August　21，1939

Morning

“I will not be hurried，”Doctor Copeland said.“Just let me be. Kindly allow me to sit here in peace a moment.”

“Father, us not trying to rush you. But it time now to get gone from here.”

Doctor Copeland rocked stubbornly, his gray shawl drawn close around his shoulders. Although the morning was warm and fresh, a small wood fire burned in the stove.The kitchen was bare of all furniture except the chair in which he sat.The other rooms were empty, too.Most of the furniture had been moved to Portia's house, and the rest was tied to the automobile outside.All was in readiness except his own mind.But how could he leave when there was neither beginning nor end, neither truth nor purpose in his thoughts?He put up his hand to steady his trembling head and continued to rock himself slowly in the creaking chair.

Behind the closed door he heard their voices：

“I done all I can. He determined to sit there till he good and ready to leave.”

“Buddy and me done wrapped the china plates and—”

“Us should have left before the dew dried，”said the old man.“As is, night liable to catch us on the road.”

Their voices quieted. Footsteps echoed in the empty hallway and he could hear them no more.On the floor beside him was a cup and saucer.He filled it with coffee from the pot on the top of the stove.As he rocked he drank the coffee and warmed his fingers in the steam.This could not truly be the end.Other voices called wordless in his heart.The voice of Jesus and of John Brown.The voice of the great Spinoza and of Karl Marx.The calling voices of all those who had fought and to whom it had been vouchsafed to complete their missions.The grief-bound voices of his people.And also the voice of the dead.Of the mute Singer, who was a righteous white man of understanding.The voices of the weak and of the mighty.The rolling voice of his people growing always in strength and in power.The voice of the strong, true purpose.And in answer the words trembled on his lips—the words which are surely the root of all human grief—so that he almost said aloud：“Almighty Host！Utmost power of the universe！I have done those things which I ought not to have done and left undone those things which I ought to have done.So this cannot truly be the end.”

He had first come into the house with her whom he loved. And Daisy was dressed in her bridal gown and wore a white lace veil.Her skin was the beautiful color of dark honey and her laughter was sweet.At night he had shut himself in the bright room to study alone.He had tried to cogitate and to discipline himself to study.But with Daisy near him there was a strong desire in him that would not go away with study.So sometimes he surrendered to these feelings, and again he bit his lips and meditated with the books throughout the night.And then there were Hamilton and Karl Marx and William and Portia.All lost.No one remained.

And Madyben and Benny Mae. And Benedine Madine and Mady Copeland.Those who carried his name.And those whom he had exhorted.But out of the thousands of them where was there one to whom he could entrust the mission and then take ease?

All of his life he had known it strongly. He had known the reason for his working and was sure in his heart because he knew each day what lay ahead of him.He would go with his bag from house to house, and on all things he would talk to them and patiently explain.And then in the night he would be happy in the knowledge that the day had been a day of purpose.And even without Daisy and Hamilton and Karl Marx and William and Portia he could sit by the stove alone and take joy from this knowledge.He would drink a pot of turnip-green liquor and eat a pone of cornbread.A deep feeling of satisfaction would be in him because the day was good.

There were thousands of such times of satisfaction. But what had been their meaning?Out of all the years he could think of no work of lasting value.

After a while the door to the hall was opened and Portia came in.“I reckon I going to have to dress you like a baby，”she said.“Here your shoes and socks. Let me take off your bedroom shoes and put them on.We got to get gone from here pretty soon.”

“Why have you done this to me?”he asked bitterly.

“What I done to you now?”

“You know full well that I do not want to leave. You pressed me into saying yes when I was in no fit condition to make a decision.I wish to remain where I have always been, and you know it.”

“Listen to you carry on！”Portia said angrily.“You done grumbled so much that I nearly worn out. You done fumed and fussed so that I right shamed for you.”

“Pshaw！Say what you will. You only come before me like a gnat.I know what I wish and will not be pestered into doing that which is wrong.”

Portia took off his bedroom shoes and unrolled a pair of clean black cotton socks.“Father, less us quit this here argument. Us have all done the best we know how.It entirely the best plan for you to go out with Grandpapa and Hamilton and Buddy.They going to take good care of you and you going to get well.”

“No, I will not，”said Doctor Copeland.“But I would have recovered here. I know it.”

“Who you think could pay the note on this here house?How you think us could feed you?Who you think could take care you here?”

“I have always managed, and I can manage yet.”

“You just trying to be contrary.”

“Pshaw！You come before me like a gnat. And I ignore you.”

“That certainly is a nice way to talk to me while I trying to put on your shoes and socks.”

“I am sorry. Forgive me, Daughter.”

“Course you sorry，”she said.“Course we both sorry. Us can't afford to quarrel.And besides, once we get you settled on the farm you going to like it.They got the prettiest vegetable garden I ever seen.Make my mouth slobber to think about it.And chickens and two breed sows and eighteen peach trees.You just going to be crazy about it there.I sure do wish it was me could get a chance to go.”

“I wish so, too.”

“How come you so determined to grieve?”

“I just feel that I have failed，”he said.

“How you mean you done failed?”

“I do not know. Just leave me be, Daughter.Just let me sit here in peace a moment.”

“O. K.But us got to get gone from here pretty soon.”

He would be silent. He would sit quietly and rock in the chair until the sense of order was in him once more.His head trembled and his backbone ached.

“I certainly hope this，”Portia said.“I certainly hope that when I dead and gone as many peoples grieves for me as grieves for Mr. Singer.I sure would like to know I were going to have as sad a funeral as he had and as many peoples—”

“Hush！”said Doctor Copeland roughly.“You talk too much.”

But truly with the death of that white man a dark sorrow had lain down in his heart. He had talked to him as to no other white man and had trusted him.And the mystery of his suicide had left him baffled and without support.There was neither beginning nor end to this sorrow.Nor understanding.Always he would return in his thoughts to this white man who was not insolent or scornful but who was just.And how can the dead be truly dead when they still live in the souls of those who are left behind?But of all this he must not think.He must thrust it from him now.

For it was discipline he needed. During the past month the black, terrible feelings had arisen again to wrestle with his spirit.There was the hatred that for days had truly let him down into the regions of death.After the quarrel with Mr.Blount, the midnight visitor, there had been in him a murderous darkness.Yet now he could not clearly recall those issues which were the cause of their dispute.And then the different anger that came in him when he looked on the stumps of Willie's legs.The warring love and hatred—love for his people and hatred for the oppressors of his people—that left him exhausted and sick in spirit.

“Daughter，”he said.“Get me my watch and coat. I am going.”

He pushed himself up with the arms of the chair. The floor seemed a far way from his face and after the long time in bed his legs were very weak.For a moment he felt he would fall.He walked dizzily across the bare room and stood leaning against the side of the doorway.He coughed and took from his pocket one of the squares of paper to hold over his mouth.

“Here your coat，”Portia said.“But it so hot outside you not going to need it.”

He walked for the last time through the empty house. The blinds were closed and in the darkened rooms there was the smell of dust.He rested against the wall of the vestibule and then went outside.The morning was bright and warm.Many friends had come to say good-bye the night before and in the very early morning—but now only the family was congregated on the porch.The wagon and the automobile were parked out in the street.

“Well, Benedict Mady，”the old man said.“I reckon you ghy be a little bit homesick these first few days. But won't be long.”

“I do not have any home. So why should I be homesick?”

Portia wet her lips nervously and said：“He coming back whenever he get good and ready. Buddy will be glad to ride him to town in the car.Buddy just love to drive.”

The automobile was loaded. Boxes of books were tied to the running-board.The back seat was crowded with two chairs and the filing case.His office desk, legs in the air, had been fastened to the top.But although the car was weighted down the wagon was almost empty.The mule stood patiently, a brick tied to his reins.

“Karl Marx，”Doctor Copeland said.“Look sharp. Go over the house and make sure that nothing is left.Bring the cup I left on the floor and my rocking-chair.”

“Less us get started. I anxious to be home by dinner-time，”Hamilton said.

At last they were ready. Highboy cranked the automobile.Karl Marx sat at the wheel and Portia, Highboy, and William were crowded together on the back seat.

“Father, suppose you set on Highboy's lap. I believe you be more comfortable than scrouged up here with us and all this furniture.”

“No, it is too crowded. I would rather ride in the wagon.”

“But you not used to the wagon，”Karl Marx said.“It going to be very bumpy and the trip liable to take all day.”

“That does not matter. I have ridden in many a wagon before this.”

“Tell Hamilton to come with us. I sure he rather ride in the automobile.”

Grandpapa had driven the wagon into town the day before. They brought with them a load of produce, peaches and cabbages and turnips, for Hamilton to sell in town.All except a sack of peaches had been marketed.

“Well, Benedict Mady, I see you riding home with me，”the old man said.

Doctor Copeland climbed into the back of the wagon. He was weary as though his bones were made of lead.His head trembled and a sudden spasm of nausea made him lie down flat on the rough boards.

“I right glad you coming，”Grandpapa said.“You understand I always had deep respect for scholars. Deep respect I able to overlook and forget a good many things if a man be a scholar.I very glad to have a scholar like you in the fambly again.”

The wheels of the wagon creaked. They were on the way.“I will return soon，”Doctor Copeland said.“After only a month or two I will return.”

“Hamilton he a right good scholar. I think he favors you some.He do all my figuring on paper for me and he read the newspapers.And Whitman I think he ghy be a scholar.Right now he able to read the Bible to me.And do number work.Small a child as he is.I always had a deep respect for scholars.”

The motion of the wagon jolted his back. He looked up at the branches overhead, and then when there was no shade he covered his face with a handkerchief to shield his eyes from the sun.It was not possible that this could be the end.Always he had felt in him the strong, true purpose.For forty years his mission was his life and his life was his mission.And yet all remained to be done and nothing was completed.

“Yes, Benedict Mady, I right glad to have you with us again. I been waiting to ask you about this peculiar feeling in my right foot.A queer feeling like my foot gone to sleep.I taken　666　and rubbed it with liniment.I hoping you will find me a good treatment.”

“I will do what I can.”

“Yes, I glad to have you. I believe in all kinfolks sticking together—blood kin and marriage kin.I believe in all us struggling along and helping each other out, and some day us will have a reward in the Beyond.”

“Pshaw！”Doctor Copeland said bitterly.“I believe in justice now.”

“What that you say you believe in?You speak so hoarse I ain't able to hear you.”

“In justice for us. Justice for us Negroes.”

“That right.”

He felt the fire in him and he could not be still. He wanted to sit up and speak in a loud voice—yet when he tried to raise himself he could not find the strength.The words in his heart grew big and they would not be silent.But the old man had ceased to listen and there was no one to hear him.

“Git, Lee Jackson. Git, Honey.Pick up your feets and quit this here poking.Us got a long way to go.”

一九三九年八月二十一日

清晨

“别催我。”科普兰医生说，“别管我。发发善心，让我在这里清静地坐一会儿。”

“父亲，不是我们催你，到时间了，该离开这里回家了。”

科普兰医生固执地摇晃着，灰色围巾紧紧绕在肩膀上。尽管早晨的空气温暖而清新，炉子里还是烧着一小块木头。厨房里什么家具都没有，只有他坐的这把椅子。其他房间也空了。大部分家具都已经搬到了波西娅家里，其余的则捆在外面的汽车上。一切就绪，唯独他自己的思想没有准备好。然而，他的脑子里没有开始，也没有结束；没有真理，也没有使命。他怎么能就这样离开呢？他抬起一只手，按住摇晃的头部，继续在吱吱嘎嘎的椅子里缓缓地摇晃着。

关着的那扇门后面，他听到了他们的声音：

“我尽力了。他坚持要坐在那里，等他好了，准备好再走。”

“巴迪和我已经包好了那些瓷盘子，还有——”

“我们要赶在露水干掉之前离开，”老人说，“不然，还没到家天就黑了。”

他们的声音安静下来。空荡荡的走廊里回荡着脚步声，听不到他们的声音了。他脚边的地板上放着一只杯子和碟子，他用炉子上的咖啡壶把杯子里倒满咖啡。他一边摇着，一边喝着咖啡，用蒸汽暖和着手指头。不能真的就这样结束。他的心里，还有其他的一些声音在无声地呐喊。耶稣的声音，约翰·布朗的声音。伟大的斯宾诺莎和卡尔·马克思的声音。还有那些曾经战斗过的人，曾经肩负使命的人，他们呐喊的声音。他的同胞们饱含悲痛的声音。还有逝者们的声音。哑巴辛格的声音，他是个正直、通情达理的白人。弱者的声音，强者的声音。他的同胞们发出的洪亮呐喊声一直在聚积，越来越响亮，越来越强大。强大的、真正的使命的声音。作为回应，那些话在他的双唇上颤抖着——那些“真的是人类所有悲哀根源”的话——他几乎要大声说出来：“万能的主啊！宇宙的终极力量！我做的都是些不该做的事情，而应该去做的事情我又没做到，所以真的不能就这么结束。”

他第一次住进这幢房子，是跟他爱着的她一起来的。黛西穿着新娘礼服，戴着白色蕾丝面纱。她的皮肤是漂亮的深蜜糖色，笑声甜美。夜晚，他把自己关进灯火通明的房间里，一个人学习。他努力认真思考，严格规束自己学习。但身边有了黛西，他便产生了一种强烈的欲望，即使学习也无法使其消散。因此，有时候他干脆顺从这种情感，然后再咬着嘴唇彻夜思考着那些书。后来有了汉密尔顿、卡尔·马克思、威廉和波西娅。全都失去了。一个也没有留下来。

还有马迪本、班尼·梅、本尼迪恩·马迪恩和马迪·科普兰，这些人都带着他的名字。还有他劝导过的那些人。然而，在这千千万万人当中，哪个才是他可以托付使命然后让自己安歇的人呢？

在他的一生中，他始终强烈地知道这种使命。他知道自己如此努力的原因，心底也非常笃定，因为他了解眼前的每一天。他背着箱子，走街串巷，跟他们聊所有的事情，耐心地给他们解释。到了晚上，他知道这一天是为完成使命而奋斗的一天，便会感觉很幸福。即便身边没有黛西、汉密尔顿、卡尔·马克思、威廉和波西娅，他也会独自坐在炉火旁，因为这个而高兴。他会喝杯萝卜叶汁，吃块玉米面包，心底生出一种深深的满足感，因为这一天过得非常美好。

这样满足的时刻有过千千万万个，但又有什么意义呢？在这么多年里，他实在想不出做过的事情中有哪样具有持久的价值。

过了一会儿，走廊的门开了，波西娅走了进来。“我觉得必须得像给孩子穿衣服一样给你穿好，”她说，“这是你的鞋和袜子，我帮你把拖鞋脱下来，穿上鞋袜。我们必须马上动身了。”

“你为什么要这么对我？”他愤愤不平地说。

“我现在怎么对你了？”

“你很清楚，我不想离开。你趁我状态不好不能做决定的时候，逼着我答应了。我希望待在一直待的地方，你明白。”

“你又来了！”波西娅生气地说，“你那么多牢骚，我都快受不了了。你不是生气，就是大惊小怪，我真为你感到羞愧。”

“哼！随你怎么说。你在我面前不过是只小虫子。我知道自己想要什么，谁也不能让我做不对的事情。”

波西娅脱掉他的拖鞋，打开一双卷着的干净黑色棉袜。“父亲，我们不要再吵了，我们都已经尽了最大努力。你跟外公、汉密尔顿和巴迪一起走，这是最好的计划。他们会好好照顾你，你会康复的。”

“不，我不走。”科普兰医生说，“我在这里也会康复的，我知道。”

“你觉得谁能为这幢房子付租金啊？你觉得我们怎么照顾你吃饭啊？在这里，你觉得谁能照顾你啊？”

“我一直都应付得了，以后也可以应付。”

“什么事你都要唱反调。”

“哼！你在我面前就是只小虫子，我不理睬你。”

“我在这里给你穿鞋袜，你却这么说我，真是太好了。”

“抱歉，原谅我，女儿。”

“你当然得抱歉，”她说，“我们俩当然都得抱歉，我们再也经不起争吵了。而且等我们把你在农场上安顿好，你立刻就会喜欢那里的。那儿的菜园是我见过最漂亮的，只是想想都让我流口水了，还有鸡、两头育种母猪和十八棵桃树。你会爱上那个地方的，真希望有机会去那儿的是我。”

“我也这么希望。”

“你为什么要这么难过呢？”

“我只是觉得自己失败了。”他说。

“你说失败了，是什么意思？”

“不知道。别管我，女儿。让我在这里静静地坐一会儿。”

“好吧，但我们必须马上动身。”

他要安静，他要静静地坐着，在椅子里摇着，直到心里恢复平静为止。他的头颤抖着，脊椎疼痛起来。

“我真的希望这样，”波西娅说，“我真的希望，等我死了，走了，为我伤心的人能赶上为辛格先生伤心的人那么多。我真的很想知道，我的葬礼是不是会跟他的一样让人伤心，有同样多的人——”

“嘘！”科普兰医生粗暴地说，“你的话太多了。”

然而，那个白人的死的确在他心里蒙上了一层阴郁的悲伤。他跟辛格交谈过，跟别的白人他从来没有这样交谈过，而且他信任他。他的自杀之谜令他困惑不已，感到孤立无助。这种悲哀，无头无尾，令人费解。他在脑海里总是想到这个白人。这个白人不张狂，不傲慢，公平待人。逝者如果仍然活在生者的心里，那他怎么能算真的逝去了呢？但是，他不能再想这些了。从现在开始，他要把这些统统抛开。

他现在需要的是约束。在过去的一个月中，那种阴郁可怕的感觉又出现了，折磨着他的精神。这里面有憎恨，连续多天让他陷入死亡一般的境地。跟那位午夜访客布朗特先生争吵过后，他心里一直有一团残暴的黑暗。但现在，他已经记不清当时是因为什么而引起的纷争。然后当他望着威利的残肢时，心头又涌上一股异样的愤怒。爱与恨不断冲突——爱他的同胞，恨压迫他同胞的人——这让他心力交瘁，精神萎靡。

“女儿，”他说，“给我拿手表和外套，我要走了。”

他扶着椅子扶手站起身来。地板似乎离他的脸非常遥远，卧床太久，他的两条腿非常虚弱。有一瞬间，他觉得自己要摔倒了。他头晕眼花地走过空荡荡的房间，然后倚在门框上，咳嗽起来。他从口袋里拿出一块方形纸巾，捂住嘴巴。

“给你大衣。”波西娅说，“但外面很热，不用穿。”

他最后一次走过空荡荡的房子。百叶窗紧闭，黑乎乎的屋子里有股尘土的味道。他靠在门厅的墙上歇一歇，随后走出门外。清晨天空晴朗，天气温暖。前一天晚上和今天一早，很多朋友都已经来道过别了——现在，门廊只有他们家自己人。外面街道上停着那辆骡车和汽车。

“喏，本尼迪克特·马迪，”老人说道，“我估计头几天你会有点想家，但很快就好了。”

“我没有家了，怎么还会想家？”

波西娅紧张地舔舔嘴唇说：“等他身体好了，准备好了，随时都可以回来。巴迪会很愿意开车把他送回镇上来，巴迪喜欢开车。”

汽车装得满满当当。一箱箱的书捆在脚踏板上，后座上塞了两把椅子、一个档案柜。他的办公桌四条腿朝天，拴到了车顶上。汽车不堪重负，骡车却几乎是空的。那头骡子耐心地站在那里，缰绳系在一块砖头上。

“卡尔·马克思，”科普兰医生说，“仔细看看，检查一遍家里，确保别落下什么东西。把我放在地上的茶杯，还有我的摇椅都拿来。”

“我们动身吧。我急着赶在晚饭前到家。”汉密尔顿说。

他们终于准备好了。海博埃用摇柄发动了汽车，卡尔·马克思坐到方向盘后面，波西娅、海博埃和威廉一起挤在后座上。

“父亲，建议你坐到海博埃的腿上，我觉得这样一定比跟我们和这些家具挤在一起要舒服。”

“不行，太挤了，我宁愿坐骡车。”

“但你不习惯坐骡车，”卡尔·马克思说，“路非常颠簸，而且可能要走一整天。”

“不要紧，我以前坐过很多次骡车。”

“那让汉密尔顿过来吧，他肯定更愿意坐汽车。”

外公是前一天赶着骡车来镇上的。他们带了一些土特产，有桃子、卷心菜和胡萝卜，让汉密尔顿到镇上来卖。除了一袋桃子，其他的都卖光了。

“喏，本尼迪克特·马迪，你跟我一起坐骡车回家吧。”老人说。

科普兰医生爬进骡车的后座。他很疲倦，浑身的骨头都像灌了铅似的。他的头颤抖着，突然感到一阵恶心，不得已赶紧平躺到粗糙的木板上。

“我很高兴你来了，”外公说，“你知道，我对文化人从来都充满深深的敬意。如果一个人是文化人，这种深深的敬意会让我忘记很多其他的事情。我很高兴我们家又来了一个你这样的文化人。”

骡车的轮子吱嘎作响。他们出发了。“我很快就回来。”科普兰医生说，“过一两个月，我就回来。”

“汉密尔顿，他也是个很好的文化人，我觉得他有点像你。他替我记账，念报纸。还有惠特曼，我觉得他也会变成一个文化人。现在他尽管还是个孩子，但已经可以给我念《圣经》了，也可以干些记账的活儿。我对文化人总是有种深深的敬意。”

骡车走着，颠着他的后背。他仰望着头顶的树枝，之后到了没有树荫的地方，他用手帕挡住脸，免得阳光刺眼。不可能就这样结束了。那种强烈真实的使命感一直埋在他的心底。四十年来，他的使命便是他的生命，他的生命便是他的使命。然而，一切还都没有做，什么都没有完成。

“是的，本尼迪克特·马迪，我很高兴让你又跟我们住在一起。我一直等着，想问问你我的右脚为什么感觉这么奇怪，感觉很怪异，就像右脚睡着了。我吃了六六六，还用搽剂按摩。我希望你能给我个好方子治治。”

“我会尽力。”

“是的，我很高兴你来。我相信所有亲人都应该团结在一起——血亲和姻亲。我相信我们大家应该一起努力，互帮互助，总有一天我们会在来生得到回报。”

“哼！”科普兰医生愤愤地说，“我相信现在的正义。”

“你说你相信什么？你的声音哑了，我听不见。”

“相信我们会拥有正义，我们黑人的正义。”

“是的。”

他感觉到心中有一团火，无法平静。他想坐起来，大声呐喊——但当他努力要坐起来时，却发现没有力气。心里的那些话越来越响，不肯沉默下去。但是，老人已经不再听他说话了，没有人听他说话。

“驾，李·杰克逊。驾，宝贝。抬起脚来，别在这儿磨蹭了。我们还有很远的路要走。”