Far as I can see, ain't nobody going to help us but ourselves, and we ain't got what it takes. Not here, not now."
"That is why, Li'l Joe, you want your David to have an education. Underneath that is why. Because of the first David Champlin."
"Mebbe so. Mebbe way back in my mind that's it."
Knudsen moved so quickly Joseph Champlin did not have time to stop him or offer help. He took their glasses, and in the kitchen poured out the stale drinks, and pulled open the refrigerator door with ill-controlled violence. He ran warm water over the ice-cube tray and wished he had never come to Louisiana. It would have been better if he had taken a professorship in the Northeast—or as his brother Karl had done, in the Midwest. The evil in some form would have been there too, but it would not have been an evil sanctioned and somehow made holy by tradition.
He had not asked his friend why the first David Champlin had died on a bonfire in a far-off field. He did not need to; there was always and eternally the One Reason, the Big Fear.
"Prey from the day they are born," said Knudsen aloud. He had often thought how every male Negro born in the South was marked for hunting. Even after he had been domesticated, he must be tamed like a pet lion cub, caged at maturity because of fear of its strength. Their maleness was an unsigned death warrant, its signature, the inadvertent glance, the mischance of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or merely the tinder of suspicion sparked by nothing more than the flint of hate and fear. Let a white woman, be she whore or housewife, maiden or crone, strip herself naked before him, crawl into his bed, lay the white skin of her body against the brown of his, let her do it in fact or with her eyes and the movements of her body that her blood's heat dictated, then let her cry rape and he was for burning. Let a white man violate her and let her cry out the truth—that he had been white—yet a black was marked for burning because rape was abroad in the land.
Bjarne Knudsen thought: If I were a Christian I would think of the fear in the minds of the burners; I would pity them. But I am not a Christian. I am a nothing, yet I must stand before upturned white faces and try to teach them something they have never known, and will never know until their minds and hearts are changed—civilization.
When he returned with the drinks, he crossed the room to Joseph Champlin's chair, placed a hand on the other man's shoulder when he started to rise, and put the drink on the low table before the fireplace. He carried his own drink to the desk, but did not sit down; instead stood looking at the man almost lost in the big chair.
"You will believe me if I tell you something, Li'l Joe?"
"I always does," said Joseph Champlin.
Knudsen thought: You will not commit yourself utterly, not even to me, not even if committal imposes no obligations; the habit of noncommittal is so strong it is almost a reflex.
"Then believe me now. I promise you our boy in the hospital, your grandson, the great-grandson of the man who died so horribly, shall have his schooling. But it must be planned. We Danes are a methodical people, for all some call us overgrown pixies. He will not, in the long run, lose an inch of ground, I promise you. I do not know children, but I feel today I know this boy of yours, this David, par coeur. No child will have better tutoring—if he is up to it. Tell him this. But he must be up to it, Li'l Joe."
"He's up to it, Prof; he's sure up to it." The smile on the thin face drove some of the evil from Bjarne Knudsen's room. "You tell me what you wants done, Prof, and I'll do it Means working day and night, it don't matter. I'll do it."
CHAPTER 9
The porter on the Humming Bird watched the tall boy with the straight shoulders and gimpy leg settle himself into the seat by the window of the Jim Crow car. He had smiled at the boy when he boarded, but the smile had faded quickly. There was that in the boy's eyes
"That is why, Li'l Joe, you want your David to have an education. Underneath that is why. Because of the first David Champlin."
"Mebbe so. Mebbe way back in my mind that's it."
Knudsen moved so quickly Joseph Champlin did not have time to stop him or offer help. He took their glasses, and in the kitchen poured out the stale drinks, and pulled open the refrigerator door with ill-controlled violence. He ran warm water over the ice-cube tray and wished he had never come to Louisiana. It would have been better if he had taken a professorship in the Northeast—or as his brother Karl had done, in the Midwest. The evil in some form would have been there too, but it would not have been an evil sanctioned and somehow made holy by tradition.
He had not asked his friend why the first David Champlin had died on a bonfire in a far-off field. He did not need to; there was always and eternally the One Reason, the Big Fear.
"Prey from the day they are born," said Knudsen aloud. He had often thought how every male Negro born in the South was marked for hunting. Even after he had been domesticated, he must be tamed like a pet lion cub, caged at maturity because of fear of its strength. Their maleness was an unsigned death warrant, its signature, the inadvertent glance, the mischance of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or merely the tinder of suspicion sparked by nothing more than the flint of hate and fear. Let a white woman, be she whore or housewife, maiden or crone, strip herself naked before him, crawl into his bed, lay the white skin of her body against the brown of his, let her do it in fact or with her eyes and the movements of her body that her blood's heat dictated, then let her cry rape and he was for burning. Let a white man violate her and let her cry out the truth—that he had been white—yet a black was marked for burning because rape was abroad in the land.
Bjarne Knudsen thought: If I were a Christian I would think of the fear in the minds of the burners; I would pity them. But I am not a Christian. I am a nothing, yet I must stand before upturned white faces and try to teach them something they have never known, and will never know until their minds and hearts are changed—civilization.
When he returned with the drinks, he crossed the room to Joseph Champlin's chair, placed a hand on the other man's shoulder when he started to rise, and put the drink on the low table before the fireplace. He carried his own drink to the desk, but did not sit down; instead stood looking at the man almost lost in the big chair.
"You will believe me if I tell you something, Li'l Joe?"
"I always does," said Joseph Champlin.
Knudsen thought: You will not commit yourself utterly, not even to me, not even if committal imposes no obligations; the habit of noncommittal is so strong it is almost a reflex.
"Then believe me now. I promise you our boy in the hospital, your grandson, the great-grandson of the man who died so horribly, shall have his schooling. But it must be planned. We Danes are a methodical people, for all some call us overgrown pixies. He will not, in the long run, lose an inch of ground, I promise you. I do not know children, but I feel today I know this boy of yours, this David, par coeur. No child will have better tutoring—if he is up to it. Tell him this. But he must be up to it, Li'l Joe."
"He's up to it, Prof; he's sure up to it." The smile on the thin face drove some of the evil from Bjarne Knudsen's room. "You tell me what you wants done, Prof, and I'll do it Means working day and night, it don't matter. I'll do it."
CHAPTER 9
The porter on the Humming Bird watched the tall boy with the straight shoulders and gimpy leg settle himself into the seat by the window of the Jim Crow car. He had smiled at the boy when he boarded, but the smile had faded quickly. There was that in the boy's eyes
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