Thomas Wolfe, page 551
(The two look at him in open awe. They realize they are beholding one of nature’s noblemen. Goodmans difficulties seem to be over now, but just at this minute The Soph returns alone from the P. O.)
The Soph. No mail for you, Bob; did you finish shaving? (Goodman frowns at him, but The Soph sees the two visitors). Oh, hello, boys—we’ll have a real political convention when you two and Honest Bob get together. (Goodman looks murderously at him.)
The F. J. (laughing). We two, perhaps—but leave Bob out of it. We framed up on him in here while ago, offered to campaign for him, and he not only refused when he came in, but cussed us out to boot—
The Soph. When he came—Say (to Goodman), where’ve you been?
Goodman (regaining his composure). Up at the library.
The Soph (beginning to see daylight). How long?
Goodman (with perfect composure and not even choking). Since supper. (Even The Soph is jarred at this.)
The Soph (beginning to laugh). No—you can’t bribe Honest Bob, gentlemen—it can’t be done.
The F. J. Good night, Bob—we’ll have to be going now. We’ll see you to-morrow.
Goodman (gravely). Good night, gentlemen.
(They go out.)
Goodman (viciously). You idiot! Every time you open your mouth you try to cut not only your own throat but mine, too.
The Soph (gasping for breath). Honest Bob—the People’s Friend—refusing their vile offer—and he heard it all! Oh, but you’re a hellion—
Goodman (grinning sheepishly). Nothing else to be done. I was penned up in the back room—I couldn’t help it, you know.
The Soph. What a nerve! Say, you don’t need any Tanlac.
Goodman. Yes, and you’re mighty lucky not to be needing a coffin. I thought the jig was up when you came in—If you ever tell (he pauses ominously).
The Soph. What?
Goodman. They’ll have to gather your scattered remains and carry them off in a basket. Let’s go to bed.
The Curtain
[¬]
1920 SAYS A FEW WORDS TO CAROLINA
[Yackety Yack ’20, 1920]
We stand ’round the well in the white gleaming moonlight
And look at the square of the buildings old.
And sharp is the thought of tomorrow; tonight
Is the last—ah—we’ve been told
How hard it was, but not till now
Have we felt the deep twisting pain of the parting
From you—Carolina—we did not allow
For the deep biting grief that now we feel starting.
Yet its not the old buildings that causes the pain
(You brown, dirty buildings—and God knows that’s true),
But comes back the feeling again and again
That we part from a friend—Carolina, it’s you.
You cared not for sects or for social degree;
You care not for dogmas or creeds now as then;
You take the crude stuff and you fashion it free,
Till shapen and moulded you send forth your men.
Tomorrow we leave—1920, your War Class,
A class proud in deeds in a war that was won.
A mixture of warrior and student—we pass,
The warfaring student salutes, and is gone,
Leaving State’s mantle to thaw just below;
Pausing to listen as South’s slow toll rings,
Then quickens as to our successors we bow,
For—"The kings having gone—long live the kings!”
Ah! sometimes from the straight white path
Our stumbling steps may stray;
And sometimes where the hillside slopes
Well choose the easier way;
And sometimes when the path is rough
That takes us straight through life,
Our strength will fail, and craven-like,
We’ll shun the bitter strife,
To choose the broad and paven road,
And eat the lotus leaf.
Yes, some will fail and take this road,
For grinding toil and grief
Are on the sterner road you point,
With hand in hand their mate,
Good Manhood, walking true and brave.
Along the path that’s straight.
Yes, some will falter on this road
And choose the broader way.
But when again the soft nights come
And Spring has come to stay.
They’ll think perhaps of this last night—
The Campus white and still,
The dorms, the well, the old South bell—
Of all that’s on the “Hill”,
And then they’ll leave the broader path
That leads to life’s ill wrack.
To seek again the narrow one and—
Finding it—come back.
To some will fall the ivy wreath
That marks the place of fame.
While some will plod along beneath
The peaks of greatest name;
The years will pass and very faint
Will be your call to these,
For time is scornful of the past
And ever onward flees.
But sometimes when the Springtime comes,
And the sifting moonlight falls—
They’ll think again of this night here
And of these old brown walls.
Of white old well, and of old South
With bell’s deep booming tone,
They’ll think again of Chapel Hill and—
Thinking—come back home.
L’ENVOI
(Again he talks to Carolina)
Some say that God worked six days hard
And made the world for man—
But on the seventh rested.
We have a better plan—
For, being God he was not tired;
This is the broader view,
God made the world in six days—
The seventh, he made You!
T. C. Wolfe
Fifty-one
[¬]
THE RETURN OF BUCK GAVIN
The Tragedy of a Mountain Outlaw
[Carolina Folk-Plays, Henry Holt and Company, 1924]
The Characters
As originally produced on The Playmakers’ Stage, Chapel Hill, North Carolina, March 14th and 15th, 1919.
Buck Gavin, a mountain outlaw, . . . Thomas Clayton Wolfe
Mary Gavin, his sister, . . . Lelia Nance Moffatt
The Sheriff, . . . Frederick Cohn
Scene: The cabin home of Buck Gavin in a remote cove of the Carolina mountains.
Time: The present. An afternoon in May.
Scene
The living and dining room of the log cabin home of Buck Gavin.
The furnishings of the room are more pretentious than are usually associated with mountain cabins. This is explained by the fact that Gavin is a mountain chief, the leader of a clan—a kind of tribal leader, if you like. The interior is rude, but comfortable, with not a little taste displayed in the arrangement. A woman’s presence is denoted by blue chintz curtains at the windows and a covering of the same material on the table in the center of the room. A shaded lamp, several weekly newspapers, and a knitting basket are on the table. At the left a crackling wood-fire burns in a large stone fireplace. In the right corner is a home-made cupboard. Skins are tacked to the wall here and there. The garish lithographic display usually found in mountain cabins is lacking here. Several hand-made, splint-bottom chairs are grouped around the hearth. The outside door is in the rear wall at the center, with small windows on either side of it. In the right wall is another door, leading into the bedroom and thence into the kitchen shed. There is a rocker by the table.
Mary Gavin is seated in this rocker, knitting. She has a face not old, but worn—not by toil, we should say, but care-worn. It is a good face—attractive, possessing a sensitiveness of feature remarkable for a mountain woman. Although she is not more than thirty-five years of age, her hair is even now streaked with gray. As she knits, her back to the door, it opens softly, slowly. A man steps quickly into the room and shuts the door as quietly as it was opened. The man is Buck Gavin, master of the house, a fugitive from justice, wanted on charges of illicit distilling and murder. He has returned by stealth after being hunted for six weeks.
Buck Gavin is a great, powerfully built fellow, aged forty years, or thereabouts. He has a strong, heavily-lined face, covered by a beard of the Van Dyke type—although he would not call it that. He has piercing black eyes and heavy black hair. In his swift silent movements there is a suggestion of a veiled panther-like power. This seems characteristic of him; he moves always with the same decisiveness. He is dressed in a dark flannel shirt and loose corduroy trousers stuffed into rough laced boots.
Gavin (Stands quietly a moment surveying the scene; then he speaks casually, quietly) Howdy, sis.
Mary (Springing from her chair and turning quickly) Buck! Buck! My God! What air you doin’ here? Why did you come back?
Gavin (Simply) I had to, sis.
Mary But, my Lor’, man, they’ve been lookin’ fer you high an’ low. There’s nary a nook ner corner ’bout these hills they haven’t scoured fer you.
Gavin Don’t you reckon I know it? But I come, an’ thar’s an end to it. (Speaking impatiently as she starts to interrupt him.) Don’t argue with me. I come . . . an’ you know why, I’m thinkin.
Mary (Sullenly) Yeah. I calc’late I knowed why. (Going to him.) But ’twarn’t no use, Buck, ’twarn’t no use for you to risk yer neck after all’s over.
Gavin (With quiet emphasis) Thar’s the rub. ’Taint all over. There’s one mo’ leetle job to be done, an’ I reckon I’ll git to see that through . . . least-ways, I’d better. For they’d never o’ caught me whar I was, an I don’t calc’late to come more’n two hundred miles jes’ to be caught. I reckon they’ll git me soon, anyway; they’re so powerful smart.
Mary (Contemptuously and proudly) Bah! They never could o’ caught you in the ol’ days, Buck, no matter how powerful smart they were. You’d allus fool ’em, Buck.
Gavin The ol’ days is gone—the good ol’ days—an’ all that made ’em good. But now . . . now . . . well, I’m jes’ not in the foolin’ mood. (Moving away from her.) . . . He’s gone . . . they got him, an’ I’d ruther that it’d been me. I reckon you know it. . . . But they got him, damn ’em, an’ now . . . now . . . (Passionately.) Aw, what’s the use? (Striding restlessly across the room.) A lot I’d keer if they’d come now . . . only . . . only . . . I want a leetle mo’ time . . . jes’ a leetle.
Mary Buck! Buck! Perk up, man, you mustn’t act this way. What’s come over you?
Gavin Oh, don’t worry ’bout me. . . . (He speaks softly.) Where’d you put him, Mary?
Mary On the top o’ big Smoky. You know he allus liked the view up there . . . said kind o’ jokin’ that that was where he wanted ’em to plant him.
Gavin (Almost in a whisper) I . . . rec’lect.
Mary So the rest o’ the boys built a kind o’ box an’ carried him up there. Twarn’t easy neither, for it’s a good ten mile from the Gap to the top o’ the Smoky. But we all felt sort o’ like it was doin’ the right thing by Jim. Allus was different, was Jim, from the rest of us. He’d have them dreamy times when he wanted to be left alone.
Gavin (Sits down at the table and gazes before him) He was plumb foolish over the view from the Smoky. Called it a leetle bit o’ God’s country. Used to go up there an’ stare off ’cross the valleys till the sun got low an’ everythin’ was blurred an’ hazy-like. Didn’t want to talk to no one when he got that-a-way. But one time, when we was up there, he set a-lookin’ out awhile an he turned to me an’ says, says he, “Buck, this is shore purty. We’re powerful close to heaven, Buck. . . .” I reckon you done the right thing to plant him there. . . . Good ol’ Jim. It’s ’bout all we could do. But the best warn’t good ’nough fer him.
Mary On the box we carved out his name. . . jes’ carved “Jim.” Somehow it seemed more nat’ral-like to have it “Jim” than “James Preas.” An’ over the grave—at the head, I mean—we stuck a wooden cross that the boys made . . . an’ on it we carved “Jim Preas—He asked no favors from revenooers an’ he died with his boots off.”
Gavin (Sharply) What’s that ’bout his boots?
Mary Oh, that’s the funny part of it. He had his leetle joke right to the end. You know he allus calc’lated he’d have his boots off when he died. Well, when the Sheriff an’ his dep’ties found him, he was lyin’ up agin’ a rock with his boots off, with his gun in one hand, an’ grinnin’ a funny leetle grin as if he was sayin’, “I had the last laugh, hey?”
Gavin (Quietly after a pause) How . . . how many did we git?
Mary Three dep’ties.
Gavin (With savage satisfaction) Good . . . good, damn ’em, they had to pay. A lot o’ good it does me, though. (He goes on reminiscently.) I won’t forgit the fight out there on the hill-side, an’ how they got him. He gives a funny leetle cough an’ crumples up an’ quits pumpin’ his gun. “Buck,” he says, grinnin’ that crooked grin of his’n, “Buck, my boy, I reckon they’ve settled my hash. . . . ’Tain’t no use, big feller,” says he when I starts to carry him, “They’ve got me, an’ I’m done fer. You can’t help me, so for God’s sake, help yourself. Now git.” So I left him jokin’ an’ grinnin an’ pumpin’ lead at ’em. He was a great joker, was Jim. . . . (They are both silent.) Mary, I reckon I ought to git some flowers. Could you git ’em fer me?
Mary (Puzzled by the question) Why, yeah, I reckon I could. I got some here picked fresh this mornin’, but what on airth d’you want . . . Buck, you can’t be meanin’ to go up there with ’em. Why, man alive, you cain’t—they’re searchin high an’ low fer you.
Gavin (Doggedly) No matter if they air—I’m goin’. That’s what I come fer.
Mary D’you mean to tell me, Buck Gavin, that you come all this way to risk your neck fer . . . fer . . . sech? . . .
Gavin (With quiet determination) Yeah, I mean to tell you jes’ that. That’s what kep’ pullin’ me home; that’s all I hanker to do an’ after that’s done let ’em come an’ git me . . . an to hell with ’em.
Mary All right, Buck, I reckon you know. I’ll git ’em.
Gavin (To himself) With his boots off, hey? (He sits down at the table.) By cripes, that was like him, jes’ like ol’ Jim. Allus was a joker. (He chuckles.) I reckon that tickled him. Oh, Lord, that was a man fer you! (He rises and strides across the room.)
Mary (Returning with a large bunch of arbutus) Reckon these’ll do, Buck?
Gavin Guess so—too many, though. Here, le’ me have ’em, I’ll fix ’em. Say, how ’bout some vi’lets, got any? Jim was plumb daffy over ’em—the big blue uns. You know the kind, Mary?
Mary I know where they’s a sight of ’em. I’ll go git ’em. ’Twon’t take long. (She goes out.)
Gavin (Sitting by the table, he speaks disjointedly as he arranges the flowers) No, an’ ’twon’t take long fer you either, Gavin, my boy. . . . Your goose is ’bout cooked, I’m thinkin’. Fine way of cookin’, too. Jim’s was the right way after all. . . . Wish I’d stayed with him now. A purty sight I’ll be with a noose ’round my gullet—first Gavin to be hung—a disgrace to the family. . . . They’ll git me—they allus git us. We’ve fit ’em time an’ time, an’ they git us in the end. Lord, I reckon we’uns is all fools. . . . (Holding the bunch of arbutus at arm’s length.) . . . There, that’s purty now.
(Now the door opens slowly and a short, thick-set fellow steps into the room. The badge of an officer of the law can be seen under his coat. In his hand he holds a revolver. He is the Sheriff.)
The Sheriff (Smiling ironically) Welcome home, Buck.
(Gavin wheels swiftly, his hand moving to his hip pocket. He stops short on seeing the Sheriff’s gun.)
Gavin Aw. . . . Hell. . . .
The Sheriff (Genially, highly pleased with himself) Quite a surprise, eh? Knew you’d be back, my boy, so I jes’ laid low fer you. You never had a chance.
Gavin (Slowly) Yeah, you got me I reckon, Sheriff, but I ain’t worryin’ ’bout it. Fact is, I’m glad you come—only . . . only I wish to God you’d been a leetle later.
The Sheriff (Surprised) Why?
Gavin (Sullenly) Aw . . . nothin’. Come on, let’s be travelin. My sister’ll be back any minute now, an I don’t want her to see the kind o’ company I’ve took up with.
The Sheriff (In a high good humor) Jes’ as you say, Buck, jes’ as you say.
(They start toward the door as Mary enters with a large bunch of violets. She sums up the situation at a glance.)
Mary Oh, Buck, Buck, why did you come? I told you. An’ now they’ve got you. I knowed it! (She sinks into a chair and buries her face in her hands.)
Gavin (He speaks gently and clumsily tries to soothe her) There, there, little sis, you mustn’t carry on so. This is sartin’ the best way out an I’m not worr’in’—look at me. I’m glad, sis. What’s in the game fer me now? My pal’s gone an there ain’t no mo’ fun in playin’ it without him. . . . Tell the boys hello an’ good-by fer me, an’ tell ’em I says—But you needn’t t’ mind. . . . As fer you . . . (Going to her.) . . . you needn’t to worry ’bout nothin’ no mo’. I’ve fixed things up fer you.
Mary Oh Buck, you needn’t o’ been caught. You could’ve got away.
Gavin (With quiet emphasis) It is the law. You cain’t buck it. (There is a pause. The Sheriff stands with bowed head, his jesting spirit gone. Then Gavin speaks awkwardly as he prepares to leave.) Well, I reckon that’s about all, so I’ll be a-goin’. Be good to yourself, sis. (He notices the arbutus and the violets on the table and picks them up, muttering under his breath.) I would’ve liked to ’ve took ’em up there, an’ . . . an’ . . . sort o’ looked ’round. (He looks at Mary, deeply moved.) But . . . well, I reckon I cain’t go now . . . but ol’ Jim’ll know . . . jes’ the same. Sis,—you take ’em.
(He places the flowers in her lap. Mary does not raise her head. He pats her hair gently, clumsily, once or twice, then turns to go with the Sheriff. At the door he turns and gives a last look around the room. His gaze rests finally on his sister. Then he goes out quietly. Mary’s head is pillowed in her arms. The flowers are in her lap.
