Jonah's Gourd Vine

by Zora Neale Hurston

  “Yeah,” agreed Rev. Pearson, “we preachers is in uh tight fix. Us don’t know whether tuh g’wan Nawth wid de biggest part of our churches or stay home wid de rest.”

  “Some of ’em done went. Know one man from Palatka done opened up uh church in Philadelphy and most of ’em is his ole congregation. Zion Hope sho done lost uh many one. Most of ’em young folks too.”

  “Well maybe they won’t stay Nawth. Most of ’em ain’t useter col’ weather fuh one thing.”

  “Yeah, but dey’ll git used tuh it. Dey up dere now makin’ big money and livin’ in brick houses. Iss powerful hard tuh git uh countryman outa town. He’s jus’ ez crazy ’bout it ez uh hog is ’bout town swill. Dey won’t be back soon.”

  Do what they would, the State, County and City all over the South could do little to halt the stampede. The cry of “Goin’ Nawth” hung over the land like the wail over Egypt at the death of the first-born. The railroad stations might be watched, but there could be no effective censorship over the mails. No one could keep track of the movements of cars and wagons and mules and men walking. Railroads, hardroads, dirt roads, side roads, roads were in the minds of the black South and all roads led North.

  Whereas in Egypt the coming of the locust made desolation, in the farming South the departure of the Negro laid waste the agricultural industry—crops rotted, houses careened crazily in their utter desertion, and grass grew up in streets. On to the North! The land of promise.

  CHAPTER 20

  Hattie was rubbing in the first water and dropping the white things into the wash-pot when Deacon Harris hurried up to her back gate.

  “Mawnin’, Sister Pearson,” opening the gate.

  “Howdy do, Deacon?”

  “Ain’t got no right tuh grumble. How you?”

  “Not so many, dis mawnin’. You look lak you in uh kinda slow hurry.”

  “Nope, jes’ anxious tuh tell yuh uh thing uh two.”

  “If is sumpin tuh better mah condition, hurry up and tell it. God knows Ah sho needs somebody tuh give aid and assistance. Reverend and his gang sho is gripin’ me. Ah feels lak uh cat in hell wid no claws.”

  “First thing, Ah got uh man Ah b’lieve, if de crowd ever git tuh hear ’im, dey’d lak ’im better’n de Rev’und.”

  “Where he come from?”

  “Wes’ Floriduh. Man he kin cold preach! Preached over in Goldsborough las’ night and strowed fire all over de place. Younger man dan Pearson too.”

  “Can’t you fix it fuh ’im tuh speak at Zion Hope?”

  “Sho. Done ’bout got it fixed fuh de fourth Sunday night. Dat ain’t Pastoral Sunday, but its de nex’ bes’. De crowd’ll be almos’ ez big.”

  “Dat’s fine! Some uh dem niggers don’t b’lieve nobody kin preach but John Pearson. Let ’em see. Den maybe dey’ll set ’im down. Ah don’t keer whut dey do wid ’im. Ah do know one thing, Ah sho got mah belly full. Whus de other things you wuz goin’ tuh tell me ’bout?”

  “Well, in looking over de books, I saw where mos’ of the folks whut would stand up for Rev’und so hard, is gone. If we wuz tuh bring de thing tuh uh vote Ah b’lieve we kin dig up de hidden wedge. Ah been sorta feelin’ ’round ’mong some de members and b’lieve de time done come when we kin chop down dis Jonah’s gourd vine.”

  “Dat sho would be all de heben Ah ever want to see. How kin we bring it uhbout? You got tuh have plenty tuh show do some uh dat crowd won’t hear it.”

  “You git uh divorce from ’im. You kin git plenty witnesses tuh bear yuh out in dat. Ah’ll be one mahself.”

  “Chile, he wouldn’t keer nothin’ ’bout dat. He’d be glad, Ah speck, so he kin run loose wid dat Gertie Burden. Dat’s de one he sho ’nuff crazy ’bout.”

  “Who you tellin’? Ever since she wuz knee high. Us knowed it all de time, but thought yuh didn’t.”

  “He don’t try tuh keep it out mah sight. He washes mah face wid her night and day.”

  “You jokin’!”

  “Know whut he told me las’ time Ah got ’im ’bout her? Says, ‘Don’t be callin’ dat girl all out her name, Miss Lucy didn’t call you nothin’.’ Deacon Harris, Ah wuz so mad Ah could uh lammed ’im wid lightnin’, but how de divorce goin’ set ’im down?”

  “Yuh see de church punishes fuh things de law don’t chastize fuh, and if iss so bad ’til de law’ll handle it, de church is bound tuh. Don’t need no mo’ trial.”

  “But Ah can’t eben start uh divorce trial jus’ dry long so.”

  “You kin pick uh fight outa Sister Beery uh Gertie Burden, can’t yuh? Dat’ll th’ow de fat in de fiah, and bring eve’ything out in de day light, and when iss all over wid, he’ll be uh lost ball in de high grass. Ah sick and tiahed uh all dese so-called no-harm sins. Dis ain’t no harm, and dat ain’t no harm, and all dese li’l’ no-harm sins is whut leads folks straight to hell.”

  “De one Ah wants tuh beat de worse is dat ole Beery Buzzard. Right on de church ground she ast me one Sunday, if Miss Lucy’s bed wudden still hot when Ah got in it.”

  “Jump on her, den.”

  “She’s rawbony, but she look real strong tuh me. Ole long, tall, black huzzy! Wisht Ah could hurt ’er.”

  “She don’t eat iron biscuits and she don’t sop cement gravy. She kin be hurt, and den agin, you kin git help—not open, yuh know, but on de sly. Somebody tuh hand yuh sumpin jes’ when you need it bad.”

  “When mus’ Ah tackle de slut?”

  “De very nex’ time Rev’und goes off somewhere tuh preach. If he’s dere he’d git it stopped too quick. Befo’ it make uhnough disturbment.”

  Two incidents nerved Hattie’s hand. The first, that same evening Rev. Pearson came in from some carpentry work he had been doing out around Geneva, obviously crestfallen, but nothing she did succeeded in making him tell her the reason.

  If she could have seen her husband at noon time of that very same day she would have seen him seated beside the luscious Gertie on a cypress log with her left hand in his and his right arm about her waist.

  “John, Ah b’lieve Ahm goin’ ter marry.”

  “Please, Gertie, don’t say dat.”

  “You married, ain’tcha? Ahm twenty-two. Papa and mama spectin’ me tuh marry some time uh other and dey think Ah oughter take dis chance. You know he got uh big orange grove wid uh house on it and seben hund’ed dollars in de bank.”

  “Dat’s right, Gertie. Take yo’ chance when it comes. Don’t think—don’t look at me. Ahm all spoilt now. Kiss me one mo’ time. Den Ah got tuh go back tuh work. Lawd, Ah hope you be happy. Iss wonderful tuh marry somebody when you wants tuh. You don’t keer whut you do tuh please ’em. Some women you wouldn’t mind tearin’ up de pavements uh hell tuh built ’em uh house, but some you don’t give ’em nothin’. You jes’ consolate ’em by word uh mouf and fill ’em full uh melody.”

  Therefore the next morning at breakfast when John grumbled about the scorched grits and Hattie threatened to dash hot coffee in John’s face, he beat her soundly. The muscular exercise burnt up a portion of his grief, but it urged Hattie on. A few days later, when she learned of Gertie’s engagement, she was exultant. “Now maybe, it’ll hurt ’im, if Ah quit ’im. Gittin’ loose from me might gripe ’im now—anyhow it sho ain’t gwine he’p ’im none wid Gertie.”

  Hattie knew, as do other mortals, that half the joy of quitting any place is the loneliness we leave behind.

  CHAPTER 21

  The fourth Sunday came shining with the dangerous beauty of flame. Between Sunday School and the 11:00 o’clock service, Andrew Berry called Rev. Pearson aside.

  “Is de deacon board tole yuh?”

  “’Bout whut?”

  “De new preacher dey got here tuh try out tuhnight?”

  “Naw, but Hambo did tell me tuh strow fire dis mawnin’. Reckon he wuz throwin’ me uh hint right den.”

  “Ahm sho he wuz. De Black Herald got it dat dey got you on de let-loose and de onliest thing dat keeps some of ’em hangin’ on is dey don’t b’lieve n
obody kin preach lak you, but if dis man dey got here tuhday kin surpass yuh, den dere’ll be some changes made. Harris and de Black Dispatch say he kin drive all over yuh.”

  “Maybe he kin, Andrew. Ain’t dat him over dere, talkin’ tuh Sister Williams?”

  “Yeah. He’ll be tuh de service tuh hear you so he kin know how tuh do tuhnight when he gits up tuh preach.”

  John Pearson shook hands politely when he was introduced to Rev. Felton Cozy when he entered the church. Rev. Cozy was cordially invited to sit in the pulpit, which he did very pompously. All during the prayer service that led up to the sermon he was putting on his Oxford glasses, glaring about the church and taking them off again.

  Rev. Pearson preached his far-famed, “Dry Bones” sermon, and in the midst of it the congregation forgot all else. The church was alive from the pulpit to the door. When the horse in the valley of Jehoshaphat cried out, “Ha, ha! There never was a horse like me!” He brought his hearers to such a frenzy that it never subsided until two Deacons seized the preacher by the arms and reverently set him down. Others rushed up into the pulpit to fan him and wipe his face with their own kerchiefs.

  “Dat’s uh preachin’ piece uh plunder, you hear me?” Sister Hall gloated. “Dat other man got tuh go some if he specks tuh top dat.”

  “Can’t do it,” Brother Jeff avowed, “can’t be done.”

  “Aw, you don’t know,” contended Sister Scale. “Wait ’til you hear de tother one.”

  “Elder Pearson ain’t preached lak dat in uh long time. Reckon he know?”

  “Aw naw. Dey kep’ it from ’im. When he know anything, de church’ll be done done whut dey going tuh do.”

  When Rev. Cozy arose that night the congregation slid forward to the edge of its seat.

  “Well, y’all done heard one sermon tuhday, and now Ah stand before you, handlin’ de Alphabets.” He looked all about him to get the effect of his statement. “Furthermo’, Ah got uhnother serus job on mah hands. Ahm a race man! Ah solves the race problem. One great problem befo’ us tuhday is whut is de blacks gointer do wid de whites?”

  After five minutes or more Sister Boger whispered to Sister Pindar, “Ah ain’t heard whut de tex’ wuz.”

  “Me neither.”

  Cozy had put on and removed his glasses with the wide black ribbon eight times.

  “And Ah say unto you, de Negro has got plenty tuh feel proud over. Ez fur back ez man kin go in his-to-ree, de black man wuz always in de lead. When Caesar stood on de Roman forum, uccordin’ tuh de best authority, uh black man stood beside him. Y’all say ‘Amen.’ Don’t let uh man preach hisself tuh death and y’ll set dere lak uh bump on uh log and won’t he’p ’im out. Say ‘Amen’!!

  “And fiftly, Je-sus, Christ, wuz uh colored man hisself and Ah kin prove it! When he lived it wuz hot lak summer time, all de time, wid de sun beamin’ down and scorchin’ hot—how could he be uh white man in all dat hot sun? Say ‘Amen’! Say it lak you mean it, and if yuh do mean it, tell me so! Don’t set dere and say nothin’!

  “Furthermo’ Adam musta been uh colored man ’cause de Bible says God made ’im out de dust uh de earth, and where is anybody ever seen any white dust? Amen! Come on, church, say ‘Amen’!

  “And twelfth and lastly, all de smartest folks in de world got colored blood in ’em. Wese de smartest people God ever made and de prettiest. Take our race—wese uh mingled people. Jes’ lak uh great bouquet uh flowers. Eve’y color and eve’y kind. Nobody don’t need tuh go hankerin’ after no white womens. We got womens in our own race jes’ ez white ez anybody. We got ’em so black ’til lightnin’ bugs would follow ’em at twelve o’clock in de day—thinkin’ iss midnight and us got ’em in between.

  “And nothin’ can’t go on nowhere but whut dere’s uh nigger in it! Say ‘Amen’!”

  “Amen! He sho is tellin’ de truth now!”

  At the close of the service, many came forward and shook Cozy’s hand and Harris glowed with triumph. He was dry and thirsty for praise in connection with his find so he tackled Sisters Watson and Boger on the way home.

  “How y’all lak de sermon tuhnight?”

  “Sermon?” Sister Boger made an indecent sound with her lips, “dat wan’t no sermon. Dat wuz uh lecture.”

  “Dat’s all whut it wuz,” Sister Watson agreed and switched on off.

  Harris knew that he must find some other weapon to move the man who had taken his best side-girl from him.

  CHAPTER 22

  Harris, Hattie and one-eyed Fred Tate went on with their plans for the complete overthrow of Rev. Pearson thru the public chastisement of Sister Berry, but things began to happen in other directions.

  While she held a caucus one afternoon with supporters, Hambo sat at Zeke’s house and sent one of Zeke’s children to find John.

  “John, youse in boilin’ water and tuh you—look lak ’tain’t no help fuh it. Dat damn ’oman you got b’lieves in all kinds uh roots and conjure. She been feedin’ you outa her body fuh years. Go home now whilst she’s off syndicatin’ wid her gang—and rip open de mattress on yo’ bed, de pillow ticks, de bolsters, dig ’round de door-steps in front de gate and look and see ain’t some uh yo’ draws and shirt-tails got pieces cut offa ’em. Hurry now, and come back and let us know whut you find out. G’wan! Don’t stop tuh race yo’ lip wid mine, and don’t try tuh tell me whut you think. Jes’ you g’wan do lak Ah tell yuh.”

  John Pearson went and returned with a miscellany of weird objects in bottles, in red flannel, and in toadskin.

  “Lawd, Hambo, here’s uh piece uh de tail uh—uh shirt Ah had ’fo’ Lucy died. Umph! Umph! Umph!”

  “Ha! Ah wuz spectin’ dat!”

  “Whut kin Ah do ’bout it, Hambo?”

  “Give it here. Less take it tuh uh hoodoo doctor and turn it back on her, but whut you got tuh do is tuh beat de blood outa her. When you draw her wine dat breaks de spell—don’t keer whut it is.”

  “Don’t you fret ’bout dat. Ah ’bominates sich doings. She gointer git her wine drawed dis day, de Lawd bein’ may helper. Ahm goin’ on home and be settin’ dere when she come.”

  Hattie saw the hole at the gate and the larger one at the front steps before she entered the yard. Inside, the upturned rugs, the ripped-up beds, all had fearful messages for her. Who had done this thing? Had her husband hired a two-headed doctor to checkmate her? How long had he been suspecting her? Where was he now?

  “Hattie,” John called from the dining-room. She would have bolted, but she saw he made ready to stop her. She stood trembling in the hallway like a bird before a reptile.

  “Whut you jumpin’ on me fuh?” she cried out as he flung himself upon her.

  “You too smart uh woman tuh ast dat, and when Ah git th’ew wid you, you better turn on de fan, and make me some tracks Ah ain’t seen befo’ do Ahm gointer kill yuh. Hoodooin’ me! Stand up dere, ’oman, Ah ain’t hit you yet.”

  And when the neighbors pulled him from her weakening body he dropped into a chair and wept hard. Wept as he had not wept since his daughter’s serious illness, emptying out his feelings.

  Hattie fled the house, not even waiting to bathe her wounds nor change her clothes. When John’s racking sobs had ceased, the stillness after the tumult soothed him. He bathed and slept fourteen hours. In the morning he wrote to each of his children a shy letter. On the third day Hattie struck. He was sued for divorce.

  “Ahm sho glad,” he told Zeke and Hambo, “she made me jes’ ez happy by quittin’ ez Lucy did when she married me.”

  “Yeah, but if she prove adultery on you in de cotehouse, you sho goin’ tuh lose yo’ church,” Hambo warned. “You got tuh fight it.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Time is long by the courthouse clock.

  John Pearson sat restlessly in his seat. Sitting alone except for Zeke’s oldest son. Zeke had to work that day and his sister-in-law excused herself on the grounds that she “never had been to any courthouse and she didn’t want no bother with it. Courthouses were bad luc
k to colored people—best not to be ’round there.” Many of the people John had approached for witnesses had said the same thing. “Sho, sho,” they wanted him to win, but “you know dese white folks—de laws and de cotehouses and de jail houses all b’longed tuh white folks and po’ colored folks—course, Ah never done nothin’ tuh be ’rested ’bout, but—Ah’ll be prayin’ fuh yuh, Elder. You bound tuh come out more’n conquer.”

  So John sat heavily in his seat and thought about that other time nearly thirty years before when he had sat handcuffed in Cy Perkins’ office in Alabama. No fiery little Lucy here, thrusting her frailty between him and trouble. No sun of love to rise upon a gray world of hate and indifference. Look how they huddled and joked on the other side of the room. Hattie, the destroyer, was surrounded by cheer. Sullen looks his way. Oh yes, she had witnesses!

  Mule-faced, slew-foot Emma Hales was there—rolling her cock-eye triumphantly at him. Why should she smite out at his head? He remembered the potato pones, the baked chicken with corn-bread dressing, the marble cake, the potato pies that he had eaten in her house many times. He had eaten but never tarried. Never said a word out of the way to her in all his life. He wondered, but Emma knew. She remembered too well how often he had eaten her dinners and hurried away to the arms of the gray-eyed Ethel.

  Deacon Harris now outwardly friendly, but he had been told weeks before of Harris’s activity against him. Harris should not be hostile, he had taken no woman who loved Harris, for none had wanted him. His incompetence was one of the behind-hand jokes of the congregation. He was blind to human motives but Harris hated him with all the fury of the incompetent for the full-blooded loins.

  The toadies were there. Armed with hammers. Ever eager to break the feet of fallen idols. Contemptuous that even the feet of idols should fall among them. No fury so hot as that of a sycophant as he stands above a god that has toppled from a shrine. Faces of gods must not be seen of him. He has worshipped beneath the feet so long that if a god but lowers his face among them, they obscene it with spit. “Ha!” they cried, “what kind of a divinity is this that levels his face with mine? Gods show feet—not faces. Feet that crush—feet that crumble—feet that have no eyes for men’s suffering nor ears for agony, lest indeed it be a sweet offering at God’s feet. If gods have no power for cruelty, why then worship them? Gods tolerate sunshine, but bestir themselves that men may have storms. From the desolation of our fireplaces, let us declare the glory. If he rides upon the silver-harnessed donkey, let us cry ‘hosanna’. If he weeps in compassion, let us lynch him. The sky-rasping mountain-peak fills us with awe, but if it tumbles into the valley it is but boulders. It should be burst asunder. Too long it has tricked us into worship and filled our souls with envy. Crush! Crush! Crush! Lord, thou hast granted thy servant the boon of pounding upon a peak.”