
praises, Beauty! I exalt thee, O Muriel! A
slave, thou art greater than all Freedom because
I love thee.
Dan fidgets, and disturbs his neighbors. His
neighbors glare at him. He glares back with-
out seeing them. The man whose corns have
been trod upon speaks to him.
"Keep quiet, cant you, mister. Other people
have paid their money besides yourself to see
the show."
The man's face is a blur about two sullen
liquid things that are his eyes. The eyes dis-
solve in the surrounding vagueness. Dan sud-
denly feels that the man is an enemy whom he
has long been looking for.
Dan bristles. Glares furiously at the man.
“All right. All right then. Look at the show.
I'm not stopping you.”
[121]


CANE
“Shhh," from some one in the rear.
Dan turns around.
"Its that man there who started everything.
I didnt say a thing to him until he tried to start
something. What have I got to do with whether
he has paid his money or not? Thats the man-
ager's business. Do I look like the manager?"
“Shhhh. Youre right. Shhhh."
"Dont tell me to shhh. Tell him. That man
there. He started everything. If what he
wanted was to start a fight, why didnt he say
so?"
The man leans forward.
“Better be quiet, sonny. I aint said a thing
about fight, yet."
"Its a good thing you havent.”
“Shhhh."
Dan grips himself. Another act is on.
Dwarfs, dressed like prize-fighters, foreheads
bulging like boxing gloves, are led upon the
stage. They are going to fight for the heavy-
weight championship. Gruesome. Dan glances
at Muriel. He imagines that she shudders. His
mind curves back into himself, and picks up
tail-ends of experiences. His eyes are open,
[122]


CANE
should be clear to you women, that the propo-
sition must be stated thus:
Me, horizontally above her.
Action: perfect strokes downward oblique.
Hence, man dominates because of limitation.
Or, so it shall be until women learn their stuff.
So framed, the proposition is a mental-filler,
Dentist, I want gold teeth. It should become
cherished of the technical intellect. I hereby
offer it to posterity as one of the important
machine-age designs. P.S. It should be noted,
that because it is an achievement of this age, its
growth and hence its causes, up to the point of
maturity, antedate machinery. Ery ..."
The gong rings. No fooling this time. The
dwarfs set to. They clinch. The referee parts
them. One swings a cruel upper-cut and knocks
the other down. A huge head hits the floor.
Pop! The house roars. The fighter, groggy,
scrambles up. The referee whispers to the con-
tenders not to fight so hard. They ignore him.
They charge. Their heads jab like boxing-
gloves. They kick and spit and bite. They
pound each other furiously. Muriel pounds.
[124]


CANE
what a stroke that was. And the jabbering
idiots crowding around. And the crossing-cop
leaving his job to come over and wheel him
away ...
The house applauds. The house wants more.
The dwarfs are led back. But no encore. Must
give the house something. The attendant comes
out and announces that Mr. Barry, the cham-
pion, will sing one of his own songs, "for your
approval.” Mr. Barry grins at Muriel as he
wabbles from the wing. He holds a fresh white
rose, and a small mirror. He wipes blood from
his nose. He signals Jim Clem. The orchestra
starts. A sentimental love song, Mr. Barry
sings, first to one girl, and then another in the
audience. He holds the mirror in such a way
that it flashes in the face of each one he sings to.
The light swings around.
Dan: I am going to reach up and grab the
girders of this building and pull them down.
The crash will be a signal. Hid by the smoke
and dust Dan Moore will arise. In his right
hand will be a dynamo. In his left, a god's face
that will flash white light from ebony. I'll grab
a girder and swing it like a walking-stick.
[126]


CANE
threatening. Hate pops from his eyes and
crackles like a brittle heat about the box. The
thick hide of his face is drawn in tortured
wrinkles. Above his eyes, the bulging, tight-
skinned brow. Dan looks at it. It grows calm
and massive. It grows profound. It is a thing
of wisdom and tenderness, of suffering and
beauty. Dan looks down. The eyes are calm
and luminous. Words come from them...
Arms of the audience reach out, grab Muriel,
and hold her there. Claps are steel fingers that
manacle her wrists and move them forward to
acceptance. Berny leans forward and whispers:
"Its all right. Go on-take it.”
Words form in the eyes of the dwarf:
m
Do not shrink. Do not be afraid of me.
Jesus
See how my eyes look at you.
the Son of God
I too was made in His image.
was once-
I give you the rose.
Muriel, tight in her revulsion, sees black, and
daintily reaches for the offering. As her hand
[128]


BOX SEAT
touches it, Dan springs up in his seat and
shouts:
“JESUS WAS ONCE A LEPER!”
Dan steps down.
He is as cool as a green stem that has just
shed its flower.
Rows of gaping faces strain towards him.
They are distant, beneath him, impalpable.
Squeezing out, Dan again treads upon the corn-
foot man. The man shoves him.
"Watch where youre going, mister. Crazy or
no, you aint going to walk over me. Watch
where youre going there.”
Dan turns, and serenely tweaks the fellow's
nose. The man jumps up. Dan is jammed
against a seat-back. A slight swift anger flicks
him. His fist hooks the other's jaw.
"Now you have started something. Aint no
man living can hit me and get away with it.
Come on on the outside.”
The house, tumultuously stirring, grabs its
wraps and follows the men.
The man leads Dan up a black alley. The
alley-air is thick and moist with smells of gar-
[129]


CANE
bage and wet trash. In the morning, singing
niggers will drive by and ring their gongs. . .
Heavy with the scent of rancid flowers and with
the scent of fight. The crowd, pressing forward,
is a hollow roar. Eyes of houses, soft girl-eyes,
glow reticently upon the hubbub and blink out.
The man stops. Takes off his hat and coat.
Dan, having forgotten him, keeps going on.
(130)


PRAYER
My body is opaque to the soul.
Driven of the spirit, long have I sought to temper it
unto the spirit's longing,
But my mind, too, is opaque to the soul.
A closed lid is my soul's flesh-eye.
O Spirits of whom my soul is but a little finger,
Direct it to the lid of its flesh-eye.
I am weak with much giving.
I am weak with the desire to give more.
(How strong a thing is the little finger!)
So weak that I have confused the body with the soul,
And the body with its little finger.
(How frail is the little finger.)
My voice could not carry to you did you dwell in
stars,
O Spirits of whom my soul is but a little finger ..
[131]


HARVEST SONG
I am a reaper whose muscles set at sundown. All
my oats are cradled.
But I am too chilled, and too fatigued to bind them.
And I hunger.
I crack a grain between my teeth. I do not taste it.
I have been in the fields all day. My throat is dry.
I hunger.
My eyes are caked with dust of oatfields at harvest-
time.
I am a blind man who stares across the hills, seeking
stack'd fields of other harvesters.
It would be good to see them . . crook'd, split, and
iron-ring'd handles of the scythes. It would be
good to see them, dust-caked and blind. I hunger.
(Dusk is a strange fear'd sheath their blades are dull'd
in.)
My throat is dry. And should I call, a cracked grain
like the oats . . . eoho-
I fear to call. What should they hear me, and offer
me their grain, oats, or wheat, or corn? I have
been in the fields all day. I fear I could not taste
it. I fear knowledge of my hunger.
[132]


BONA AND PAUL
1
N the school gymnasium floor, young men
and women are drilling. They are going
to be teachers, and go out into the world .. thud,
thud .. and give precision to the movements of
sick people who all their lives have been drilling.
One man is out of step. In step. The teacher
glares at him. A girl in bloomers, seated on a
mat in the corner because she has told the di-
rector that she is sick, sees that the footfalls of
the men are rhythmical and syncopated. The
dance of his blue-trousered limbs thrills her.
Bona: He is a candle that dances in a grove
swung with pale balloons.
Columns of the drillers thud towards her. He
is in the front row. He is in no row at all. Bona
can look close at him. His red-brown face
Bona: He is a harvest moon. He is an
autumn leaf. He is a nigger. Bona! But dont
all the dorm girls say so? And dont you, when
[134]


BONA AND PAUL l Ben
C
ONDON
you are sane, say so? Thats why I love- Oh,
nonsense. You have never loved a man who
didnt first love you. Besides
Columns thud away from her. Come to a halt
in line formation. Rigid. The period bell rings,
and the teacher dismisses them.
A group collects around Paul. They are
choosing sides for basket-ball. Girls against
boys. Paul has his. He is limbering up be-
neath the basket. Bona runs to the girl captain
and asks to be chosen. The girls fuss. The
director comes to quiet them. He hears what
Bona wants.
"But, Miss Hale, you were excused".
“So I was, Mr. Boynton, but—"
"—you can play basket-ball, but you are too
sick to drill."
“If you wish to put it that way.”
She swings away from him to the girl captain.
“Helen, I want to play, and you must let me.
This is the first time I've asked and I dont see
why—"
“Thats just it, Bona. We have our team."
“Well, team or no team, I want to play and
thats all there is to it."
[135]


CANE
She snatches the ball from Helen's hands, and
charges down the floor.
Helen shrugs. One of the weaker girls says
that she'll drop out. Helen accepts this. The
team is formed. The whistle blows. The game
starts. Bona, in center, is jumping against Paul.
He plays with her. Out-jumps her, makes a
quick pass, gets a quick return, and shoots a goal
from the middle of the floor. Bona burns crim-
son. She fights, and tries to guard him. One of
her team-mates advises her not to play so hard.
Paul shoots his second goal.
Bona begins to feel a little dizzy and all in.
She drives on. Almost hugs Paul to guard him.
Near the basket, he attempts to shoot, and Bona
lunges into his body and tries to beat his arms.
His elbow, going up, gives her a sharp crack on
the jaw. She whirls. He catches her. Her body
stiffens. Then becomes strangely vibrant, and
bursts to a swift life within her anger. He is
about to give way before her hatred when a new
passion flares at him and makes his stomach fall.
Bona squeezes him. He suddenly feels stifled,
and wonders why in hell the ring of silly gaping
faces that's caked about him doesnt make way
[136]


BONA AND PAUL
and give him air. He has a swift illusion that it
is himself who has been struck. He looks at
Bona. Whir. Whir. They seem to be human
distortions spinning tensely in a fog. Spin-
ning . . dizzy . . spinning. . . Bona jerks
herself free, flushes a startling crimson, breaks
through the bewildered teams, and rushes from
the hall.
Paul is in his room of two windows.
Outside, the South-Side L track cuts them in
two.
Bona is one window. One window, Paul.
Hurtling Loop-jammed L trains throw them
in swift shadow.
Paul goes to his. Gray slanting roofs of
houses are tinted lavender in the setting sun.
Paul follows the sun, over the stock-yards where
a fresh stench is just arising, across wheat lands
that are still waving above their stubble, into7
the sun. Paul follows the sun to a pine-matted
hillock in Georgia. He sees the slanting roofs
of gray unpainted cabins tinted lavender. A
[137] ...


CANE
deal with a
Negress chants a lullaby beneath the mate-eyes
of a southern planter. Her breasts are ample
for the suckling of a song. She weans it, and
sends it, curiously weaving, among lush melo-
dies of cane and corn. Paul follows the sun into
himself in Chicago.
He is at Bona's window.
With his own glow he looks through a dark
pane.
Paul's room-mate comes in.
“Say, Paul, I've got a date for you. Come on.
Shake a leg, will you?”
His blonde hair is combed slick. His vest
is snug about him.
He is like the electric light which he snaps on.
“Whatdoysay, Paul? Get a wiggle on. Come
on. We havent got much time by the time we eat
and dress and everything."
His bustling concentrates on the brushing of
his hair.
Art: What in hell's getting into Paul of late,
anyway? Christ, but he's getting moony. Its
his blood. Dark blood: moony. Doesnt get
[138]


BONA AND PAUL
DOCTOR
EM CARREIRO
anywhere unless you boost it. You've got to
keep it going-
“Say, Paul!”
-or it'll go to sleep on you. Dark blood;
nigger? Thats what those jealous shë-hens say.
Not Bona though, or she . . from the South ..
a4. ftum for
wouldnt want me to fix a date for him and her.
Hell of a thing, that Paul's dark: you've got to
always be answering questions.
sir Say, Paul, for Christ's sake leave that win-
dow, cant you?”
“Whats it, Art?"
“Hell, I've told you about fifty times. Got a
date for you. Come on."
"With who?"
Art: He didnt use to ask; now he does. Get-
ting up in the air. Getting funny.
"Heres your hat. Want a smoke? Paul!
Here. I've got a match. Now come on and I'll
tell you all about it on the way to supper."
Paul: He's going to Life this time. No doubt
of that. Quit your kidding. Some day, dear Art,
I'm going to kick the living slats out of you, and
you wont know what I've done it for. And your
slats will bring forth Life.. beautiful
woman. ..
[139]


CANE
Pure Food Restaurant.
“Bring me some soup with a lot of crackers,
understand? And then a roast-beef dinner.
Same for you, eh, Paul? Now as I was saying,
you've got a swell chance with her. And she's
game. Best proof: she dont give a damn what
the dorm girls say about you and her in the gym,
or about the funny looks that Boynton gives her,
or about what they say about, well, hell, you
know, Paul. And say, Paul, she's a sweetheart.
Tall, not puffy and pretty, more serious and
deep—the kind you like these days. And they
say she's got a car. And say, she's on fire. But
you know all about that. She got Helen to fix it
up with me. The four of us-remember the last
party? Crimson Gardens! Boy!”
Paul's eyes take on a light that Art can settle
REN
in.
Art has on his patent-leather pumps and fancy
vest. A loose fall coat is swung across his arm.
His face has been massaged, and over a close
shave, powdered. It is a healthy pink the blue
[140]


BONA AND PAUL
AEON
RUM
FRANK
of evening, tints a purple pallor. Art is happy
and confident in the good looks that his mirror
gave him. Bubbling over with a joy he must
spend now if the night is to contain it all. His
bubbles, too, are curiously tinted purple as Paul
watches them. Paul, contrary to what he had
thought he would be like, is cool like the dusk,
and like the dusk, detached. His dark face is
a floating shade in evening's shadow. He sees
Art, curiously. Art is a purple fluid, carbon-
charged, that effervesces besides him. He loves
Art. But is it not queer, this pale purple fac-
simile of a red-blooded Norwegian friend of his?
Perhaps for some reason, white skins are not
supposed to live at night. Surely, enough nights
would transform them fantastically, or kill them.
And their red passion? Night paled that too,
and made it moony. Moony. Thats what Art
thought of him. Bona didnt, even in the day-
time. Bona, would she be pale? Impossible.
Not that red glow. But the conviction did not
set his emotion flowing.
“Come right in, wont you? The young ladies
will be right down. Oh, Mr. Carlstrom, do play
something for us while you are waiting. We just
[141]


CANE
The sea casts up its jewel into his hands, and
burns them furiously. To tuck her arm under
his and hold her hand will ease the burn.
“What can I say to you, brave dear woman-
I cant talk love. Love is a dry grain in my
mouth unless it is wet with kisses. *
“You would dare? right here on the Boule-
vard? before Arthur and Helen?”
“Before myself? I dare."
“Here then.”
Bona, in the slim shadow of a tree trunk, pulls
Paul to her. Suddenly she stiffens. Stops.
“But you have not said you love me.”
"I cant-yet-Bona."
"Ach, you never will. Youre cald. Cold.”
Bona: Colored; cold. Wrong somewhere.
She hurries and catches up with Art and
Helen.
Crimson Gardens. Hurrah! So one feels.
People . . . University of Chicago students,
members of the stock exchange, a large Negro in
crimson uniform who guards the door . . had
(144)


BONA AND PAUL
watched them enter. Had leaned towards each
other over ash-smeared tablecloths and high-
balls and whispered: What is he, a Spaniard, an
Indian, an Italian, a Mexican, a Hindu, or a
Japanese? Art had at first fidgeted under their
stares . . what are you looking at, you godam
pack of owl-eyed hyenas? . . but soon settled
into his fuss with Helen, and forgot them. A
strange thing happened to Paul. Suddenly he
knew that he was apart from the people around
him. Apart from the pain which they had un- accent
consciously caused. Suddenly he knew that
people saw, not attractiveness in his dark skin,
but difference. Their stares, giving him to him-
self, filled something long empty within him,
and were like green blades sprouting in his con-
sciousness. There was fullness, and strength
and peace about it all. He saw himself, cloudy,
but real. He saw the faces of the people at the
tables round him. White lights, or as now, the
pink lights of the Crimson Gardens gave a glow
and immediacy to white faces. The pleasure of
it, equal to that of love or dream, of seeing this.
Art and Bona and Helen? He'd look. They
were wonderfully flushed and beautiful. Not



[145]


CANE
for himself; because they were. Distantly.
Who were they, anyway? God, if he knew them.
He'd come in with them. Of that he was sure.
Come where? Into life? Yes. No. Into the
Crimson Gardens. A part of life. A carbon
bubble. Would it look purple if he went out
into the night and looked at it? His sudden
starting to rise almost upset the table.
“What in hell- pardon—whats the matter,
Paul?”
“I forgot my cigarettes—"
“Youre smoking one.”
“So I am. Pardon me.'
The waiter straightens them out. Takes their
order.
Art: What in hell's eating Paul? Moony
aint the word for it. From bad to worse. And
those godam people staring so. Paul's a queer
fish. Doesnt seem to mind. . . He's my pal,
let me tell you, you horn-rimmed owl-eyed hyena
at that table, and a lot better than you whoever
you are. . . Queer about him. I could stick up
for him if he'd only come out, one way or the
other, and tell a feller. Besides, a room-mate
has a right to know. Thinks I wont under-
(146]


BONA AND PAUL
stand. Said so. He's got a swell head when it
comes to brains, all right. God, he's a good
straight feller, though. Only, moony. Nut.
Nuttish. Nuttery. Nutmeg. . . “What'd you
say, Helen ?"
"I was talking to Bona, thank you."
“Well, its nothing to get spiffy about.”
“What? Oh, of course not. Please lets dont
start some silly argument all over again.”
"Well.”
"Well.”
“Now thats enough. Say, waiter, whats the
matter with our order? Make it snappy, will
you?"
Crimson Gardens. Hurrah! So one feels.
The drinks come. Four highballs. Art passes
cigarettes. A girl dressed like a bare-back rider
in flaming pink, makes her way through tables
to the dance floor. All lights are dimmed till
they seem a lush afterglow of crimson. Spot-
lights the girl. She sings. "Liza, Little Liza
Jane."
Paul is rosy before his window.
He moves, slightly, towards Bona.
With his own glow, he seeks to penetrate a
dark pane.

[147]


CANE
to Bona
Paul: From the South. What does that
mean, precisely, except that you'll love or hate a
nigger? Thats a lot. What does it mean except
that in Chicago you'll have the courage to neither
love or hate. A priori. But it would seem that
you have. Queer words, arent these, for a man
who wears blue pants on a gym floor in the day-
time. Well, never matter. You matter. I'd
like to know you whom I look at. Know, not
love. Not that knowing is a greater pleasure;
but that I have just found the joy of it. You
came just a month too late. Even this after-
noon I dreamed. To-night, along the Boule-
vard, you found me cold. Paul Johnson, cold!
Thats a good one, eh, Art, you fine old stupid
fellow, you! But I feel good! The color and
the music and the song. . . A Negress chants a
lullaby beneath the mate-eyes of a southern
planter. O song! . . And those flushed faces.
Eager brilliant eyes. Hard to imagine them as
unawakened. Your own. Oh, they're awake
all right. “And you know it too, dont you
Bona?"
“What, Paul?"
“The truth of what I was thinking."
[148]


BONA AND PAUL
“I'd like to know I know-something of you."
“You will—before the evening's over. I
promise it.” :
Crimson Gardens. Hurrah! So one feels.
The bare-back rider balances agilely on the ap-
plause which is the tail of her song. Orchestral
instruments warm up for jazz. The flute is a
cat that ripples its fur against the deep-purring
saxophone. The drum throws sticks. The cat
jumps on the piano keyboard. Hi diddle, hi
diddle, the cat and the fiddle. Crimson Gar-
dens . . hurrah! . . jumps over the moon.
Crimson Gardens! Helen .. 0 Eliza ..
rabbit-eyes sparkling, plays up to, and tries to
placate what she considers to be Paul's contempt.
She always does that . . Little Liza Jane. . .
Once home, she burns with the thought of what
she's done. She says all manner of snidy things
about him, and swears that she'll never go out
again when he is along. She tries to get Art to
break with him, saying, that if Paul, whom the
whole dormitory calls a nigger, is more to him
than she is, well, she's through. She does not
break with Art. She goes out as often as she can
with Art and Paul. She explains this to herself
[149]


CANE
by a piece of information which a friend of hers
had given her: men like him (Paul) can fasci-
nate. One is not responsible for fascination.
Not one girl had really loved Paul; he fascinated
them. Bona didnt; only thought she did. Time
would tell. And of course, she didnt. Liza. . .
She plays up to, and tries to placate, Paul.
"Paul is so deep these days, and I'm so glad
he's found some one to interest him.”
“I dont believe I do.”
The thought escapes from Bona just a moment
before her anger at having said it.
Bona: You little puffy cat, I do. I do!
Dont I, Paul? her eyes ask.
Her answer is a crash of jazz from the palm-
hidden orchestra. Crimson Gardens is a body
whose blood flows to a clot upon the dance floor.
Art and Helen clot. Soon, Bona and Paul.
Paul finds her a little stiff, and his mind, wan-
dering to Helen (silly little kid who wants every
highball spoon her hands touch, for a souve-
nir), supple, perfect little dancer, wishes for the
next dance when he and Art will exchange.

Bona knows that she must win him to herself.
“Since when have men like you grown cold?”
weakness
Stee.ee
[150]


BONA AND PAUL
“The first philosopher."
“I thought you were a poet—or a gym di-
rector.”
..."Hence, your failure to make love."
Bona's eyes flare. Water. Grow red about
the rims. She would like to tear away from him
and dash across the clotted floor.
“What do you mean?”
“Mental concepts rule you. If they were flush
with mine-good. I dont believe they are.”
“How do you know, Mr. Philosopher?”
“Mostly a priori.”
“You talk well for a gym director.”
“And you—"
“I hate you. Ou!”
She presses away. Paul, conscious of the
convention in it, pulls her to him. Her body
close. Her head still strains away. He nearly
crushes her. She tries to pinch him. Then sees
people staring, and lets her arms fall. Their
eyes meet. Both, contemptuous. The dance
takes blood from their minds and packs it, tin-
gling, in the torsos of their swaying bodies.
Passionate blood leaps back into their eyes.
They are a dizzy blood clot on a gyrating floor.

[151]


CANE
They know that the pink-faced people have no
part in what they feel. Their instinct leads
them away from Art and Helen, and towards the
big uniformed black man who opens and closes
the gilded exit door. The cloak-room girl is
tolerant of their impatience over such trivial
things as wraps. And slightly superior. As the
black man swings the door for them, his eyes
are knowing. Too many couples have passed
out, flushed and fidgety, for him not to know.
The chill air is a shock to Paul. A strange thing
happens. He sees the Gardens purple, as if he
were way off. And a spot is in the purple. The
spot comes furiously towards him. Face of the
black man. It leers. It smiles sweetly like a
child's. Paul leaves Bona and darts back so
quickly that he doesnt give the door-man a
chance to open. He swings in. Stops. Before
the huge bulk of the Negro.
“Youre wrong."
“Yassur.”
“Brother, youre wrong.
“I came back to tell you, to shake your hand,
and tell you that you are wrong. That some-
thing beautiful is going to happen. That the
[152]


BONA AND PAUL
Gardens are purple like a bed of roses would be
at dusk. That I came into the Gardens, into
1 life in the Gardens with one whom I did not
know. That I danced with her, and did not
know her. That I felt passion, contempt and
passion for her whom I did not know. That I
thought of her. That my thoughts were matches
thrown into a dark window. And all the while
the Gardens were purple like a bed of roses
would be at dusk. I came back to tell you,
brother, that white faces are petals of roses.
That dark faces are petals of dusk. That I am
going out and gather petals. That I am going
out and know her whom I brought here with me
to these Gardens which are purple like a bed of
roses would be at dusk.”
Paul and the black man shook hands.
When he reached the spot where they had been
standing, Bona was gone.
they lear
[153]








KABNIS
D ALPH KABNIS, propped in his bed, tries
N 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, un-
painted, are seasoned a rosin yellow. And
cracks between the boards are black. These
cracks are the lips the night winds use for whis-
pering. 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 children
Till poor rivers bring
Rest, and sweet glory
In Camp Ground.
[157]


CANE
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?
[158]


KABNIS
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 ..."
[159]


KABNIS
body, 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 un-
washed 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 the
UU
[161]


KABNIS
the 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 as-
sumption, juggle justice and a nigger. . . Some-
where, 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 life-
time 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 him-
[163]


KABNIS
W
22T
things 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 drag-
ging 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.
[165]


KABNIS
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 fit-
tings 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, in-
tensifies 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 that
[167]


KABNIS
on a forlorn, box-like, whitewashed frame
church. Negroes are gathering, on foot, driv-
ing questionable gray and brown mules, and in
an occasional Ford, for afternoon service. Be-
yond, 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 Lay-
man, 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 any-
one other than a silent man. Kabnis, trying to
[169]


KABNIS
Just the opposite, in fact. Theres more hospi-
tality 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 eas-
ily leave, if conditions were so mighty bad. And
then too, sometime back, my family were south-
erners y'know. From Georgia, in fact,
Layman: Nothin t feel proud about, Pro-
fessor. Neither your folks nor mine.
Halsey (in a mock religious tone): Amen t
that, brother Layman. Amen (turning to Kab-
nis, 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 gentle-
man—fellows, men like us three here -
Layman: Nigger's a nigger down this away,
Professor. An only two dividins: good an bad.
[171]


CANE
course 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 refer-
ring 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 get-
tin 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, Ise
[174]


KABNIS
comin 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
po 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. Mean-
ing 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-
[175]


CANE
tervals it rises to a crescendo note. The sister
begins to shout. Her voice, high-pitched and
hysterical, is almost perfectly attuned to the nerv-
ous key of Kabnis. Halsey notices his distress,
and is amused by it. Layman's face is expres-
sionless. 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 like
[178]


KABNIS
any 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 dash-
ing wildly from the room. Halsey and Layman
stare stupidly at each other. The stone, the
[179]


KABNIS
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.
[183]


CANE
Halsey: Youre a mess. Here, Layman. Get
some trash an start a fire.
Layman fumbles around, finds some news-
papers 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 boil-
ing. 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. Every-
body cares around these parts. Preachers an
[184]


CANE
steps towards the others, he seems to be issuing
sharply from a vivid dream. Lewis shakes
hands with Halsey. Nods perfunctorily to Han-
by, 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 col-
ored 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.
[190]


CANE
“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 glitter-
ing 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 pre-
serve 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. He
[192]


CANE
were 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. Every-
body'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 some-
times 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-water
[194]


KABNIS
several 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 unfathom-
able 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 uncomfort-
able. One by one they drift into the street.
[197]


CANE
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 mum-
blin 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 of-
fered. 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. Be-
longs 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 them
[200]


CANE
others, 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.
[204]


KABNIS
Their meeting is a swift sun-burst. Lewis im.
pulsively 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. Fear-
lessly 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 a good girl. A good girl. 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, wa-
vering, 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 with
[205]


CANE
awnings which form a sort of corridor that im-
perfectly echoes and jumbles what they say. A
fifth form joins them. They turn into the road
that leads to Halsey's workshop. The old build-
ing is phosphorescent above deep shade. The
figures pass through the double door. Night
winds whisper in the eaves. Sing weirdly in the
ceiling cracks. Stir curls of shavings on the
floor. Halsey lights a candle. A good-sized
lumber wagon, wheels off, rests upon the blocks.
Kabnis makes a face at it. An unearthly hush
is upon the place. No one seems to want to
talk. To move, lest the scraping of their feet . .
Halsey: Come on down this way, folks.
He leads the way. Stella follows. And close
after her, Cora, Lewis, and Kabnis. They de-
scend into the Hole. It seems huge, limitless in
the candle light. The walls are of stone, won-
derfully fitted. They have no openings save a
small iron-barred window toward the top of
each. They are dry and warm. The ground
slopes away to the rear of the building and thus
leaves the south wall exposed to the sun. The
blacksmith's shop is plumb against the right
wall. The floor is clay. Shavings have at odd
[210]


KABNIS
times been matted into it. In the right-hand
corner, under the stairs, two good-sized pine mat-
tresses, resting on cardboard, are on either side
of a wooden table. On this are several half-
burned candles and an oil lamp. Behind the
table, an irregular piece of mirror hangs on the
wall. A loose something that looks to be a gaudy
ball costume dangles from a near-by hook. To
the front, a second table holds a lamp and sev-
eral whiskey glasses. Six rickety chairs are near
this table. Two old wagon wheels rest on the
floor. To the left, sitting in a high-backed chair
which stands upon a low platform, the old man.
He is like a bust in black walnut. Gray-
bearded. Gray-haired. Prophetic. Immobile.
Lewis' eyes are sunk in him. The others, un-
concerned, are about to pass on to the front
table when Lewis grips Halsey and so turns him
that the candle flame shines obliquely on the old
man's features.
Lewis: And he rules over-
Kabnis: Th smoke an fire of th forge.
Lewis: Black Vulcan? I wouldnt say so.
That forehead. Great woolly beard. Those eyes.
A mute John the Baptist of a new religion-or a
tongue-tied shadow of an old.
[211]


CANE
then glares at him with a furtive hatred. Halsey,
bringing out a bottle of corn licker, pours drinks.
Halsey: Come on, Lewis. Come on, you
fellers. Heres lookin at y.
Then, as if suddenly recalling something, he
jerks away from the table and starts towards
the steps.
Kabnis: Where y goin, Halsey?
Halsey: Where? Where y think? That oak
beam in th wagon-
Kabnis: Come ere. Come ere. Sit down.
What in hell's wrong with you fellers? You
with your wagon. Lewis with his Father John.
This aint th time fer foolin with wagons. Day-
time's bad enough f that. Ere, sit down. Ere,
Lewis, you too sit down. Have a drink. Thats
right. Drink corn licker, love th girls, an listen
t th old man mumblin sin.
There seems to be no good-time spirit to the
party. Something in the air is too tense and deep
for that. Lewis, seated now so that his eyes rest
upon the old man, merges with his source and
lets the pain and beauty of the South meet him
there. White faces, pain-pollen, settle down-
ward through a cane-sweet mist and touch the
[214]


KABNIS
an aleadin every song. A white man took m
mother an it broke th old man's heart. He died;
an then I didnt care what become of me, an I
dont now. I dont care now. Dont get it in y
head I'm some sentimental Susie askin for yo
sop. Nassur. But theres somethin t yo th
others aint got. Boars an kids an fools-thats
all I've known. Boars when their fever's up.
When their fever's up they come t me. Halsey
asks me over when he's off th job. Kabnis-it
ud be a sin t play with him. He takes it out in
talk.
Halsey knows that he has trifled with her.
At odd things he has been inwardly penitent be-
fore her tasking him. But now he wants to hurt
her. He turns to Lewis.
Halsey: Lewis, I got a little licker in me,
an thats true. True's what I said. True. But
th stuff just seems t wake me up an make my
mind a man of me. Listen. You know a lot,
queer as hell as y are, an I want t ask y some
questions. Theyre too high fer them, Stella an
Cora an Kabnis, so we'll just excuse em. A chat
between ourselves. (Turns to the others.) You-
all cant listen in on this. Twont interest y. So
[219]


CANE
befo I got this job that beam ought t be
but tmorrow mornin early's time enough f that.
As I was sayin, I gets t thinkin. Play dumb
naturally t white folks. I gets t thinkin. I used
to subscribe t th Literary Digest an that helped
along a bit. But there werent nothing I could
sink m teeth int. Theres lots I want t ask y,
Lewis. Been askin y t come around. Couldnt
get y. Cant get in much tnight. (He glances at
the others. His mind fastens on Kabnis.) Say,
tell me this, whats on your mind t say on that
feller there? Kabnis' name. One queer bird
ought t know another, seems like t me.
Licker has released conflicts in Kabnis and
set them flowing. He pricks his ears, intuitively
feels that the talk is about him, leaves Cora, and
approaches the table. His eyes are watery, heavy
with passion. He stoops. He is a ridiculous
pathetic figure in his showy robe.
Kabnis: Talkin bout me. I know. I'm th
topic of conversation everywhere theres talk
about this town. Girls an fellers. White folks
as well. An if its me youre talkin bout, guess I
got a right t listen in. Whats sayin? Whats
sayin bout his royal guts, the Duke? Whats
sayin, eh?
[222]


CANE
Stella and Cora come up to the table.
Halsey: Give him a shove there, will y, Stel?
Stella jams Kabnis in a chair. Kabnis
springs up.
Kabnis: Cant keep a good man down. Those
words I was tellin y about, they wont fit int th
mold thats branded on m soul. Rhyme, y see?
Poet, too. Bad rhyme. Bad poet. Somethin
else youve learned tnight. Lewis dont know it
all, an I'm atellin y. Ugh. Th form thats
burned int my soul is some twisted awful thing
that crept in from a dream, a godam nightmare,
an wont stay still unless I feed it. An it lives on
words. Not beautiful words. God Almighty
no. Misshapen, split-gut, tortured, twisted
words. Layman was feedin it back there that
day you thought I ran out fearin things. White
folks feed it cause their looks are words. Nig-
gers, black niggers feed it cause theyre evil an
their looks are words. Yallar niggers feed it.
This whole damn bloated purple country feeds
it cause its goin down t hell in a holy avalanche
of words. I want t feed th soul—I know what
that is; th preachers dont-but I've got t feed
it. I wish t God some lynchin white man ud
[224]


CANE
somebody'll see th girls leavin? Some sport,
you are. I hand it t y.
Halsey: Up you get, all th same.
Kabnis: Oh, th hell you say.
Halsey: Well, son, seeing that I'm th kind-
hearted father, I'll give y chance t open your
eyes. But up y get when I come down.
He mounts the steps to the work-shop and
starts a fire in the hearth. In the yard he finds
some chunks of coal which he brings in and
throws on the fire. He puts a kettle on to boil.
The wagon draws him. He lifts an oak-beam,
fingers it, and becomes abstracted. Then comes
to himself and places the beam upon the work-
bench. He looks over some newly cut wooden
spokes. He goes to the fire and pokes it. The
coals are red-hot. With a pair of long prongs he
picks them up and places them in a thick iron
bucket. This he carries downstairs. Outside,
darkness has given way to the impalpable gray-
ness of dawn. This early morning light, seep-
ing through the four barred cellar windows, is
the color of the stony walls. It seems to be an
emanation from them. Halsey's coals throw out
[228]


CANE
Kabnis: Brother doesnt know what he's
talkin bout.
Carrie K.: Yes he does, Ralph. He needs
you on th wagon.
Kabnis: He wants me on th wagon, eh?
Does he think some wooden thing can lift me up?
Ask him that.
Carrie K.: He told me t help y.
Kabnis: An how would you help me, child,
dear sweet little sister?
She moves forward as if to aid him.
Carrie K.: I'm not a child, as I've more than
once told you, brother Ralph, an as I'll show
you now.
Kabnis: Wait, Carrie. No, thats right.
Youre not a child. But twont do t lift me bodily.
You dont understand. But its th soul of me that
needs th risin.
Carrie K: Youre a bad brother an just wont
listen t me when I'm tellin y t go t church.
Kabnis doesnt hear her. He breaks down and
talks to himself.
Kabnis: Great God Almighty, a soul like
mine cant pin itself onto a wagon wheel an sat-
isfy itself in spinnin round. Iron prongs an
[234]


KABNIS
help him. Dont look shocked, little sweetheart,
you hurt me.
Father John: Sin.
Kabnis: Aw, shut up, old man.
Carrie K.: Leave him be. He wants t say
somethin. (She turns to the old man.) What
is it, Father?
Kabnis: Whatsha talkin t that old deaf man
for? Come away from him.
Carrie K.: What is it, Father?
The old man's lips begin to work. Words are
formed incoherently. Finally, he manages to
articulate
Father John: Th sin whats fixed . . . (Hesi-
tates.)
Carrie K. (restraining a comment from Kab-
nis): Go on, Father.
Father John: ... upon th white folks-
Kabnis: Suppose youre talkin about that
bastard race thats roamin round th country. It
looks like sin, if thats what y mean. Give us
somethin new an up t date.
Father John:—f tellin Jesus—lies. Oth
sin th white folks 'mitted when they made th
Bible lie.
(237)


KABNIS
the steps. Carrie notices his robe. She catches
up to hiin, points to it, and helps him take it off.
He hangs it, with an exaggerated ceremony, on
its nail in the corner. He looks down on the
tousled beds. His lips curl bitterly. Turning,
he stumbles over the bucket of dead coals. He
savagely jerks it from the floor. And then, see-
ing Carrie's eyes upon him, he swings the pail
carelessly and with eyes downcast and swollen,
trudges upstairs to the work-shop. Carrie's
gaze follows him till he is gone. Then she goes
to the old man and slips to her knees before him.
Her lips murmur, "Jesus, come.”
Light streaks through the iron-barred cellar
window. Within its soft circle, the figures of
Carrie and Father John.
Outside, the sun arises from its cradle in the
tree-tops of the forest. Shadows of pines are
dreams the sun shakes from its eyes. The sun
arises. Gold-glowing child, it steps into the
sky and sends a birth-song slanting down gray
dust streets and sleepy windows of the southern
town.
THE END
[239]


82 61AAL 2013' BN
6456