the house behind the cedars(雪松后的房子)-第34章
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The household was not left entirely destitute。 Mis' Molly owned her
home； and had a store of gold pieces in the chest beneath her bed。 A
small piece of real estate stood in the name of each of the children； the
income from which contributed to their maintenance。 Larger
expectations were dependent upon the discovery of a promised will； which
never came to light。 Mis' Molly wore black for several years after this
bereavement； until the teacher and the preacher； following close upon the
heels of military occupation； suggested to the colored people new
standards of life and character； in the light of which Mis' Molly laid her
mourning sadly and shamefacedly aside。 She had eaten of the fruit of the
Tree of Knowledge。 After the war she formed the habit of church…going；
and might have been seen now and then； with her daughter； in a retired
corner of the gallery of the white Episcopal church。 Upon the ground
floor was a certain pew which could be seen from her seat； where once
had sat a gentleman whose pleasures had not interfered with the practice
of his religion。 She might have had a better seat in a church where a
Northern missionary would have preached a sermon better suited to her
comprehension and her moral needs； but she preferred the other。 She was
not white； alas！ she was shut out from this seeming paradise； but she liked
to see the distant glow of the celestial city； and to recall the days when she
had basked in its radiance。 She did not sympathize greatly with the new
era opened up for the emancipated slaves； she had no ideal love of liberty；
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she was no broader and no more altruistic than the white people around
her； to whom she had always looked up； and she sighed for the old days；
because to her they had been the good days。 Now； not only was her king
dead； but the shield of his memory protected her no longer。
Molly had lost one child； and his grave was visible from the kitchen
window； under a small clump of cedars in the rear of the two…acre lot。
For even in the towns many a household had its private cemetery in those
old days when the living were close to the dead； and ghosts were not the
mere chimeras of a sick imagination； but real though unsubstantial entities；
of which it was almost disgraceful not to have seen one or two。 Had not
the Witch of Endor called up the shade of Samuel the prophet？ Had not
the spirit of Mis' Molly's dead son appeared to her； as well as the ghostly
presence of another she had loved？
In 1855； Mis' Molly's remaining son had grown into a tall； slender lad
of fifteen； with his father's patrician features and his mother's Indian hair；
and no external sign to mark him off from the white boys on the street。
He soon came to know； however； that there was a difference。 He was
informed one day that he was black。 He denied the proposition and
thrashed the child who made it。 The scene was repeated the next day；
with a variation；he was himself thrashed by a larger boy。 When he had
been beaten five or six times； he ceased to argue the point； though to
himself he never admitted the charge。 His playmates might call him
black； the mirror proved that God； the Father of all； had made him white；
and God； he had been taught； made no mistakes；having made him white；
He must have meant him to be white。
In the 〃hall〃 or parlor of his mother's house stood a quaintly carved
black walnut bookcase； containing a small but remarkable collection of
books； which had at one time been used； in his hours of retreat and
relaxation from business and politics； by the distinguished gentleman who
did not give his name to Mis' Molly's children；to whom it would have
been a valuable heritage； could they have had the right to bear it。 Among
the books were a volume of Fielding's complete works； in fine print； set in
double columns； a set of Bulwer's novels； a collection of everything that
Walter Scottthe literary idol of the Southhad ever written； Beaumont
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and Fletcher's plays； cheek by jowl with the history of the virtuous
Clarissa Harlowe； the Spectator and Tristram Shandy； Robinson Crusoe
and the Arabian Nights。 On these secluded shelves Roderick Random；
Don Quixote； and Gil Blas for a long time ceased their wanderings； the
Pilgrim's Progress was suspended； Milton's mighty harmonies were dumb；
and Shakespeare reigned over a silent kingdom。 An illustrated Bible；
with a wonderful Apocrypha； was flanked on one side by Volney's Ruins
of Empire and on the other by Paine's Age of Reason； for the collector of
the books had been a man of catholic taste as well as of inquiring mind；
and no one who could have criticised his reading ever penetrated behind
the cedar hedge。 A history of the French Revolution consorted amiably
with a homespun chronicle of North Carolina； rich in biographical notices
of distinguished citizens and inscriptions from their tombstones； upon
reading which one might well wonder why North Carolina had not long
ago eclipsed the rest of the world in wealth； wisdom； glory； and renown。
On almost every page of this monumental work could be found the most
ardent panegyrics of liberty； side by side with the slavery statistics of the
State；an incongruity of which the learned author was deliciously
unconscious。
When John Walden was yet a small boy； he had learned all that could
be taught by the faded mulatto teacher in the long； shiny black frock coat；
whom local public opinion permitted to teach a handful of free colored
children for a pittance barely enough to keep soul and body together。
When the boy had learned to read； he discovered the library； which for
several years had been without a reader； and found in it the portal of a new
world； peopled with strange and marvelous beings。 Lying prone upon the
floor of the shaded front piazza； behind the fragrant garden； he followed
the fortunes of Tom Jones and Sophia； he wept over the fate of Eugene
Aram； he penetrated with Richard the Lion…heart into Saladin's tent； with
Gil Blas into the robbers' cave； he flew through the air on the magic carpet
or the enchanted horse； or tied with Sindbad to the roc's leg。 Sometimes
he read or repeated the simpler stories to his little sister； sitting wide…eyed
by his side。 When he had read all the books；indeed； long before he had
read them all；he too had tasted of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge：
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contentment took its flight； and happiness lay far beyond the sphere where
he was born。 The blood of his white fathers； the heirs of the ages； cried
out for its own； and after the manner of that blood set about getting the
object of its d
