Thomas Wolfe, page 546
porter. Fer you! Why, ye must learn tonight how houses are torn down.
eugene. And you will teach me, master?
porter. I’ll teach ye sure enough—you’ve never handled tools ’fore this.
eugene. No.
(The gentle voices and the music [are] heard, far off)
And do you hear the music in the house, good master?
porter (Grimly). I can tell the best jokes now, my son.
eugene. You do not hear? Then the mark is not upon you yet, good master.
porter (Approaching). You sure you ain’t never handled tools before, have ye?
eugene (Using the hammer clumsily). No.
porter (With a contorted smile, flensing his hand). Never learned when you growed up, I reckon.
eugene. No.
porter. I’ll show ye how hit’s done. Give me the hammer. (eugene gives it to him) Hold hit like this—d’ye see?
eugene (Nodding). Yes.
porter (With his contorted smile). Now, I reckon we’ll have to have somethin’ to use hit on, won’t we?
eugene. Yes.
porter (Coming closer). Mebbe you’d better pick somethin’ out—an’ I’ll show ye how hit’s done.
eugene. I think you had better pick it out.
(porter seats himself in the general’s chair)
(Quickly) You had better sit here, hadn’t you? (He indicates another chair)
porter (Flensing his hand, grinning). What fer?
eugene. It’s an old chair—this one is better for you.
porter (Reflectively, striking the arm of the chair). An old chair? Pshaw! Hit’s good as th’ day hit was made. (As if struck by a sudden idea) Look heah! I’ll show ye how good hit is. (He gets up quickly) Whar’s the hammer?
eugene. Here it is. (He gives it to him)
porter. Ye hold, but like this—(He indicates)—an ye hit it like this. (He deals a savage blow which demolishes one arm of the chair)
eugene (Hoarsely). You mustn’t do that, do you hear?
porter (With a smile of malevolent innocence) (Flensing his terrible hand). What fer? Hit’s only an’ ole chair. You were right about hit. Hit ain’t as good as I thought hit was. (Laughing shrilly) By God, hit ain’t as good as I thought hit was. (Shrilling with insane laughter) Hit—ain’t—as good—as I thought—hit was. Looky thar! (He deals another savage and demolishing blow)
eugene (Reeling on his feet). No, no! You mustn’t do that!
porter (Becoming quiet). What’s that? Mustn’t do hit! (As if comprehending suddenly) Oh, I see! Ye don’t want me to smash hit up! Ye want me to keep hit fer myself. (He seats himself) Why, you’re all right, you bastard. A smart feller! I’ll jest do that. Hit jest fits me, don’t hit?
eugene (In a low voice). Yes. It fits you very well, master.
porter. The ole man hisse’f, eh? (Rising) Now, you do hit. I’ll jest look on. This table—mebbe—er the mantel—see how easy hit is. (He strikes the mantel with the hammer) You try hit now. (He gives eugene the hammer)
eugene (In a low voice, advancing on him). Yes. Upon your dirty skull, my good master.
porter (In a sudden shrill voice). All right, out thar! Help!
(eugene hurls himself upon the man and throttles him. The carpenters run in, and overcome him)
(Gasping) Throw the bastard out.
eugene. But remember that there are endings for us both, good master.
first carpenter. No, you don’t, you damn tramp!
second carpenter. Come along, now.
(He is led out. The carpenters return)
porter (Flensing his terrible hand). See that he gits his pay. (eugene leans wearily against the column) Git along, thar, now. (To carpenters) Clean up the mess. He tried to smash things up.
margaret’s voice (Far up, in the house). Eugene!
eugene. Oh, I am coming, ghost.
voices (Softly). Oh, come, oh come, Eugene.
(Within the house, a board is wrenched from its ancient moorings, and comes away with an audible rasping)
eugene (With one hand on the column). I am a part of all that I have touched.
voices (Whispering). Then come, Eugene.
(The sun, streaked with red filaments of smoke, gives a dim and fading light to those within the house)
eugene (Tracing the wording of the ancient scroll). Nil separabit. (With a cry) Oh, my fathers were valiant men!
(He wraps his gaunt arms fiercely round the column, where its bulk has rotted to a slender pulp. There is a convulsive movement of his ruined frame, and he snaps the column in two pieces on his breast. It falls upon him slowly, and he is borne to the earth, and lies at length athwart the shallow steps, his gaunt face still turned upward to the sun)
(Far off within the house there is a mighty thrill, a great, growing vibration, which trembles through the walls. A heavy timber is heard to bend and buckle, porter and the carpenters run toward the door)
eugene (Calling faintly from below the column). Tod! Tod! Oh, I have failed! Tod! Here was a house. It was by you begun; by you it must be ended. Tod! Tod!
(The negro tod leaps like a cat into the room, and thrusts his great body before the door)
(They spring upon him, and he throws them back, porter rushes upon the negro with a drawn knife and stabs him repeatedly in the breast.
(The negro, with a smile of savage triumph, which reveals his yellow fangs, makes no resistance, but when the man is done, sinks slowly forward upon him, and breaks him in his mighty grip.
(tod falls slowly forward upon the floor. The carpenters attempt to rush to safety, [past] his body, and the broken frame of porter.
(A timber falls slant-wise cross the door, and they are held. The faithful dog trots in and guards the door.
(The men are flattened to the walls in terror; they fix their eye aloft on some nameless and unfathomable horror which we do not see—a tiny spurt of white dust sifts down their faces, their heads, then clothes.
(The great vibrations lengthen to a thunder.
(porter, dying, lies half against the door sill, his eyes fixed on something which is plunging down on him front above, his mouth twisted in its queer terrible, contorted smile, his stubby fingers flensing, as before, his unspeakable hand)
The curtain drops quickly.
(There is heard immediately a terrific crash and the sounds of heavy timbers, which buckle and settle. There is a lesser reverberation followed by silence, save for the soft musical laughter of the triumphant little voices; save for the faint far ending of a waltz which dies upon the wind; save for a merciless little drop of water which somewhere swells, develops, and falls at length with punctual, unvarying monotony)
a thin voice (Faint and far). Snap your fingers, gentlemen.
The End
[¬]
COLLEGE
WRITINGS
[The texts follow The Magical Campus. University of North Carolina Writings 1917–1920, Matthew J. Bruccoli and Aldo P. Magi, eds., The University of South Carolina Press 2008).]
A FIELD IN FLANDERS
[The University of North Carolina Magazine, December 1917]
The low, grey clouds are drifting ’cross the sky,
While here and there the little smoke puffs break,
And now and then the shrapnel bursts on high,
And growling guns their mighty thunder make.
A war-ripped field,—with what a tale to tell!
A tale to cause the souls of kings to quake,
For here, within a smoking, bloody Hell,
Ten million risk their lives for Freedom’s sake.
And to the right a ruined village burns,
And to the left a wood its secrets hold,
But in the gutted field the plowshare turns
A grinning skull which sneers its message bold.
[¬]
TO FRANCE
[The University of North Carolina Magazine, December 1917]
O France, you truly are sublime,
The thought of you shall make men thrill
Throughout all ages and all time.
Your story lives and ever will.
When Huns came down with bloody hand,
And left fair Belgium desolate,
Up bravely from their peaceful land
Rushed strong defenders of thy state.
They fought until all hope seemed gone,
Without a groan—without a sigh.
And still brave France kept fighting on
Until it seemed that France must die.
Oh France, to you who never feared,
To you who nobly stood the test,
With blazing eyes and plumes upreared,
The eagle comes from out the West.
[¬]
THE CHALLENGE
[The University of North Carolina Magazine, March 1918]
You have given us your mandates,—we have made our purpose clear,
We will buy the prize with red blood and no price will be too dear,
We will pay the price with manhood,—with the smoke from cannons curled,
Until Freedom stands unchallenged with her banners to the world.
We have spoken,—you have heard us,—there can be no middle way,
The despot hurls his challenge,—he extends his iron sway,
Now the time has come to reckon,—we protect with sword and lance,
The stars and bars of Freedom, the tri-color of brave France.
Look, ye tyrant, look and tremble, let your heart with fear be filled,
At that principle of nations which a dormant world has thrilled,
See,—our legions come to meet you, and their cause is pure and right,
With one purpose, all united, mighty armies come to fight.
History, the great Exemplar, shows us well those nations’ path,
Those who leave their altars holy, cannot feel a righteous wrath.
By this token shall we profit,—we who know, shall different be,
Nation answers unto nation,—mighty hands grip o’er the sea.
You, proud ruler, made the challenge, we have answered all in all,
Aye, we answered with all gladness, for we heard a great creed’s call
To a war that is our cleanser—one that keeps us from decay,
One that makes for future freedom:—we are in our own to-day.
We have taken up the gauntlet,—we will answer blow for blow,
You have sent your blood and iron, pay thou then the cost, and go.
All our hearts are filled with glory at the wonder that will be,—
We have taken up the gauntlet and, thank God, men shall be free.
[¬]
A CULLENDEN OF VIRGINIA
[The University of North Carolina Magazine, March 1918]
Four o’clock was zero hour. It [was] now three-thirty and out across the bleak, level land, gutted with shell pits and craters, the sky was becoming a pale, cold grey. All was silent, the guns had hushed their angry growling and were still. Both armies lay gripped in the ominous silence that precedes the attack.
To Roger Cullenden, waiting in his trench, it seemed that anything was preferable to this terrible, oppressive silence. It pounded on his ears with a thunder louder than that of the cannon. He felt that he must scream. His mind seemed unable to focus on any detail and, curiously enough, little absurd occurrences of his boyhood kept flashing back to him. These trivialities came flooding in and, rather helplessly, he wondered why. At intervals he would think of the impending attack, and then, it seemed his bones turned to water and his blood froze with the horror of the thought. He wondered desperately if he were a coward. He kept repeating over and over again to himself: “Good God! A Cullenden of Virginia a coward!”
Cullenden’s father had fought in the Civil War, his grandfather in the Mexican War, and his great-grandfather in the War of 1812, and so on back as far as people could remember the name of the Cullendens of Virginia had come to be synonymous not only with the flower of aristocracy, but even more so with personal bravery. It had been but the natural, traditional thing for the present Cullenden Senior, when America entered the World War in 1917, to grasp his son by the hand, look straight into his eyes and tell him to go. Roger Cullenden went gayly, heedlessly, thoughtlessly,—going to war as he had gone about everything else in his care-free life.
All these things came crowding back as he crouched there in his trench, gazing unseeingly at his wrist watch with mechanical regularity. He was overwhelmed with a kind of weak self-pity and he suddenly felt a hot splash in his hand and realized that he was snuffling audibly. He cursed himself as a weak fool. Perhaps you can excuse Cullenden. He had been in the trenches only two weeks. It was his first experience of modern warfare. And then, too, he was only a boy.
Cullenden was cursed with an almost too vivid imagination. The day before a sentry had been careless enough to give the Boche snipers a fair shot at his head. And now, as Cullenden thought of the dead man and the gob of gore and brains where his head had been, he became very sick. He muttered: “God! Suppose I should get it like that!” And again he leaned against the walls of the trench overcome with the horror of it.
Once more he glanced at his wrist watch. Ten minutes to four. He looked around curiously to see how his companions were taking it. Some talked jerkingly to each other in a shaking voice. Others tried to give the impression of extreme calmness. One man was seated on a keg, apparently absorbed in a newspaper and puffing away vigorously on a pipe. Cullenden thought it rather strange that the newspaper was upside down and that the pipe had no tobacco in it. The young lieutenant walked among his men trying vainly to impart a cheerfulness that he himself was far from feeling. With a hand that shook, he consulted his wrist watch every half minute. The minutes seemed as hours to Cullenden waiting, waiting, waiting.
One minute to four. Cullenden thought he was stifling. He tried desperately to regain some part of his accustomed calm but it was no use. A whistle blew. A lieutenant in a cheery but rather falsetto voice quavered: “All up, men, let’s go over, all together.” At the same time, with a titanic crash, the barrage started and the ground trembled to the mighty roar of the big guns. By a supreme effort Cullenden dragged himself over the top of the trench and started out at a walk. The enemy machine guns were raking all along the line, doing their nasty work. The man beside him gave a funny little cough and crumpled up. Cullenden felt sick. The lieutenant was walking about thirty feet in front of him when a shrapnel shell burst squarely over his head. Cullenden felt himself drenched with the warm dew. His strained nerves could stand no more, and he yielded to the devil that tormented him. He flung himself, with a moan of terror, into a slight depression caused by a shell and pillowed his face in his hands. Then the sickening realization of what he had done swept over him. He,—a Cullenden of Virginia,—was a coward! Good God! What would people say?
Beyond him he heard faintly the sound of cheering. They had beaten Fritz out of his section of the first line trenches. His company would miss him soon, no doubt. They would think him wounded, while he lay here untouched! What would they say when they found him here? He would be disgraced. Think of the pain to his father, the disappointment of his friends. Cullenden thought most of his friends.
His mind flashed back to his college years. The dim, gray wraiths of the past began to come forth and remind him of his shame. One by one he recalled them—his friends—all in the service now—he knew not where—save only one of them—Johnny Millard. He had been his “alter ego” all during their four years of college. When Cullenden had enlisted, Johnny had enlisted with him, in order that they might fight the Hun together. And then some perverse fate had separated them. Dear old Johnny—where was he now? . . .
As Cullenden thought of these a new fear seized him, more potent than any he had yet known. It was a different fear. He was afraid of being thought afraid and, compared to this fear, mere physical fear could be easily borne. He thought of his father and uttered a groan. The disgrace would, he knew, well nigh kill the proud, sensitive old man.
Frantically he cudgelled his brain for some loop-hole. Then, suddenly, the evil impulse flashed upon him. They thought him dead or wounded. Well, then, why not be wounded? Slowly his hand moved along the ground and gripped the stock of his gun.
—
For thirty minutes now the attack had raged. The great guns still roared their mighty thunder. The spitting fire of machine guns could be heard between explosions, shrieks, yells—everything in fact, that went to make up a red inferno. The second wave of the attack had just gone by, their figures looming darkly in the mist of early morning.
It was time for the third wave. A hazy line of figures advanced at a steady dog trot and passed over the place where Cullenden lay watching. But the Fritzies were doing wicked work with their machine guns. The line thinned perceptibly. A stocky figure came trotting up, stopped, whirled, as if meeting with some sudden impact and fell near the spot where Cullenden lay. Cullenden cursed, for he had been on the verge of pulling the trigger.
The wounded man heard him. He raised himself painfully on his elbow and said in cheerful tone: “What’s the matter, friend? Did they get you too?” He looked at Cullenden’s face a moment with dawning recognition, then burst forth: “Well, I’ll be damned, Roger Cullenden!”
The man in the shell hole turned ashen. There could be only one voice in the world like that. He looked at the injured man closely. Beneath the accumulation of trench dirt, beneath a three weeks growth of beard, were the smiling features of Johnny Millard. The unbelievable had happened.
Johnny was saying with forced cheerfulness: “Nothing much wrong with me, old top. I got it through the leg. About six weeks in hospital will do for me, I guess. But tell me,” anxiously, “where did they get you?”
Cullenden stuttered through white lips: “I—I—I,” then dropped his head and was silent. Millard looked for a moment with a puzzled expression. “What’s the matter, Roger? Why don’t you answer? Why—” Then, all at once, the truth burst on his astounded senses. Disbelief, pain, anger were all mingled on his countenance. He clinched his hands convulsively and then he thought of how over there American boys—Americans with good red blood in their veins are giving it, while here lay his friend, a sneaking coward, lying faking. His friend, a Cullenden,—a descendant of fighting men. He wanted to say something. He tried, but his voice trailed off and ended in a sob.
