At eight o'clock Doctor Copeland sat at his desk, studying a sheaf of papers by the bleak morning light from the window. Beside him the tree, a thick-fringed cedar, rose up dark and green to the ceiling.Since the first year he began to practice he had given an annual party on Christmas Day, and now all was in readiness.Rows of benches and chairs lined the walls of the front rooms.Throughout the house there was the sweet spiced odor of newly baked cake and steaming coffee.In the office with him Portia sat on a bench against the wall, her hands cupped beneath her chin, her body bent almost double.

“Father, you been scrouched over the desk since five o'clock. You got no business to be up.You ought to stayed in bed until time for the to-do.”

Doctor Copeland moistened his thick lips with his tongue. So much was on his mind that he had no attention to give to Portia.Her presence fretted him.

At last he turned to her irritably.“Why do you sit there moping?”

“I just got worries，”she said.“For one thing, I worried about our Willie.”

“William?”

“You see he been writing me regular ever Sunday. The letter will get here on Monday or Tuesday.But last week he didn't write.Course I not really anxious.Willie—he always so good-natured and sweet I know he going to be all right.He been transferred from the prison to the chain gang and they going to work up somewhere north of Atlanta.Two weeks ago he wrote this here letter to say they going to attend a church service today, and he done asked me to send him his suit of clothes and his red tie.”

“Is that all William said?”

“He written that this Mr. B.F.Mason is at the prison, too.And that he run into Buster Johnson—he a boy Willie used to know.And also he done asked me to please send him his harp because he can't be happy without he got his harp to play on.I done sent everything.Also a checker set and a white-iced cake.But I sure hope I hears from him in the next few days.”

Doctor Copeland's eyes glowed with fever and he could not rest his hands.“Daughter, we shall have to discuss this later. It is getting late and I must finish here.You go back to the kitchen and see that all is ready.”

Portia stood up and tried to make her face bright and happy.“What you done decided about that five-dollar prize?”

“As yet I have been unable to decide just what is the wisest course，”he said carefully.

A certain friend of his, a Negro pharmacist, gave an award of five dollars every year to the high-school student who wrote the best essay on a given subject. The pharmacist always made Doctor Copeland sole judge of the papers and the winner was announced at the Christmas party.The subject of the composition this year was“My Ambition：How I Can Better the Position of the Negro Race in Society.”There was only one essay worthy of real consideration.Yet this paper was so childish and ill-advised that it would hardly be prudent to confer upon it the award.Doctor Copeland put on his glasses and re-read the essay with deep concentration.

This is my ambition. First I wish to attend Tuskegee College but I do not wish to be a man like Booker Washington or Doctor Carver.Then when I deem that my education is complete I wish to start off being a fine lawyer like the one who defended the Scottsboro Boys.I would only take cases for colored people against white people.Every day our people are made in every way and by every means to feel that they are inferior.This is not so.We are a Rising Race.And we cannot sweat beneath the white man's burdens for long.We cannot always sow where others reap.

I want to be like Moses, who led the children of Israel from the land of the oppressors. I want to get up a Secret Organization of Colored Leaders and Scholars.All colored people will organize under the direction of these picked leaders and prepare for revolt.Other nations in the world who are interested in the plight of our race and who would like to see the United States divided would come to our aid.All colored people will organize and there will be a revolution, and at the close colored people will take up all the territory east of the Mississippi and south of the Potomac.I shall set up a mighty country under the control of the Organization of Colored Leaders and Scholars.No white person will be allowed a passport—and if they get into the country they will have no legal rights.

I hate the whole white race and will work always so that the colored race can achieve revenge for all their sufferings. That is my ambition.

Doctor Copeland felt the fever warm in his veins. The ticking of the clock on his desk was loud and the sound jarred his nerves.How could he give the award to a boy with such wild notions as this?What should he decide?

The other essays were without any firm content at all. The young people would not think.They wrote only about their ambitions and omitted the last part of the tide altogether.Only one point was of some significance.Nine out of the lot of twenty-five began with the sentence，“I do not want to be a servant.”After that they wished to fly airplanes, or be prizefighters, or preachers or dancers.One girl's sole ambition was to be kind to the poor.

The writer of the essay that troubled him was Lancy Davis. He had known the identity of the author before he turned the last sheet over and saw the signature.Already he had some trouble with Lancy.His older sister had gone out to work as a servant when she was eleven years old and she had been raped by her employer, a white man past middle age.Then a year or so later he had received an emergency call to attend Lancy.

Doctor Copeland went to the filing case in his bedroom where he kept notes on all of his patients. He took out the card marked“Mrs.Dan Davis and Family”and glanced through the notations until he reached Lancy's name.The date was four years ago.The entries on him were written with more care than the others and in ink：“thirteen years old—past puberty.Unsuccessful attempt self-emasculation.Oversexed and hyperthyroid.Wept boisterously during two visits, though little pain.Voluble—very glad to talk though paranoiac.Environment fair with one exception.See Lucy Davis—mother washerwoman.Intelligent and well worth watching and all possible help.Keep contact.Fee：$1（?）”

“It is a difficult decision to make this year，”he said to Portia.“But I suppose I will have to confer the award on Lancy Davis.”

“If you done decide, then—come tell me about some of these here presents.”

The gifts to be distributed at the party were in the kitchen. There were paper sacks of groceries and clothing, all marked with a red Christmas card.Anyone who cared to come was invited to the party, but those who meant to attend had stopped by the house and written（or had asked a friend to write）their names in a guest book kept on the table in the hall for that purpose.The sacks were piled on the floor.There were about forty of them, each one depending in size on the need of the receiver.Some gifts were only small packages of nuts or raisins and others were boxes almost too heavy for a man to lift.The kitchen was crowded with good things.Doctor Copeland stood in the doorway and his nostrils quivered with pride.

“I think you done right well this year. Folks certainly have been kindly.”

“Pshaw！”he said.“This is not a hundredth part of what is needed.”

“Now, there you go, Father！I know good and well you just as pleased as you can be. But you don't want to show it.You got to find something to grumble about.Here we haves about four pecks of peas, twenty sacks of meal about fifteen pounds of side meat, mullet, six dozen eggs, plenty grits, jars of tomatoes and peaches.Apples and two dozen oranges.Also garments.And two mattresses and four blankets.I call this something！”

“A drop in the bucket.”

Portia pointed to a large box in the corner.“These here—what you intend to do with them?”

The box contained nothing but junk—a headless doll, some duty lace, a rabbitskin. Doctor Copeland scrutinized each article.“Do not throw them away.There is use for everything.These are the gifts from our guests who have nothing better to contribute.I will find some purpose for them later.”

“Then suppose you look over these here boxes and sacks so I can commence to tie them up. There ain't going to be room here in the kitchen.Time they all pile in for the refreshments.I just going to put these here presents out on the back steps and in the yard.”

The morning sun had risen. The day would be bright and cold.In the kitchen there were rich, sweet odors.A dishpan of coffee was on the stove and iced cakes filled a shelf in the cupboard.

“And none of this comes from white people. All from colored.”

“No，”said Doctor Copeland.“That is not wholly true. Mr.Singer contributed a check for twelve dollars to be used for coal.And I have invited him to be present today.”

“Holy Jesus！”Portia said.“Twelve dollars！”

“I felt that it was proper to ask him. He is not like other people of the Caucasian race.”

“You right，”Portia said.“But I keep thinking about my Willie. I sure do wish he could enjoy this here party today.And I sure do wish I could get a letter from him.It just prey on my mind.But here！Us got to quit this here talking and get ready.It mighty near time for the party to come.”

Time enough remained. Doctor Copeland washed and clothed himself carefully.For a while he tried to rehearse what he would say when the people had all come.But expectation and restlessness would not let him concentrate.Then at ten o'clock the first guests arrived and within half an hour they were all assembled.

“Joyful Christmas gift to you！”said John Roberts, the postman. He moved happily about the crowded room, one shoulder held higher than the other, mopping his face with a white silk handkerchief.

“Many happy returns of the day！”

The front of the house was thronged. Guests were blocked at the door and they formed groups on the front porch and in the yard.There was no pushing or rudeness；the turmoil was orderly.Friends called out to each other and strangers were introduced and clasped hands.Children and young people clotted together and moved back toward the kitchen.

“Christmas gift！”

Doctor Copeland stood in the center of the front room by the tree. He was dizzy.He shook hands and answered salutations with confusion.Personal gifts, some tied elaborately with ribbons and others wrapped in newspapers, were thrust into his hands.He could find no place to put them.The air thickened and voices grew louder.Faces whirled about him so that he could recognize no one.His composure returned to him gradually.He found space to lay aside the presents in his arms.The dizziness lessened, the room cleared.He settled his spectacles and began to look around him.

“Merry Christmas！Merry Christmas！”

There was Marshall Nicolls, the pharmacist, in a long-tailed coat, conversing with his son-in-law who worked on a garbage truck. The preacher from the Most Holy Ascension Church had come.And two deacons from other churches.Highboy, wearing a loud checked suit, moved sociably through the crowd.Husky young dandies bowed to young women in long, bright-colored dresses.There were mothers with children and deliberate old men who spat into gaudy handkerchiefs.The room was warm and noisy.

Mr. Singer stood in the doorway.Many people stared at him.Doctor Copeland could not remember if he had welcomed him or not.The mute stood by himself.His face resembled somewhat a picture of Spinoza.A Jewish face.It was good to see him.

The doors and the windows were open. Draughts blew through the room so that the fire roared.The noises quieted.The seats were all filled and the young people sat in rows on the floor.The hall, the porch, even the yard were crowded with silent guests.The time had come for him to speak—and what was he to say?Panic tightened his throat.The room waited.At a sign from John Roberts all sounds were hushed.

“My People，”began Doctor Copeland blankly. There was a pause.Then suddenly the words came to him.

“This is the nineteenth year that we have gathered together in this room to celebrate Christmas Day. When our people first heard of the birth of Jesus Christ it was a dark time.Our people were sold as slaves in this town on the courthouse square.Since then we have heard and told the story of His life more times than we could remember.So today our story will be a different one.

“One hundred and twenty years ago another man was born in the country that is known as Germany—a country far across the Atlantic Ocean. This man understood as did Jesus.But his thoughts were not concerned with Heaven or the future of the dead.His mission was for the living.For the great masses of human beings who work and suffer and work until they die.For people who take in washing and work as cooks, who pick cotton and work at the hot dye vats of the factories.His mission was for us, and the name of this man was Karl Marx.

“Karl Marx was a wise man. He studied and worked and understood the world around him.He said that the world was divided into two classes, the poor and the rich.For every rich man there were a thousand poor people who worked for this rich man to make him richer.He did not divide the world into Negroes or white people or Chinese—to Karl Marx it seemed that being one of the millions of poor people or one of the few rich was more important to a man than the color of his skin.The life mission of Karl Marx was to make all human beings equal and to divide the great wealth of the world so that there would be no poor or rich and each person would have his share.This is one of the commandments Karl Marx left to us：“From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs.”

A wrinkled, yellow palm waved timidly from the hall.“Were he the Mark in the Bible?”

Doctor Copeland explained. He spelled the two names and cited dates.“Are there any more questions?I wish each one of you to feel free to start or enter into any discussion.”

“I presume Mr. Marx was a Christian church man?”asked the preacher.

“He believed in the holiness of the human spirit.”

“Were he a white man?”

“Yes. But he did not think of himself as a white man.He said，‘I consider nothing human as alien to myself.'He thought of himself as a brother to all people.”

Doctor Copeland paused a moment longer. The faces around him were waiting.

“What is the value of any piece of property, of any merchandise we buy in a store?The value depends only on one thing—and that is the work it took to make or to raise this article. Why does a brick house cost more than a cabbage?Because the work of many men goes into the making of one brick house.There are the people who made the bricks and mortar and the people who cut down the trees to make the planks used for the floor.There are the men who made the building of the brick house possible.There are the men who carried the materials to the ground where the house was to be built.There are the men who made the wheelbarrows and trucks that carried the materials to this place.Then finally there are the workmen who built the house.A brick house involves the labor of many, many people—while any of us can raise a cabbage in his back yard.A brick house costs more than a cabbage because it takes more work to make.So when a man buys this brick house he is paying for the labor that went to make it.But who gets the money—the profit?Not the many men who did the work—but the bosses who control them.And if you study this further you will find that these bosses have bosses above them and those bosses have bosses higher up—so that the real people who control all this work, which makes any article worth money, are very few.Is this clear so far?”

“Us understand！”

But did they?He started all over and retold what he had said. This time there were questions.

“But don't clay for these here bricks cost money?And don't it take money to rent land and raise crops on?”

“That is a good point，”said Doctor Copeland.“Land, clay, timber—those things are called natural resources. Man does not make these natural resources—man only develops them, only uses them for work.Therefore should any one person or group of persons own these things?How can a man own ground and space and sunlight and rain for crops?How can a man say‘this is mine'about those things and refuse to let others share them?Therefore Marx says that these natural resources should belong to everyone, not divided into little pieces but used by all the people according to their ability to work.It is like this.Say a man died and left his mule to his four sons.The sons could not wish to cut up the mule to four parts and each take his share.They would own and work the mule together.That is the way Marx says all of the natural resources should be owned—not by one group of rich people but by all the workers of the world as a whole.

“We in this room have no private properties. Perhaps one or two of us may own the homes we live in, or have a dollar or two set aside—but we own nothing that does not contribute directly toward keeping us alive.All that we own is our bodies.And we sell our bodies every day we live.We sell them when we go out in the morning to our jobs and when we labor all day.We are forced to sell at any price, at any time, for any purpose.We are forced to sell our bodies so that we can eat and live.And the price which is given us for this is only enough so that we will have the strength to labor longer for the profits of others.Today we are not put up on the platforms and sold at the courthouse square.But we are forced to sell our strength, our time, our souls during almost every hour that we live.We have been freed from one kind of slavery only to be delivered into another.Is this freedom?Are we yet free men?”

A deep voice called out from the front yard.“That the real truth！”

“That how things is！”

“And we are not alone in this slavery. There are millions of others throughout the world, of all colors and races and creeds.This we must remember.There are many of our people who hate the poor of the white race, and they hate us.The people in this town living by the river who work in the mills.People who are almost as much in need as we are ourselves.This hatred is a great evil, and no good can ever come from it.We must remember the words of Karl Marx and see the truth according to his teachings.The injustice of need must bring us all together and not separate us.We must remember that we all make the things of this earth of value because of our labor.These main truths from Karl Marx we must keep in our hearts always and not forget.

“But my people！We in this room—we Negroes—have another mission that is for ourselves alone. Within us there is a strong, true purpose, and if we fail in this purpose we will be forever lost.Let us see, then, what is the nature of this special mission.”

Doctor Copeland loosened the collar of his shirt, for in his throat there was a choked feeling. The grievous love he felt within him was too much.He looked around him at the hushed guests.They waited.The groups of people in the yard and on the porch stood with the same quiet attention as did those in the room.A deaf old man leaned forward with his hand to his ear.A woman hushed a fretful baby with a pacifier.Mr.Singer stood attentively in the doorway.Most of the young people sat on the floor.Among them was Lancy Davis.The boy's lips were nervous and pale.He clasped his knees very tightly with his arms, and his young face was sullen.All the eyes in the room watched, and in them there was hunger for truth.

“Today we are to confer the five-dollar award upon the high-school student who wrote the best essay on the topic，‘My Ambition：How I Can Better the Position of the Negro Race in Society.'This year the award goes to Lancy Davis.”Doctor Copeland took an envelope from his pocket.“There is no need for me to tell you that the value of this award is not wholly in the sum of money it represents—but the sacred trust and faith that goes with it.”

Lancy rose awkwardly to his feet. His sullen lips trembled.He bowed and accepted the award.“Do you wish me to read the essay I have written?”

“No，”said Doctor Copeland.“But I wish you to come and talk with me sometime this week.”

“Yes, sir.”The room was quiet again.

“‘I do not wish to be a servant！'That is the desire I have read over and over in these essays. Servant?Only one in a thousand of us is allowed to be a servant.We do not work！We do not serve！”

The laughter in the room was uneasy.

“Listen！One out of five of us labors to build roads, or to take care of the sanitation of this city, or works in a sawmill or on a farm. Another one out of the five is unable to get any work at all.But the other three out of this five—the greatest number of our people?Many of us cook for those who are incompetent to prepare the food that they themselves eat.Many work a lifetime tending flower gardens for the pleasure of one or two people.Many of us polish slick waxed floors of fine houses.Or we drive automobiles for rich people who are too lazy to drive themselves.We spend our lives doing thousands of jobs that are of no real use to anybody.We labor and all of our labor is wasted.Is that service?No, that is slavery.

“We labor, but our labor is wasted. We are not allowed to serve.You students here this morning represent the fortunate few of our race.Most of our people are not allowed to go to school at all.For each one of you there are dozens of young people who can hardly write their names.We are denied the dignity of study and wisdom.

“‘From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs.'All of us here know what it is to suffer for real need. That is a great injustice.But there is one injustice bitterer even than that—to be denied the right to work according to one's ability.To labor a lifetime uselessly.To be denied the chance to serve.It is far better for the profits of our purse to be taken from us than to be robbed of the riches of our minds and souls.

“Some of you young people here this morning may feel the need to be teachers or nurses or leaders of your race. But most of you will be denied.You will have to sell yourselves for a useless purpose in order to keep alive.You will be thrust back and defeated.The young chemist picks cotton.The young writer is unable to learn to read.The teacher is held in useless slavery at some ironing board.We have no representatives in government.We have no vote.In all of this great country we are the most oppressed of all people.We cannot lift up our voices.Our tongues rot in our mouths from lack of use.Our hearts grow empty and lose strength for our purpose.

“People of the Negro race！We bring with us all the riches of the human mind and soul. We offer the most precious of all gifts.And our offerings are held in scorn and contempt.Our gifts are trampled in the mud and made useless.We are put to labor more useless than the work of beasts.Negroes！We must arise and be whole again！We must be free！”

In the room there was a murmur. Hysteria mounted.Doctor Copeland choked and clenched his fists.He felt as though he had swelled up to the size of a giant.The love in him made his chest a dynamo, and he wanted to shout so that his voice could be heard throughout the town.He wanted to fall upon the floor and call out in a giant voice.The room was full of moans and shouts.

“Save us！”

“Mighty Lord！Lead us from this wilderness of death！”

“Hallelujah！Save us, Lord！”

He struggled for the control in him. He struggled and at last the discipline returned.He pushed down the shout in him and sought for the strong, true voice.

“Attention！”he called.“We will save ourselves. But not by prayers of mourning.Not by indolence or strong drink.Not by the pleasures of the body or by ignorance.Not by submission and humbleness.But by pride.By dignity.By becoming hard and strong.We must build strength for our real true purpose.”

He stopped abruptly and held himself very straight.“Each year at this time we illustrate in our small way the first commandment from Karl Marx. Every one of you at this gathering has brought in advance some gift.Many of you have denied yourselves comfort that the needs of others may be lessened.Each of you has given according to his best ability, without thought to the value of the gift he will receive in return.It is natural for us to share with each other.We have long realized that it is more blessed to give than to receive.The words of Karl Marx have always been known in our hearts：‘From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs.'”

Doctor Copeland was silent a long time as though his words were complete. Then he spoke again：

“Our mission is to walk with strength and dignity through the days of our humiliation. Our pride must be strong, for we know the value of the human mind and soul.We must teach our children.We must sacrifice so that they may earn the dignity of study and wisdom.For the time will come.The time will come when the riches in us will not be held in scorn and contempt.The time will come when we will be allowed to serve.When we will labor and our labor will not be wasted.And our mission is to await this time with strength and faith.”

It was finished. Hands were clapped, feet were stamped upon the floor and on the hard winter ground outside.The odor of hot, strong coffee floated from the kitchen.John Roberts took charge of the presents, calling out the names written on the cards.Portia ladled the coffee from the dishpan on the stove while Marshall Nicolls passed slices of cake.Doctor Copeland moved about among the guests, a little crowd always surrounding him.

Someone nagged at his elbow：“He the one your Buddy named for?”He answered yes. Lancy Davis followed him with questions；he answered yes to everything.The joy made him feel like a drunken man.To teach and exhort and explain to his people—and to have them understand.That was the best of all.To speak the truth and be attended.

“Us certainly have had one fine time at this party.”

He stood in the vestibule saying good-bye. Over and over he shook hands.He leaned heavily against the wall and only his eyes moved, for he was tired.

“I certainly do appreciate.”

Mr. Singer was the last to leave.He was a truly good man.He was a white man of intellect and true knowledge.In him there was none of the mean insolence.When all had departed he was the last to remain.He waited and seemed to expect some final word.

Doctor Copeland held his hand to his throat because his larynx was sore.“Teachers，”he said huskily.“That is our greatest need. Leaders.Someone to unite and guide us.”

After the festivity the rooms had a bare, ruined look. The house was cold.Portia was washing the cups in the kitchen.The silver snow on the Christmas tree had been tracked over the floors and two of the ornaments were broken.

He was tired, but the joy and the fever would not let him rest. Beginning with the bedroom, he set to work to put the house in order.On the top of the filing case there was a loose card—the note on Lancy Davis.The words that he would say to him began to form in his mind, and he was restless because he could not speak them now.The boy's sullen face was full of heart and he could not thrust it from his thoughts.He opened the top drawer of the file to replace the card.A, B，C—he thumbed through the letters nervously.Then his eye was fixed on his own name：Copeland, Benedict Mady.

In the folder were several lung X-rays and a short case history. He held an X-ray up to the light.On the upper left lung there was a bright place like a calcified star.And lower down a large clouded spot that duplicated itself in the right lung farther up.Doctor Copeland quickly replaced the X-rays in the folder.Only the brief notes he had written on himself were still in his hand.The words stretched out large and scrawling so that he could hardly read them.“1920—calcif.of lymph glands—very pronounced thickening of hili.Lesions arrested—duties resumed.1937—lesion reopened—X-ray shows—”He could not read the notes.At first he could not make out the words, and then when he read them clearly they made no reason.At the finish there were three words：“Prognosis：Don't know.”

The old black, violent feeling came in him again. He leaned down and wrenched open a drawer at the bottom of the case.A jumbled pile of letters.Notes from the Association for the Advancement of Colored People.A yellowed letter from Daisy.A note from Hamilton asking for a dollar and a half.What was he looking for?His hands rummaged in the drawer and then at last he arose stiffly.

Time wasted. The past hour gone.

Portia peeled potatoes at the kitchen table. She was slumped over and her face was dolorous.

“Hold up your shoulders，”he said angrily.“And cease moping. You mope and drool around until I cannot bear to look on you.”

“I were just thinking about Willie，”she said.“Course the letter is only three days due. But he got no business to worry me like this.He not that kind of a boy.And I got this queer feeling.”

“Have patience, Daughter.”

“I reckon I have to.”

“There are a few calls I must make, but I will be back shortly.”

“O. K.”

“All will be well，”he said.

Most of his joy was gone in the bright, cool noonday sun. The diseases of his patients lay scattered in his mind.An abscessed kidney.Spinal meningitis.Pott's disease.He lifted the crank of the automobile from the back seat.Usually he hailed some passing Negro from the street to crank the car for him.His people were always glad to help and serve.But today he fitted the crank and turned it vigorously himself.He wiped the perspiration from his face with the sleeve of his overcoat and hurried to get beneath the wheel and on his way.

How much that he had said today was understood?How much would be of any value?He recalled the words he had used, and they seemed to fade and lose their strength. The words left unsaid were heavier on his heart.They rolled up to his lips and fretted them.The faces of his suffering people moved in a swelling mass before his eyes.And as he steered the automobile slowly down the street his heart turned with this angry, restless love.

八点钟，科普兰医生坐在桌前，借着窗户透进来的暗淡晨光，研究着一沓纸。在他身边是一株树冠浓密的雪松，一片深绿色一直伸向天花板。自从执业第一年起，他每年圣诞节都会办一次聚会，现在一切准备就绪。前面几个房间的墙边，放了一排排凳子和椅子。房子里弥漫着新烤蛋糕和热气腾腾的咖啡的那种香甜味道。波西娅也在办公室，跟他一起坐在墙边的凳子上，两只手托着下巴，身体向前趴着，几乎快对折起来了。

“父亲，你从五点开始就坐在桌子前面，你不用起得这么早，应该待在床上，有事再起也不晚。”

科普兰医生用舌头润润厚嘴唇。他心头的事情很多，无暇顾及波西娅，她在身边让他有点烦躁。

终于，他转身望着她，有些恼怒。“你坐在这里惆怅什么？”

“我就是担心。”她说，“第一，我担心我们的威利。”

“威廉？”

“你瞧，他每个周日都定期给我写信，我周一或周二就会收到他的信，但上周他没写信。当然，我不是很着急。威利一直善良温柔，我知道他会没事的。他已经从监狱被送进戴镣囚犯队，他们要到亚特兰大北部什么地方干活儿。两个星期以前，他写信来说，他们今天要去做礼拜，让我把那套衣服和红领带给他送过去。”

“威廉就说了这些？”

“他信上说，那个B.F.梅森也在监狱里，他还碰到了巴斯特·约翰逊，威利以前认识这个男孩。而且，他还让我把口琴给他送去，说没有口琴吹他觉得很不快乐。我把所有东西都送过去了，还有一副跳棋和一块白冰皮蛋糕。但我特别希望再过几天能收到他的信。”

科普兰医生的眼睛里闪着热切的光，两只手怎么也停不下来。“女儿，这件事我们以后再聊，时间紧迫，我得先把这些弄完。你到厨房去看看是不是都准备停当了。”

波西娅站起来，竭力装出一副明朗开心的样子。“那五块钱的奖金你是怎么决定的？”

“我还没有最后确定最明智的办法是什么。”他谨慎地说。

他的一个朋友是位黑人药剂师，每年都会提供五块钱的奖金，奖励命题作文中写得最好的高中生。这位药剂师让科普兰医生全权批阅这些作文，等到圣诞节聚会上宣布获奖者。今年，作文的题目是“我的志向：我该如何提升黑人在社会中的地位”。只有一篇文章真正值得考虑，但这篇文章太幼稚，没有明智的建议。因此，要把奖项颁给这篇文章，有点不太慎重。

科普兰医生戴上眼镜，全神贯注地重新看起这篇文章。

这就是我的志向。首先，我希望能够考上塔斯凯基大学，但我不想成为布克·华盛顿[17]或者卡弗博士[18]那样的人。等我认为自己的教育结束了，我希望成为一名好律师，就像为“斯科茨伯勒男孩们”[19]辩护的律师一样。我只接手黑人诉白人的案子。每天，在每个方面，以每一种方式，我们的同胞都感觉低劣卑微。不应该是这样的。我们是个正在崛起的民族，我们不会长久地在白人的重压之下流汗，我们不能只是播种，却让别人收获。

我想像摩西那样，领着以色列的子民离开压迫者之地。我想创立一个“黑人领袖和学者的秘密组织”。所有黑人都将团结在这些推选出的领导人身旁，在他们的指引之下，准备起义。世界上的其他国家，如果他们关注我们民族的困境，愿意看到美国分裂，那么他们就会来帮助我们。所有黑人都要团结起来，要进行革命。最终，黑人将占领密西西比河以东和波托马可河以南的领域。我会建立起一个强大的国家，由“黑人领袖和学者组织”来领导。我们坚决不给白人签发护照——他们如果进入这个国家，不会有任何法律权利。

我仇恨整个白人种族，我会一直努力，这样，黑人民族就可以为曾经遭受的所有苦难复仇。这就是我的志向。

科普兰医生感觉到血管里热血沸腾。桌上的钟表嘀嗒作响，声音很大，刺激着他的神经。这个男孩想法如此疯狂，他怎么能把奖项颁给他呢？他该怎么决定？

其他文章都没有实质性内容。这些年轻人不肯动脑子，他们写的只是自己的志向，完全忽略了论题的最后部分，只有一点内容还算有些意义。二十五个学生中，有九人在文章一开头便写道：“我不想做奴仆。”这句话写完之后，他们就写要开飞机，要成为职业拳击手，或者牧师，或者舞蹈家。一个女孩全部的志向就是要对穷人好一点。

让他纠结的这篇文章的作者叫兰西·戴维斯。他还没有翻到最后一页看到签名，便已经知道了作者是谁。兰西以前给他找过麻烦。他姐姐十一岁时到别人家里当奴仆，后来遭到年过半百的白人雇主强暴。大约一年之后，他接到紧急电话，要他去看看兰西。

科普兰医生走到卧室的档案柜前，那里头装着他所有病人的资料。他拿出一张卡片，上面写着“丹·戴维斯太太及家人”。他浏览着上面的记录，最后看到兰西的名字。日期是四年以前。他的相关条目是用墨水写的，比其他人的内容都详细：“十三岁，已发育。自行阉割未遂。性欲旺盛，甲状腺亢奋。尽管不太疼痛，但两次就诊均大声哭闹。健谈——尽管有些偏执，但很喜欢说话。除一次意外，成长环境尚可。参见露西·戴维斯——母亲，洗衣工。很聪明，值得观察，并尽可能给予帮助。保持联络。费用：一块钱（？）。”

“今年的结果很难判定，”他对波西娅说，“但我觉得必须要把这个奖颁给兰西·戴维斯。”

“如果你决定了，那么——来跟我说说这里的一些礼物吧。”

聚会上要分发的礼物都放在厨房里。有纸袋子装着的食品和衣物，上面都用一张红色圣诞卡标好了。愿意来的人都接到邀请来参加聚会，但想来参加聚会的客人之前已经来过这里，在走廊桌子上专门的会客簿上写下了（或请朋友代写）自己的名字。这些袋子堆在地上，大约有四十个，接受者的需求不一样，每个袋子的大小便也不一样。有些礼物只是几小包坚果和葡萄干，另一些是些很重的箱子，一个人几乎抬不动。厨房里塞满了好东西，科普兰医生站在门口，鼻孔骄傲地翕动着。

“我觉得你今年干得非常好。人们都这么善良。”

“哼！”他说，“这些连百分之一的需要都满足不了。”

“喏，又来了，父亲！我很明白，你其实非常高兴，但你就是不想表现出来，你总得找点事情来抱怨。这里大概有四袋豌豆，二十袋粗面粉，十五磅腊肉，有鲻鱼，六打鸡蛋，很多粗玉米粉，好几罐西红柿和桃子，有苹果，两打橘子，还有衣服，两个床垫，四条毯子。我觉得已经很多了！”

“大海里的一滴水罢了。”

波西娅指着角落里的一个大箱子。“这里——这些东西你想怎么处理？”

大箱子里装的只是些垃圾——没头的布娃娃、脏兮兮的蕾丝花边，还有一块兔子皮。科普兰医生仔细查看着每件物品。“别扔，每样东西都有用。这些都是客人送的，他们只有这些。以后我会发现它们的用途的。”

“你看看这些盒子和袋子吧，这样我就可以把它们包起来。厨房这里没地方放，很快他们就要挤进来吃茶点了。我要把这些礼物都放到后门台阶上，还有院子里。”

朝阳已经升起，这将是晴朗而寒冷的一天。厨房里传来各种香甜的味道，炉子上放着一大壶咖啡，壁橱架子上放着冰皮蛋糕。

“这些都不是白人捐的，都来自黑人。”

“不，”科普兰医生说，“不完全对。辛格先生捐了一张十二块钱的支票，用来买煤。今天我也请他来参加聚会了。”

“天哪！”波西娅说，“十二块钱！”

“我觉得，请他来是对的。他跟其他白人不一样。”

“你说得对，”波西娅说，“但我一直在想我的威利。我真希望他今天能来参加聚会，真希望能收到他的信，我心里老想着这些。但现在我们不能再聊下去了，得去准备下。客人们可能要来了。”

还有足够的时间。科普兰医生洗漱完毕，仔细地换好衣服。有一阵子，他想练习一下人们都来了之后他要说的话，但期待和不安让他无法集中注意力。十点钟，第一批客人到了，不到半小时人们都来了。

“圣诞快乐！”邮差约翰·罗伯茨说道。他在拥挤的屋子里欢快地挤来挤去，一只肩膀高，一只肩膀低，还一边用白色丝手帕抹着脸上的汗珠。

“大家都圣诞快乐！”

屋子前面很挤。客人们都堵在门口，在门廊和院子里三五成群。没有拥挤，也没有粗鲁的行为，这种热闹井然有序。朋友们彼此喊着名字，陌生人被介绍认识，然后握手，孩子和年轻人们聚在一起朝后面厨房移动着。

“圣诞礼物！”

科普兰医生站在前屋中央的圣诞树边上，感觉有些眩晕。他胡乱跟人们握手寒暄。给他个人的礼物纷纷塞进他的手里，有些用丝带包得非常精美，有些则用报纸包着。他一时不知道该把礼物放到哪里。空气厚重起来，人们的声音也越来越大，一张张面孔在他周围旋转，他谁也认不出来。他慢慢恢复了冷静，找到地方放下怀里的礼物。眩晕慢慢退去，房间清晰起来。他扶了扶眼镜，开始看着四周。

“圣诞快乐！圣诞快乐！”

药剂师马歇尔·尼克尔斯也来了。他穿着燕尾服，正跟开垃圾车的女婿交谈。至圣升天教会的牧师也来了，还有其他教堂的两位执事。海博埃穿着花哨的格子西装，在人群中穿梭自如。健壮结实、油头粉面的年轻人对穿着艳丽长裙的年轻女人鞠躬。母亲们带着孩子，小心翼翼的老人们往俗艳的手帕里吐着痰。屋子里温馨而又吵闹。

辛格先生站在门口，许多人盯着他看。科普兰医生不记得自己是否欢迎过辛格先生的到来。哑巴一个人站在那里，他的脸有点像斯宾诺莎的一幅照片，一张犹太人的脸。看见他真好。

门窗都开着，风吹进屋子里，炉火熊熊燃烧。嘈杂的声音平息下来，人们都已经就座，年轻人一排排地坐在前面的地上。走廊、门廊，甚至院子里，都挤满了沉默不语的客人们。他发言的时间到了——他该说点什么呢？恐慌扼住了他的喉咙。一屋子的人都在等待着。约翰·罗伯茨一示意，所有声音都止息了。

“我的同胞们。”科普兰医生茫然说道，又停住了，所有那些话突然涌上他的心头。

“我们共同聚集在这个屋子里，来庆祝圣诞节，今年已经是第十九年了。人们第一次听说耶稣基督降生的时候，是在黑暗的时代。我们的人民在这个镇上的法院广场被卖为奴隶。从那以后，我们不知道多少次听到并且讲述耶稣一生的故事。而今天，我们的故事将与以往不同。

“一百二十年前，有个人出生在今天我们叫作德国的地方——这个国家远在大西洋彼岸。这个人像耶稣基督一样明白事理，但他的思想跟天堂或逝者的未来无关。他的使命是为了活着的人，为了那些工作、受苦、工作一直到死的劳苦大众，为了那些以洗衣、做饭为工作的人们，为了那些摘棉花、在工厂滚烫染缸边工作的人们。他的使命是为了我们，这个人的名字叫卡尔·马克思。

“卡尔·马克思是个有智慧的人。他对周围的世界进行了观察、研究和琢磨。他说这个世界分成两个阶层：穷人和富人。对于每个富人，都有一千个穷人在为他工作，让他更富有。他没有把世界分成黑人、白人或中国人——对卡尔·马克思而言，一个人是成为数百万的穷人之一还是成为少数的富人之一，这似乎比他的肤色更重要。卡尔·马克思的终生使命，是要实现人类平等，要均分世界上的大笔财富，这样就不会再有贫富差距，每个人都有自己的份额。这就是卡尔·马克思留给我们的训示：‘人尽其才，按需分配。’”

走廊里有一只满是皱纹的蜡黄手掌怯懦地挥动了一下。“他是《圣经》里的马可吗？”

科普兰医生做了解释。他拼出了这两个名字，还提到了日期。“还有问题吗？我希望大家都畅所欲言，一起讨论。”

“我猜，马克思先生是基督教教会的人？”牧师问道。

“他相信人类的精神都是神圣的。”

“他是白人吗？”

“是的，但他不认为自己是个白人。他说：‘我觉得所有人跟我都是一样的。’他认为自己是所有人的兄弟。”

科普兰医生停顿了一下，这次停顿的时间更长了。周围，一张张面孔都在等待着。

“我们在商店里买的每样东西、每样商品，它的价值是什么？价值取决于一样东西——制造或者培育这件东西所花费的劳动。为什么一座砖房子比一棵卷心菜贵？因为建造一座砖房子需要很多人投入劳动。有人去制作砖和砂浆，有人去砍树做铺地的地板，有人负责整个砖房子的建造问题，有人把材料运到要建房子的地方去，有人制造手推车和卡车用来运送材料。最后，还有工人建造这座房子。一座砖房子涉及很多很多人的工作——而我们每个人都会在自家后院种一棵卷心菜。一座砖房比一棵卷心菜贵，就是因为它需要投入更多的劳动。因此，人们购买这座砖房时，他就是在为砖房所包含的劳动付钱。但是，谁拿到了这些钱，也就是利润呢？不是付出劳动的那些人，而是管理他们的那些老板们。你如果进一步仔细研究一下这件事，你会发现，老板上面又有老板，上面还有更大的老板——因此，劳动生产出有价值的物品，而控制这种劳动的人是极少数。这样说清楚了吗？”

“我们明白了！”

但他们真的明白了吗？他重新开始，把刚才的话又重复了一遍。这次大家有了问题。

“建造这些砖房子用的泥土难道不用花钱吗？而且租地种庄稼难道不用花钱吗？”

“这是个好问题，”科普兰医生说，“土地，泥土，木材——这些东西叫自然资源。人类不能制造这些自然资源——人类只能开发自然资源，只能利用它们来工作。因此，这些东西应该归哪个人或者哪个组织所有吗？人怎么能够拥有种庄稼需要的土地、空间、阳光和雨水呢？对于这些东西，一个人怎么能说‘这是我的’，并且拒绝别人来分享它们呢？因此，马克思说，所有这些自然资源应该归大家所有，不应该分成小块，而是应该按照人们的工作能力不同供所有人来使用。像这样。比如，一个人死了，把一头骡子留给了四个儿子，儿子们肯定不会把骡子分成四块然后每人拿一块。他们会共同拥有，共同使用这头骡子。按照马克思的观点，人们拥有自然资源也应该这样——不是归一群富人所有，而是全世界所有工人们作为一个整体去拥有它。

“我们这个屋子里的人，谁都没有私人财产，或许有一两个人住的房子是我们自己的，或者还存了一两块钱——但我们拥有的一切只够我们勉强维持生计，此外我们一无所有。我们所拥有的一切就是我们的身体，而我们活着的每一天都在出卖我们的身体。早晨，我们去上班的时候，或者我们一整天都在劳作的时候，我们就是在出卖自己的身体。我们会为了任何一点报酬，为了任何目的，随时出卖我们的身体。我们被迫出卖身体，仅仅是为了吃饭，为了活下来。我们出卖身体所得的报酬，只是为了让我们有力气进行更多的劳作，为别人赚取利润。今天，我们不再被放到法院广场的台子上出售，然而，在我们活着的每一个小时里，我们都被迫出卖我们的体力、我们的时间、我们的灵魂。我们从一种奴隶制中解放出来，却又被送进了另一种奴隶制。这就是自由吗？我们已经是自由人了吗？”

一个深沉的声音从前院传过来。“这就是真相！”

“就是这么回事！”

“而在这种奴役中，不只有我们，全世界还有其他很多人，数以百万计，不同肤色，不同种族，不同信仰。我们必须牢记这一点。我们民族的很多人仇恨贫穷的白人，而他们也仇恨我们，就是镇上那些住在河边、在工厂里干活儿的人，他们几乎跟我们一样贫穷。这种仇恨是一种极度的邪恶，不会产生好结果。我们必须牢记卡尔·马克思的话，按照他的教导寻找真理。这种贫困的不公平或许会将我们团结起来，而不是将我们分开。我们必须牢记，我们都是通过劳动在这个世界上制造着有价值的东西。卡尔·马克思所说的这些重要真理，我们必须铭记在心，永不忘记。

“但是我的同胞们！在这间屋子里，我们——我们黑人们——还有另外一个使命，那是我们独有的。在我们心中有一种强烈而真实的使命，如果我们辜负了这个使命，我们将会永远迷失。那么，让我们看看这种特殊使命到底是什么。”

科普兰医生松了松衬衫的领子，他的喉咙里有一种哽咽的感觉，他的心里有太多痛苦的爱。他环顾沉默的客人，他们在等待着。院子里、门廊里的那些人同样静静地站着，跟屋里的人一样聚精会神。一位失聪的老人向前倾着身子，一只手兜在耳朵上。一个女人用安抚奶嘴安慰着焦躁不安的婴儿。辛格先生专注地站在门口。大部分年轻人则坐在地板上，这里面便有兰西·戴维斯。这个男孩很紧张，嘴唇毫无血色。他用两只胳膊紧紧抱着膝盖，年轻的面庞上是一种郁郁寡欢的神情。屋子里所有的眼睛都注视着科普兰医生，眼睛里闪烁着对真理的渴望。

“今天，我们要把五块钱的奖金颁发给一个高中生，他就‘我的志向：我该如何提升黑人在社会中的地位’这个题目写出了最出色的文章。今年获得这个奖项的是兰西·戴维斯。”

科普兰医生从口袋里掏出一个信封。“我无须再告诉大家，这个奖项的价值不仅仅在于奖金的数目——而是其代表的神圣真理和信念。”

兰西笨拙地站了起来，郁郁寡欢的嘴唇一直在哆嗦。他鞠了躬，接过了奖金。“你想让我把自己的文章念一念吗？”

“不用了，”科普兰医生说，“但我希望你这周找个时间来跟我聊聊。”

“好的，先生。”屋里又安静下来。

“‘我不愿意做奴仆！’在这些文章里，我反复读到这样的愿望。奴仆？我们当中只有千分之一的人有机会做奴仆。我们没有工作！我们没机会服务！”

屋子里爆发出不安的笑声。

“听着！我们中有五分之一的人去做苦力修路，去负责这个城市的卫生，或者在锯木厂、农场工作。另有五分之一的人根本找不到工作，但其余五分之三的人——我们大多数人呢？我们为那些连自己吃的东西都不会做的人做饭，很多人一辈子侍弄花草，只是为了一两个人享乐，还有很多人在豪华的房子里擦亮打过蜡的地板，或者我们为那些懒到不肯自己开车的人当司机。我们耗费自己的生命，做了成千上万份工作，而这些工作却对人没有任何真正的用处。我们辛苦劳作，但所有的劳动都浪费了。这就是服务吗？不是，这是奴役。

“我们辛苦劳作，但我们的劳动浪费了，我们又没有机会去服务。今天上午到这里的这些学生们，你们代表了我们民族里面幸运的少数人。我们大多数人都根本上不了学。你们每一个人的背后，都有成打的年轻人连自己的名字都写不下来。我们被剥夺了学习和智慧的尊严。

“‘人尽其才，按需分配。’我们这里的所有人都知道真正的贫穷是种什么样的折磨，这就是一种严重的不公平。但有一种不公平更为严重——被剥夺了按自己能力去劳动的权利，终其一生，都在做无谓的工作，被剥夺了服务的机会。剥夺我们的精神和心灵财富比抢走我们钱包里的钱财更可怕。

“今天上午在这里的年轻人当中，有些也许想当教师、护士，或者当自己民族的领导者，但你们大多数人都会被剥夺这种机会。你们不得不为了无用的目的出卖自己，才能勉强活下去。你们会遭受挫折，会失败。年轻的化学家去摘棉花，年轻的作家不能学习认字，教师在熨衣板上遭受无谓的奴役。我们在政府部门没有代表，我们不能投票。在这个伟大的国家里，我们是最受压迫的民族。我们不能抬高声音，因为长久不用，我们的舌头已经烂在了嘴里。我们的心越来越空虚，丧失了实现使命的力量。

“黑人同胞们！我们身上有人类思想和灵魂的所有财富，我们贡献出最宝贵的天赋，但我们的贡献被蔑视，被嗤之以鼻。我们的天赋被践踏在泥里，一文不值，让我们去做的工作还不如牲畜的工作有意义。黑人们！我们必须站起来，重新变成一个整体！我们必须自由！”

房间里响起窃窃私语的声音，一种歇斯底里的情绪在慢慢积聚。科普兰医生哽咽着，握紧了拳头。他觉得好像自己已经膨胀为一个巨人，心里的爱让他的胸膛变成了发动机。他想要大喊，让全镇的人们都听到自己的声音。他想要跌倒在地板上，用巨人的声音呐喊。房间里充满了呻吟和叫喊。

“救救我们！”

“万能的主！带我们离开这片死亡的荒野！”

“哈里路亚！救救我们，主啊！”

他挣扎着控制住自己，挣扎着，最终恢复了自制力。他压下内心的呐喊，寻求着那种强大、真实的声音。

“注意！”他喊道，“我们要拯救自己，但不是通过哀悼的祈祷来拯救，不是通过好逸恶劳和烈酒，不是通过身体的愉悦和无知，不是通过顺从和谦卑，而是通过骄傲，通过尊严，通过变得坚强、强大，以此来拯救自己。我们必须为我们真正的使命积聚力量。”

他突然停住了，站得笔直。“每年这个时候，我们会用自己卑微的方式阐释卡尔·马克思的第一训示。今天来参加聚会的每个人都预先送来了礼物，你们很多人牺牲了自己的舒适，只是为了满足别人的需求。你们每个人都尽了自己最大的能力，从来没有想过将来会得到什么价值的礼物回报。我们彼此分享，这是非常自然的事情。我们很早便意识到，给予比接受更美好。我们心里早已记住了卡尔·马克思的话：‘人尽其才，按需分配。’”

科普兰医生沉默了很久，好像话已经说完了。然后，他又说道：

“我们的使命，就是在我们屈辱的每一天，都要带着力量和尊严前行。我们必须有强烈的骄傲之心，因为我们了解人类思想和灵魂的价值。我们必须要教给自己的孩子们，我们必须做出牺牲，这样他们才能够赢得学习和智慧的尊严。这个时刻终究会到来，我们心里的财富将不再被蔑视和嗤之以鼻；这个时刻终究会到来，我们可以有机会去服务、去劳动，我们的劳动不会再被浪费。我们的使命就是带着力量和信念静候这个时刻的来临。”

话讲完了。掌声响起来，屋里地板上有跺脚的声音，外面坚硬的冬日大地上也传来跺脚的声音。厨房里飘来热的浓咖啡的味道。约翰·罗伯茨分发礼物，叫着卡片上写的名字。波西娅从炉子上的大壶里舀出咖啡，马歇尔·尼克尔斯则分发着一块块蛋糕。科普兰医生在客人中间走动着，身边总是围着一小群人。

有人碰碰他的胳膊肘。“你儿子巴迪就是以他命名的？”他回答是的。兰西·戴维斯追着他问问题，不管什么问题，他都回答“是的”。这种快乐让他觉得有些醉意蒙眬。教育、劝解他的同胞，给他们做解释——还有，让他们明白真理，这就是最好的事情。说出真理，得到关注。

“这次聚会我们真的非常开心。”

他站在门厅里，跟人们道别，一一握手。他重重地斜靠在墙上，只有眼睛还能动弹，他太累了。

“我真的很感谢。”

辛格先生最后一个离开。他是个真正的好人，是个有才华、真正有知识的人，他的身上看不到刻薄的傲慢。所有人都离开了，他留到了最后。他等待着，似乎在期待最后的结束语。

科普兰医生伸手按住喉咙，因为喉咙很疼。“教师，”他声音沙哑地说，“是我们最缺乏的，还有领导者，得有人把我们团结起来，引导我们。”

庆祝活动结束了，所有房间看上去都空荡荡的，一片狼藉。屋里很冷。波西娅正在厨房洗杯子。圣诞树上的银色雪花被踩到了地上，有两件装饰品已经碎了。

他非常疲倦，但心里的快乐和狂热让他难以平静。他从卧室开始，动手整理屋子。文件柜上有一张掉出来的卡片——兰西·戴维斯的资料。他脑子里出现了要对兰西说的话，他有些心神不宁，因为这些话他现在没法说出来。他满脑子都是男孩那张郁郁寡欢的脸，挥之不去。他打开上层抽屉，把卡片放回原位，A、B、C——他紧张地翻动着这些字母，然后眼睛定格在自己的名字上：本尼迪克特·马迪·科普兰。

文件夹里有几张肺部的X光片，还有简短的病历。他把一张X光片放到光线底下。在左肺上部，有一处明亮的地方，像颗钙化的星星，再往下有一大块阴影区域，右肺上部有块一模一样的地方。科普兰医生迅速将X光片放回文件夹，只有他给自己写的简短记录还拿在手里，上面的字迹很大，很潦草，他自己都几乎认不出来了。“一九二〇年——淋巴结钙化——淋巴结明显增厚，病变已得到控制——功能恢复。一九三七年——病变复发——X光片显示——”记录看不下去了。起初，他看不清楚字迹，等看清后，他又不明白什么意思。最后，记录上有几个字：“预断：不得而知。”

那种熟悉的灰暗疯狂的感觉又传遍他的全身。他俯下身，猛地拉开下面的一个抽屉。一堆乱七八糟的信件——有色人种进步协会写来的几张便条。黛西写来的一封信，已经发黄了。汉密尔顿写的便条，要一块五毛钱。他在找什么？他的两只手在抽屉里乱翻一气，最后他僵直地站起身来。

浪费时间。已经过了一个小时了。

波西娅在厨房桌前削着土豆。她弯腰趴在那里，脸上一副悲伤的表情。

“把肩膀抬起来，”他生气地说，“别再发愁了，你整天发愁、发呆，我实在看不下去了。”

“我只是在想威利。”她说，“写信的话，只要三天就到了。但他没有理由让我这么担心，他不是那种男孩。我现在感觉很奇怪。”

“耐心点，女儿。”

“我觉得必须得耐心。”

“有几个病人我得去看看，很快就回来。”

“好的。”

“一切都会好的。”他说。

走到晴朗凉爽的正午阳光底下，他的快乐消失了一大半，脑子里都是病人的病情。肾肿胀，脊膜炎，脊椎结核病。他从后座拿起汽车的曲柄。通常，他会招呼大街上路过的黑人给自己用曲柄发动汽车，他的同胞们总是很乐意效劳。但今天，他自己把曲柄伸进去，猛力转动起来。他用大衣袖子抹抹脸上的汗珠，匆忙坐到方向盘后面，开车走了。

今天他说的那些话，人们听懂了多少？有多少东西可以有点价值？他回想着自己的措辞，那些词似乎都淡去了，没有了力量，而没说出口的那些话反而沉甸甸地压在心头。这些话涌上他的唇边，令他焦虑不安。他眼前浮现出同胞们遭受苦难的面孔，这些面孔越来越多。他开车沿着街道慢慢前行，心里因为这种愤怒、焦躁的爱而翻腾不止。