eddie baron
Lying there it occurred to me with the force of revelation, that I (Elson Farwell, best boy, fondest son of my mother) had been sorely tricked, and (colorful rockets now bursting overhead, into such shapes as Old Glory, and a walking chicken, and a green-gold Comet, as if to celebrate the Joke being played upon me, each new explosion eliciting fresh cries of delight from those fat, spoiled East children) I regretted every moment of conciliation and smiling and convivial waiting, and longed with all my heart (there in the dappled tree-moonshade, that, in my final moments, became allshade) that my health might be restored to me, if just for one hour, so that I might correct my grand error, and enstrip myself of all cowering and false-talk and preening diction, and rise up even yet and stride back to those always-happy Easts and club and knife and rend and destroy them and tear down that tent and burn down that house, and thus secure for myself— Oh.
elson farwell
“A certain modicum of humanity, for only a beast—”
betsy baron
A certain modicum of humanity, yes, for only a beast would endure what I had endured without objection; and not even a beast would conspire to put on the manners of its masters and hope thereby to be rewarded.
But it was too late.
It is too late.
It shall ever be too late.
When my absence was noted next day, they sent Mr. Chasterly back, and he, having found me, did not deem it necessary to bring me home, but contracted with a German, who threw me on a cart with several others— elson farwell
That d—– Kraut stole half a loaf off my wife.
eddie baron
Nice bread too.
betsy baron
Which is where we first met Elson.
eddie baron
On back of that cart.
betsy baron
And been friends ever since.
eddie baron
Never will I leave here until I have had my revenge.
elson farwell
Well, you’re not getting any f—–ing revenge, pal.
eddie baron
There’s a lesson in what happened to you, Elson.
betsy baron
If you ain’t white, don’t try to be white.
eddie baron
If I could return to that previous place, I would avenge myself even now.
Bring down the bedroom shelving on the fat head of little Reginald; cause the Mrs. to break her neck upon the stairs; cause the Mr.’s clothes to burst into flame as he sat at her paralytic’s bedside; send a pestilence upon that house and kill all the children, even the baby, who I previously very much— elson farwell
Well, I must say, Elson—and pardon me for interrupting—I did not have any such harsh experiences as you have been describing.
Mr. Conner, and his good wife, and all of their children and grandchildren were like family to me. Never was I separated from my own wife or children. We ate well, were never beaten. They had given us a small but attractive yellow cottage. It was a happy arrangement, all things considered. All men labor under some impingements on their freedom; none is absolutely at liberty. I was (I felt, for the most part) living simply an exaggerated version of any man’s life. I adored my wife and our children, and did what any working man would do: exactly what would benefit them and keep us all living convivially together; i.e., I endeavored to be a good and honorable servant, to people who were, fortunately for us, good and honorable people themselves.
Of course, there was always a moment, just as an order was given, when a small, resistant voice would make itself known in the back of my mind. Then the necessary job was to ignore that voice. It was not a defiant or angry voice, particularly, just that little human voice, saying, you know: I wish to do what I wish to do, and not what you are telling me to do.
And I must say, that voice was never quite silenced.
Although it did grow rather quiet over the years.
But I must not over-complain on this score. I had many free and happy moments. On Wednesday afternoons, for example, when I would be given two free hours to myself. And all day, every third Sunday, if things were not too hectic. Admittedly, my enjoyments during these respites were rather trivial, almost childish: I will walk over and talk to Red. I will go to the pond and sit a bit. I will take this path, and not that. And no one could call out, “Thomas, come hither” or “Thomas, if you please, that tray” or “Thomas, that vegetable bed needs tending, fetch Charles and Violet and put them to work, will you, old boy?”
Unless, of course, such an interruption was necessary. In which case, naturally, they might, indeed, interrupt me. Even on a Wednesday afternoon. Or a Sunday. Or late upon any night all. As I was enjoying an intimate moment with my wife. Or was lost in a much-needed sleep. Or was praying. Or on the privy.
And yet, still: I had my moments. My free, uninterrupted, discretionary moments.
Strange, though: it is the memory of those moments that bothers me most.
The thought, specifically, that other men enjoyed whole lifetimes comprised of such moments.