The Marrow of Tradition

by Charles W. Chesnutt

  Produced by Suzanne Shell, Bill Walker and PG Distributed Proofreaders

  THE MARROW OF TRADITION

  by Charles W. Chestnutt1901

  CONTENTS

  I. At Break of DayII. The Christening PartyIII. The Editor at WorkIV. Theodore FelixV. A Journey SouthwardVI. JanetVII. The OperationVIII. The Campaign dragsIX. A White Man's "Nigger"X. Delamere Plays a TrumpXI. The Baby and the BirdXII. Another Southern ProductXIII. The CakewalkXIV. The Maunderings of Old Mrs. OchiltreeXV. Mrs. Carteret Seeks an ExplanationXVI. Ellis Takes a TrickXVII. The Social Aspirations of Captain McBaneXVIII. Sandy Sees His Own Ha'ntXIX. A Midnight WalkXX. A Shocking CrimeXXI. The Necessity of an ExampleXXII. How Not to Prevent a LynchingXXIII. BelleviewXXIV. Two Southern GentlemenXXV. The Honor of a FamilyXXVI. The Discomfort of EllisXXVII. The Vagaries of the Higher LawXXVIII. In Season and OutXXIX. Mutterings of the StormXXX. The Missing PapersXXXI. The Shadow of a DreamXXXII. The Storm breaksXXXIII. Into the Lion's JawsXXXIV. The Valley of the ShadowXXXV. "Mine Enemy, O Mine Enemy!"XXXVI. Fiat JustitiaXXXVII. The Sisters

  The Marrow of Tradition

  I like you and your book, ingenious Hone! In whose capacious all-embracing leaves The very marrow of tradition's shown.

  --CHARLES LAMB_To the Editor of the Every-Day Book_

  I

  AT BREAK OF DAY

  "Stay here beside her, major. I shall not he needed for an hour yet.Meanwhile I'll go downstairs and snatch a bit of sleep, or talk to oldJane."

  The night was hot and sultry. Though the windows of the chamber werewide open, and the muslin curtains looped back, not a breath of air wasstirring. Only the shrill chirp of the cicada and the muffled croakingof the frogs in some distant marsh broke the night silence. The heavyscent of magnolias, overpowering even the strong smell of drugs in thesickroom, suggested death and funeral wreaths, sorrow and tears, thelong home, the last sleep. The major shivered with apprehension as theslender hand which he held in his own contracted nervously and in aspasm of pain clutched his fingers with a viselike grip.

  Major Carteret, though dressed in brown linen, had thrown off his coatfor greater comfort. The stifling heat, in spite of the palm-leaf fanwhich he plied mechanically, was scarcely less oppressive than his ownthoughts. Long ago, while yet a mere boy in years, he had come back fromAppomattox to find his family, one of the oldest and proudest in thestate, hopelessly impoverished by the war,--even their ancestral homeswallowed up in the common ruin. His elder brother had sacrificed hislife on the bloody altar of the lost cause, and his father, broken andchagrined, died not many years later, leaving the major the last of hisline. He had tried in various pursuits to gain a foothold in the newlife, but with indifferent success until he won the hand of OliviaMerkell, whom he had seen grow from a small girl to glorious womanhood.With her money he had founded the Morning Chronicle, which he had madethe leading organ of his party and the most influential paper in theState. The fine old house in which they lived was hers. In this veryroom she had first drawn the breath of life; it had been their nuptialchamber; and here, too, within a few hours, she might die, for it seemedimpossible that one could long endure such frightful agony and live.

  One cloud alone had marred the otherwise perfect serenity of theirhappiness. Olivia was childless. To have children to perpetuate the nameof which he was so proud, to write it still higher on the roll ofhonor, had been his dearest hope. His disappointment had beenproportionately keen. A few months ago this dead hope had revived, andaltered the whole aspect of their lives. But as time went on, his wife'sage had begun to tell upon her, until even Dr. Price, the most cheerfuland optimistic of physicians, had warned him, while hoping for the best,to be prepared for the worst. To add to the danger, Mrs. Carteret hadonly this day suffered from a nervous shock, which, it was feared, hadhastened by several weeks the expected event.

  Dr. Price went downstairs to the library, where a dim light wasburning. An old black woman, dressed in a gingham frock, with a redbandana handkerchief coiled around her head by way of turban, was seatedby an open window. She rose and curtsied as the doctor entered anddropped into a willow rocking-chair near her own.

  "How did this happen, Jane?" he asked in a subdued voice, adding, withassumed severity, "You ought to have taken better care of yourmistress."

  "Now look a-hyuh, Doctuh Price," returned the old woman in an unctuouswhisper, "you don' wanter come talkin' none er yo' foolishness 'bout mynot takin' keer er Mis' 'Livy. _She_ never would 'a' said sech a thing!Seven er eight mont's ago, w'en she sent fer me, I says ter her, saysI:--

  "'Lawd, Lawd, honey! You don' tell me dat after all dese long w'aryyears er waitin' de good Lawd is done heared yo' prayer an' is gwine tersen' you de chile you be'n wantin' so long an' so bad? Bless his holyname! Will I come an' nuss yo' baby? Why, honey, I nussed you, an'nussed yo' mammy thoo her las' sickness, an' laid her out w'en she died.I wouldn' _let_ nobody e'se nuss yo' baby; an' mo'over, I'm gwine tercome an' nuss you too. You're young side er me, Mis' 'Livy, but you'reove'ly ole ter be havin' yo' fus' baby, an' you'll need somebody roun',honey, w'at knows all 'bout de fam'ly, an' deir ways an' deirweaknesses, an' I don' know who dat'd be ef it wa'n't me.'

  "''Deed, Mammy Jane,' says she, 'dere ain' nobody e'se I'd have but you.You kin come ez soon ez you wanter an' stay ez long ez you mineter.'

  "An hyuh I is, an' hyuh I'm gwine ter stay. Fer Mis' 'Livy is my olemist'ess's daughter, an' my ole mist'ess wuz good ter me, an' dey ain'none er her folks gwine ter suffer ef ole Jane kin he'p it."

  "Your loyalty does you credit, Jane," observed the doctor; "but youhaven't told me yet what happened to Mrs. Carteret to-day. Did the horserun away, or did she see something that frightened her?"

  "No, suh, de hoss didn' git skeered at nothin', but Mis' 'Livy did seesomethin', er somebody; an' it wa'n't no fault er mine ner her'nneither,--it goes fu'ther back, suh, fu'ther dan dis day er dis year.Does you 'member de time w'en my ole mist'ess, Mis' 'Livy upstairs'smammy, died? No? Well, you wuz prob'ly 'way ter school den, studyin' terbe a doctuh. But I'll tell you all erbout it.

  "Wen my ole mist'ess, Mis' 'Liz'beth Merkell,--an' a good mist'ess shewuz,--tuck sick fer de las' time, her sister Polly--ole Mis' PollyOchiltree w'at is now--come ter de house ter he'p nuss her. Mis' 'Livyupstairs yander wuz erbout six years ole den, de sweetes' little angelyou ever laid eyes on; an' on her dyin' bed Mis' 'Liz'beth ax' Mis'Polly fer ter stay hyuh an' take keer er her chile, an' Mis' Polly shepromise'. She wuz a widder fer de secon' time, an' didn' have nochild'en, an' could jes' as well come as not.

  "But dere wuz trouble after de fune'al, an' it happen' right hyuh in dislib'ary. Mars Sam wuz settin' by de table, w'en Mis' Polly comedownstairs, slow an' solemn, an' stood dere in de middle er de flo', allin black, till Mars Sam sot a cheer fer her.

  "'Well, Samuel,' says she, 'now dat we've done all we can fer po''Liz'beth, it only 'mains fer us ter consider Olivia's future.'

  "Mars Sam nodded his head, but didn' say nothin'.

  "'I don' need ter tell you,' says she,' dat I am willin' ter carry outde wishes er my dead sister, an' sac'ifice my own comfo't, an' makemyse'f yo' housekeeper an' yo' child's nuss, fer my dear sister's sake.It wuz her dyin' wish, an' on it I will ac', ef it is also yo'n.'

  "Mars Sam didn' want Mis' Polly ter come, suh; fur he didn' like Mis'Polly. He wuz skeered er Miss Polly."

  "I don't wonder," yawned the doctor, "if she was anything like she isnow."

  "Wuss, suh, fer she wuz younger, an' stronger. She always would have hersay, no matter 'bout what, an' her own way, no matter who 'posed her.She had already be'n in de house fer a week, an' Mars Sam knowed ef sheonce come ter stay, she'd be de mist'ess of eve'ybody in it an' himtoo. But w'at could he do but say yas?


  "'Den it is unde'stood, is it,' says Mis' Polly, w'en he had spoke, 'datI am ter take cha'ge er de house?'

  "'All right, Polly,' says Mars Sam, wid a deep sigh.

  "Mis' Polly 'lowed he wuz sighin' fer my po' dead mist'ess, fer she didn'have no idee er his feelin's to'ds her,--she alluz did 'low dat allde gent'emen wuz in love wid 'er.

  "'You won' fin' much ter do,' Mars Sam went on, 'fer Julia is a goodhousekeeper, an' kin ten' ter mos' eve'ything, under yo' d'rections.'

  "Mis' Polly stiffen' up like a ramrod. 'It mus' be unde'stood, Samuel,'says she, 'dat w'en I 'sumes cha'ge er yo' house, dere ain' gwine ter beno 'vided 'sponsibility; an' as fer dis Julia, me an' her couldn' git'long tergether nohow. Ef I stays, Julia goes.'

  "Wen Mars Sam beared dat, he felt better, an' 'mence' ter pick up hiscourage. Mis' Polly had showed her ban' too plain. My mist'ess hadn'got col' yit, an' Mis' Polly, who'd be'n a widder fer two years dislas' time, wuz already fig'rin' on takin' her place fer good, an' shedid n! want no other woman roun' de house dat Mars Sam might take a'intrus' in.

  "'My dear Polly,' says Mars Sam, quite determine', 'I couldn' possiblysen' Julia 'way. Fac' is, I couldn' git 'long widout Julia. She'd be'nrunnin' dis house like clockwo'k befo' you come, an' I likes her ways.My dear, dead 'Liz'beth sot a heap er sto' by Julia, an' I'm gwine terkeep her here fer 'Liz'beth's sake.'

  "Mis' Polly's eyes flash' fire.

  "'Ah,' says she,' I see--I see! You perfers her housekeepin' ter mine,indeed! Dat is a fine way ter talk ter a lady! An' a heap er rispec' youis got fer de mem'ry er my po' dead sister!'

  "Mars Sam knowed w'at she 'lowed she seed wa'n't so; but he didn' leton, fer it only made him de safer. He wuz willin' fer her ter 'magine w'atshe please', jes' so long ez she kep' out er his house an' let himalone.

  "'No, Polly,' says he, gittin' bolder ez she got madder, 'dere ain' nouse talkin'. Nothin' in de worl' would make me part wid Julia.'

  "Mis' Polly she r'ared an' she pitch', but Mars Sam helt on like grimdeath. Mis' Polly wouldn' give in neither, an' so she fin'lly wentaway. Dey made some kind er 'rangement afterwa'ds, an' Miss Polly tuckMis' 'Livy ter her own house. Mars Sam paid her bo'd an' 'lowed Mis'Polly somethin' fer takin' keer er her."

  "And Julia stayed?"

  "Julia stayed, suh, an' a couple er years later her chile wuz bawn,right here in dis house."

  "But you said," observed the doctor, "that Mrs. Ochiltree was in errorabout Julia."

  "Yas, suh, so she wuz, w'en my ole mist'ess died. But dis wuz two yearsafter,--an' w'at has ter be has ter be. Julia had a easy time; she had ablack gal ter wait on her, a buggy to ride in, an' eve'ything shewanted. Eve'ybody s'posed Mars Sam would give her a house an' lot, erleave her somethin' in his will. But he died suddenly, and didn' leaveno will, an' Mis' Polly got herse'f 'pinted gyardeen ter young Mis''Livy, an' driv Julia an' her young un out er de house, an' lived herein dis house wid Mis' 'Livy till Mis' 'Livy ma'ied Majah Carteret."

  "And what became of Julia?" asked Dr. Price.

  Such relations, the doctor knew very well, had been all too common inthe old slavery days, and not a few of them had been projected into thenew era. Sins, like snakes, die hard. The habits and customs of a peoplewere not to be changed in a day, nor by the stroke of a pen. As familyphysician, and father confessor by brevet, Dr. Price had looked uponmore than one hidden skeleton; and no one in town had had betteropportunities than old Jane for learning the undercurrents in the livesof the old families.

  "Well," resumed Jane, "eve'ybody s'posed, after w'at had happen', datJulia'd keep on livin' easy, fer she wuz young an' good-lookin'. Butshe didn'. She tried ter make a livin' sewin', but Mis' Polly wouldn'let de bes' w'ite folks hire her. Den she tuck up washin', but didn' dono better at dat; an' bimeby she got so discourage' dat she ma'ied ashif'less yaller man, an' died er consumption soon after,--an' wuz'bout ez well off, fer dis man couldn' hardly feed her nohow."

  "And the child?"

  "One er de No'the'n w'ite lady teachers at de mission school tuck alikin' ter little Janet, an' put her thoo school, an' den sent her offter de No'th fer ter study ter be a school teacher. W'en she come back,'stead er teachin' she ma'ied ole Adam Miller's son."

  "The rich stevedore's son, Dr. Miller?"

  "Yas, suh, dat's de man,--you knows 'im. Dis yer boy wuz jes' gwine'way fer ter study ter be a doctuh, an' he ma'ied dis Janet, an' tuckher 'way wid 'im. Dey went off ter Europe, er Irope, er Orope, ersomewhere er 'nother, 'way off yander, an' come back here las' year an'sta'ted dis yer horspital an' school fer ter train de black gals fernusses."

  "He's a very good doctor, Jane, and is doing a useful work. Yourchapter of family history is quite interesting,--I knew part of itbefore, in a general way; but you haven't yet told me what brought onMrs. Carteret's trouble."

  "I'm jes' comin' ter dat dis minute, suh,--w'at I be'n tellin' you isall a part of it. Dis yer Janet, w'at's Mis' 'Livy's half-sister, is ezmuch like her ez ef dey wuz twins. Folks sometimes takes 'em fer oneernudder,--I s'pose it tickles Janet mos' ter death, but it do make Mis''Livy rippin'. An' den 'way back yander jes' after de wah, w'en de oleCarteret mansion had ter be sol', Adam Miller bought it, an' dis yerJanet an' her husban' is be'n livin' in it ever sence ole Adam died,'bout a year ago; an' dat makes de majah mad, 'ca'se he don' wanter seecullud folks livin' in de ole fam'ly mansion w'at he wuz bawn in. An'mo'over, an' dat's de wust of all, w'iles Mis' 'Livy ain' had nochild'en befo', dis yer sister er her'n is got a fine-lookin' littleyaller boy, w'at favors de fam'ly so dat ef Mis' 'Livy'd see de chileanywhere, it'd mos' break her heart fer ter think 'bout her not havin'no child'en herse'f. So ter-day, w'en Mis' 'Livy wuz out ridin' an' metdis yer Janet wid her boy, an' w'en Mis' 'Livy got ter studyin' 'bouther own chances, an' how she mought not come thoo safe, she jes' had afit er hysterics right dere in de buggy. She wuz mos' home, an' Williamgot her here, an' you knows de res'."

  Major Carteret, from the head of the stairs, called the doctoranxiously.

  "You had better come along up now, Jane," said the doctor.

  For two long hours they fought back the grim spectre that stood by thebedside. The child was born at dawn. Both mother and child, the doctorsaid, would live.

  "Bless its 'ittle hea't!" exclaimed Mammy Jane, as she held up the tinymite, which bore as much resemblance to mature humanity as might beexpected of an infant which had for only a few minutes drawn the breathof life. "Bless its 'ittle hea't! it's de we'y spit an' image er itspappy!"

  The doctor smiled. The major laughed aloud. Jane's unconsciouswitticism, or conscious flattery, whichever it might be, was a welcomediversion from the tense strain of the last few hours.

  "Be that as it may," said Dr. Price cheerfully, "and I'll not disputeit, the child is a very fine boy,--a very fine boy, indeed! Take care ofit, major," he added with a touch of solemnity, "for your wife can neverbear another."

  With the child's first cry a refreshing breeze from the distant oceancooled the hot air of the chamber; the heavy odor of the magnolias, withits mortuary suggestiveness, gave place to the scent of rose and lilacand honeysuckle. The birds in the garden were singing lustily.

  All these sweet and pleasant things found an echo in the major's heart.He stood by the window, and looking toward the rising sun, breathed asilent prayer of thanksgiving. All nature seemed to rejoice in sympathywith his happiness at the fruition of this long-deferred hope, and topredict for this wonderful child a bright and glorious future.

  Old Mammy Jane, however, was not entirely at ease concerning the child.She had discovered, under its left ear, a small mole, which led her tofear that the child was born for bad luck. Had the baby been black, oryellow, or poor-white, Jane would unhesitatingly have named, as hisultimate fate, a not uncommon form of taking off, usually resultant uponthe infraction of certain laws, or, in these swift modern days, upon tooviolent a departure from established social customs. It was manifestlyimpossible that a child of such high quality as the grandson of her oldmistress should die by judic
ial strangulation; but nevertheless thewarning was a serious thing, and not to be lightly disregarded.

  Not wishing to be considered as a prophet of evil omen, Jane kept herown counsel in regard to this significant discovery. But later, afterthe child was several days old, she filled a small vial with water inwhich the infant had been washed, and took it to a certain wise oldblack woman, who lived on the farther edge of the town and was wellknown to be versed in witchcraft and conjuration. The conjure womanadded to the contents of the bottle a bit of calamus root, and one ofthe cervical vertebrae from the skeleton of a black cat, with severalother mysterious ingredients, the nature of which she did not disclose.Following instructions given her, Aunt Jane buried the bottle inCarteret's back yard, one night during the full moon, as a good-luckcharm to ward off evil from the little grandson of her dear mistress, solong since dead and gone to heaven.