Slavery or involuntary servitude shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction, only as punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted.
— The United States Constitution, 13th Amendment.
MY GRANDFATHER—a retired Confederate soldier— was an unusual type, yet one pretty frequently to be met with, a type hot-tempered, bold, possessed of remarkable physical strength. Perhaps The Civil war was one of the most grateful recollections of his youth: when I was a child, I happened to hear enough breathtaking stories. He was very fond of recalling the two days of The Second Battle of Bull Run, describing a disgraceful retreat of the Union. With a sinking heart, I was listening to endless tales straight from the battlefield; I was hoping that I could carry out my grandfather's deed someday. His "Southern beliefs" at the time made him specially eager for any action after the war, for he was passionately anxious to make a slave-owning career in one way or another. He invested his veteran wage into a plot of land, where a vegetable plantation was later organized. You can easily imagine what a father such a man could be and how he would bring up his children: Henry Keyle, my father, turned out to be his exact copy.
My mother was a frivolous girl from the capital, charming as she was, whom my father married in his early and unthinking youth. That's why in 1900, thirty five years after the war, when I, John Keyle, was born, Sir Henry came to the decision that he should undertake the education and the whole intellectual development of his first son in the capacity of a superior sort of teacher and mentor. I was tutored at home every morning until noon, studying exact sciences, languages and theology. Father did not hesitate to use a belt and a rod, for he was eager to raise a true gentleman out of me. Since I was a child, I was accustomed to be proud of the Confederation victory and to honor the feat of our soldiers. Father frequently discussed the value of the 13th Amendment with me: "We, the white race, may not be considered dominant anymore," said he, "But the very core of our convictions stays the same. White over colored, white over white, it matters not. Remember, Jack: we, the Keyles, shall always stay at the top of this pyramid."
Back then, I could not even think how absurd these words will seem to me in the future.
***
STEVENS' RESIDENCE lay on the outskirts of New-York, two hours away from the Pennsylvania Station. Squeezed between giant spruces, which surrounded it like a solid green wall, the house appeared as something substantial, yet alien. Our taxi pulled up on a driveway, right in front of the tall iron gates. Stevens thanked the driver, got out of the car, went round it and opened the door for me; my hands were still tied.
I had felt an insurmountable repulsion for 'the owner' at the first glance. Though I knew nothing special about him, he had already made an unpleasant impression by his air of haughtiness, and at the same time almost timorous aloofness. Upon noticing my complete indifference, he ceased trying on smiles and spent the entire ride reading newspapers. Externally, Stevens was cold, dignified and taciturn, and spoke, weighing his words, without frivolity. I've never liked people of this kind. The general irritation in me was also caused by his physiognomy — badly shaved and always tired.
It was a two-storey mansion, surrounded by shrubs of ilex and eglantyne, with brickwork new under a thin beard of raw ivy; the narrow gravel pathway led to the front door. The master of the house untied my wrists and put his hand on my shoulder.
"Welcome home," he declared almost with solemnity.
I shrugged and took a step to the side.
"Do not touch me", I warned, glaring. " 'tis not my home and it will never be."
Stevens frowned, but did not say anything. We went to the front steps and entered the house.
The living room was dark, cold, and was well, almost pretentiously, furnished, with its round table, its divan, and its bronze clock under a glass shade. It was past midday, and if the curtains weren't down, it would be rather light in the room. I have been meaning to ask why don't we turn on the lights or open up the curtains, but decided against it. As is often the case in old houses, the staircase to the second floor was narrow, very dark and made of marble. A chandelier adorned with lustres hung by a bronze chain from the ceiling. "Expensive, but tasteless," I concluded. Stevens pointed at the velvet divan and asked me to sit down. He himself sat in front of me, rigidly, his elbow on the arm of the armchair and his chin in his hand.
"Your reticence amazes me," he said after a brief pause. "Don't worry; forasmuch as, I am not a chatty one myself."
I nodded, staring into dark space behind his back.
"However, I expected to find out at least something about you... Except for everything I've read in the newspapers."
"I ... I think that's no matter to you."
"True," he crossed one leg over the other. "But still, out of simple politeness, I am obliged to waste my time on you. In this house, I shall always cherish politeness. And therefore, I would prefer you to be rather courteous than open.
A somewhat grandiloquent style of his speech outed him as a politician. I winced.
"Now," continued he. "Come, be polite and tell me your name".
I kept quiet. After almost a moment of expectation, Stevens shrugged and smiled strangely.
"Well, keep your silence then. It seems like I have to come up with a new name for you..."
At last I lost all control.
"It's nonsense. My name must be familiar to you from the documents. And the newspapers..."
"Yes, but I do expect you to be—"
"John," I answered with vexation. "My name is John."
Stevens smiled and got up from the armchair. At the same moment his face resumed its original satisfied expression.
"Nice to meet you, John. Well, I do not have any errands for you today. Go for a walk, rest. I shall call the maid; let her show you the ropes.
I nodded and got up as well.
"Wonderful. See you later."
With those words, Stevens mounted the stairs and disappeared in the darkness of the second floor. I was left alone in the middle of the living room, looking about me with a kind of a nervous hurry. After pacing from side to side and not discovering anything special, I decided to go upstairs. There I found multiple bedrooms, presumably for guests. A peculiar circumstance attracted my attention: there was an inexplicable amount of dust everywhere, as though the floors in the rooms hadn't been washed for many days (or maybe I was just imagining things). It was very dark upstairs — perhaps even darker than on the first floor. All the rooms were empty. I anticipated to meet at least someone from the local servants, but did not find a single soul. At home, there have always been more slaves than members of the household, and sometimes it was impossible to step foot in the mansion without stumbling upon a maid, a butler or a cook.
I slipped downstairs. My legs felt suddenly heavy and a great drowsiness came upon me. I longed to wash and then lay somewhere. The feeling of intense resentment, which had begun to oppress and torture my heart while I stood on the auction podium in South Carolina, had by now reached such a pitch and had taken such a definite form that I did not know how to escape from my wretchedness. I went to the closest window and opened the curtains: I starved for sunlight. The window had a view of the courtyard: the flower garden and the decorative fence. An overwhelming, unaccountable prompting drew me on. I walked out of the living room, passed a narrow hallway, opened the front door and went outside. Then I went round the house and found myself in the garden. It was an amazing, picturesque world: a fine, sumptuous garden in the English taste overgrown with fragrant flowers, with flower beds going round the fence; I was so weary after a whole year of concentrated wretchedness and gloomy anticipation, that I longed to rest, if only for a moment, in some other world. However, except for the wonderful flowers, there was something else that drew my attention.
Surrounded by the shrubs of lilac, a girl stood in the heart of the garden. She was young, sixteen, perhaps not more than fifteen, years old. Dark-skinned, skinny and short, she wore a black cotton dress, with a white apron round her waist and a white cap on her head. Upon noticing me, she smiled.
"Ah, blessed it be the day!" the girl greeted.
"Haven't heard that greeting for a while," I thought.
A light of infinite geniality, and maybe even interest came into her eyes. I don't now why, but I instantly felt an inexplicable compassionate sympathy towards this girl.
"Blessed it be the day," I nodded.
"You must be John," the girl took a step forward. "His Excellency, Mr. Stevens, told me to find you... Good God, forgive me for not coming. I've sat in the garden for too long...
"Why, don't worry yourself. For that matter, I had the pleasure of... Being by myself for a little while."
"Wonderful... Well, let us go."
The girl paused, and then, as though she remembered something, added:
"My name is Vella. I am Mr. Stevens' maid."
I bowed my head.
"Pleasure to meet you, miss... Wait, when did Stevens manage to give orders? For what I remember, he went upstairs immediately."
Vella giggled.
"Mr. Stevens called me from the upper window."
We left the garden and began walking towards the front doors.
"So, you had the time to explore the house?" inquired she.
"Yes, briefly," I nodded. "What surprises me, is that I haven't met any other servants... Did everyone just go to sleep?"
"Not at all," Vella answered, "We only have a cook and me."
I frowned.
"In the entire mansion?"
"In the entire mansion, yes. Mr. Stevens enjoys peace and quiet. 'I become hostile to people the moment there is too many of them', that's what he says. He suffers from terrible migraines sometimes... So don't question him too much about anything if you see him frown."
I smirked. "Maybe that's why it's pitch dark in the house..."
"Anyhow, all men work outside."
"Outside? What do they do?"
Her words made me suspicious. Vella shrugged.
"They grow vegetables. We've got a vegetable garden."
She led me into the house.
"We should find some clean clothing for you first," she said pensively. "And then..."
"I would be happy to rest," I admitted.
"Of course," Vella said hastily. "You must be tired... I forgot it, completely forgot it! Don't you worry, I will take you to your room afterwards."
"Thank you."
We mounted the stairs, passed quickly through the dark hallway and turned to the left. The dressing room consisted of chests, wardrobes and high coat racks. I noticed one of these racks, the longest one, with a dozen identical dresses hanging from it. They were similar to the one that my companion wore.
Vella walked to one of the chests and began rummaging in it. She then handed me the clothing. Her choice surprised me: she held a starched dress coat, a waistcoat, a white shirt and black pants. It resembled the attire of a lackey, maybe even a private secretary, and did not look like proper clothes for gardening.
"Am I really going to work in the gardens like this? Сouldn't we adopt a special uniform, for instance, some shirts..." I asked in bewilderment.
"Why are you so completely certain that you will work in the gardens?"
She looked confused.
"But you told me that all men work outside..."
"Ah, not quite. Well, to be exact, yes, but in your case... Mr. Stevens has been looking for a butler for a while now."
An intense, almost unbearable relief overwhelmed me for an instant: after all, I didn't want to dig dirt or chop wood. But I immediately remembered about my unenviable position, that it did not really change, and was ready to bite my hands because of the sudden annoyance that fell upon me.
"Does it mean that I am to become his butler?"
"I assume so."
After handing me the clothes, Vella opened two hulking patent cabinets which held all kinds of suits, dressing-gowns and ties.
"Since we are here," began she. "And since you are to become the butler, you must have some knowledge about the wardrobe of His Excellency..."
A loud title, that Vella used to refer to the master of the house, sounded so ridiculous that I winced.
"Is he some sort of marquis?" I thought with vexation.
"Everything you might need is here" continued the maid, "There are some wardrobes in the attics for things Mr. Stevens doesn't often wear. Traveling clothes and such."
"What about the cufflinks? Do I choose them or does he?"
"Lay them out unless he asks for something in particular. These for parties, these for meetings, and these only in New-York."
"I'll try to remember."
"Yes, you will have to."
Vella talking, but I did not listen anymore.
"You are a slave. Not a wage-earner." I said suddenly. Vella paused and fixed her piercing, surprised eyes upon me.
"A funny work, is it not?" continued I.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you live in all of this. The luxury is within your reach, but none of it is yours. Nothing is yours." explained I.
"I don't understand, Mr. Keyle," mumbled Vella. "I am a slave, but what of it?"
"And it doesn't bother you? Such injustice?"
Vella frowned and uttered suddenly:
"Slaves, in reverent fear of God submit yourselves to your masters, not only to those who are good and considerate, but also to those who are harsh. For this finds favor— if for the sake of a consciousness of God one bears-up—"
"While suffering sorrows unjustly." I finished instead of her. "So it doesn't?"
"It doesn't at all," the girl answered confidently. "Do you believe in God?"
"I do."
"Do you believe literally?"
"Literally. However, I do not always agree with His Word. Just like right now.
Her face changed. She glanced at me with coldness.
"Fine. You wished to rest, as far as I remember?"
"Yes, please," confirmed I, eager to avoid this weird conversation.
"Why on earth would I bring that up," I thought, while we were walking down the stairs. "Loose lips sink ships!»
The little room into which we walked, with dark paper on the walls and muslin curtains in the window, was brightly lighted up at that moment by the sun. Perhaps it was the only light room in the house. The furniture consisted of a plain bed, a nightstand, a wardrobe and an old arm-chair that had lost its arms.
"Your room," said Vella. "The restroom is the opposite door. Would you like to wash?"
"Ah, no, I... I shall do it tomorrow morning. Thank you."
Vella nodded slowly. It seemed like our conversation had made a vague impression on her. We were silent for a moment.
"I didn't intend to seem strange," I said seriously. "Trust me, without offense, my belief does not differ from yours, and I... Do not judge you for anything..."
The girl smiled and shrugged it off.
"Of course. Have a rest, Mr. Keyle. See you tomorrow."
With that, she left the room and closed the door. I sat down on the rigid mattress and sighed heavily. Suddenly, a feeling long familiar to me flooded my heart. I wiped my eyes, undressed, got under covers and soon sank into a deep, yet anxious sleep.
"Welcome home..."
***
"Get up! Why are you asleep?"
I woke up immediately, hair soaked with perspiration, and rose up in confusion. It was light outside the window, but the room was not lightened up by the sun. "So it's morning..."
"Get up!"
I turned around. A black woman of forty stood in the doorway; she wore a grey headscarf and an apron. Her dark eyes flashed.
"You should've woken up two hours ago!" the woman swooped down on me like a hawk. "What, Vella didn't tell you?"
"She didn't..." I mumbled in confusion. Half-awake, I had trouble remembering who Vella was.
"Oh God," the woman cried. "Get up and go to the kitchen. There's plenty of people, I ain't got time to make breakfast for you."
She left. I growled and rubbed my temples. The sleep had not refreshed me at all: I woke up in a broken and devastated state, even worse than the day before. The sight of a servant woman made me writhe with nervous irritation. I wanted to get under covers and hide, like a tortoise in its shell.
I stood up, put on a shirt, pants and a creaky dress coat. During a year spent in prison, I had completely lost touch with fashion. In the restroom, I was going to wash my face, but instead, upon seeing myself within the looking-glass, had frozen completely. I saw a man exactly like myself—my Döppelgänger. The face —pale and drowsy— was mine. But the body — clothed in a formal dress-coat, with a bow-tie around its neck, did not belong to me. There was darkness before my eyes. I shook my head and splashed cold water on my face. The ugliest of illusions vanished immediately, leaving me with a long familiar feeling of dread.
After getting over the nervous tremor, I went to the kitchen. The sunlight, bright on the kitchen table and dull on Vella's hair, glinted along the room. Upon noticing me, the maid smiled.
"Good morning, Mr. Keyle..."
"Mornin'."
She gave me a worried look.
"But how pale you are, to be sure... and your hands are trembling too?"
"Didn't get much sleep." I said abruptly.
"Here, we've brewed you some coffee..."
I was going to thank her, but instantly a heavy tread shook the floor. The woman from before swept into the kitchen, as if a dozen chefs awaited her orders here. I assumed it was the cook.
"Well, what are you sitting around for?" she mumbled. "There's a lot of things to do."
"Which things, miss Silver?"
"You know which." The woman went to the stove and picked up the lid of one of the pots. "And yet you're sitting here, makin' eyes..."
Vella blushed in terrible confusion.
"A am not!"
The cook peek into the cezve.
"And for whom is the coffee? Mr. Stevens asked to bring coffee upstairs..."
"It is for Mr. Keyle."
The cook turned around, as if she had not noticed me earlier.
"Mr. Keyle will be fine," she said calmly without so much as a blink.
"Wait..."
"For the record, Smith," Miss Silver took a cup from a cupboard. "If not you, Mr. Keyle would have already started working..."
"Come on, Miss Silver! He doesn't yet have anything to do,"
"If so, he could wash the dishes..."
I remember now with what hungry interest I began to follow their argument. I could not understand, among other things, how these people—with no life at all— remained human and found the strength to scold at each other. Their argument had almost encouraged me. But my animation vanished as quickly as it appeared:
"I beg your pardon."
All those present immediately turned to the doors, in which the owner of the house stood. Stevens seemed kind of rumpled: there were dark bags under his eyes, and his jaw looked like a stiff greyish brush. However, he was dressed exquisitely, in a light and loose dress coat, light summer pants, and everything about him was fashionable and spick and span.
"I asked to bring me coffee, if I am not mistaken." said Stevens with an air of strong fatigue. His speaking voice, a gruff husky alto , added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed.
"Graciously forgive us, Your excellency..."
"It is fine."
Stevens walked to the cook, took a cup from her, poured some coffee and began drinking hungrily. I glanced at him carefully: dressed as though to go out, he did not seem to be intending to do so. After finishing his coffee in a single sip, Stevens wiped his lips, looked at me and smiled tiredly.
"Good morning, John."
My mood, which had almost risen after the conversation between the maids, had gone even worse. In response, I just nodded and stared away glumly. He stood for a time, looking straight at me, motionless.
"Have you eaten?" he asked finally.
"Sorry, Mr. Stevens, I was preparing dinner for the men. Nobody has had breakfast yet." Miss Silver interrupted. "Besides, Mr. Laurens overslept..."
"D'accord. In that case, let him have breakfast. I shall wait in the living room.
Then he nodded his head and left without saying another word.
"Today His Excellency is in a wonderful mood..." Vella remarked.
"Yeah," agreed the cook. "Nothing pleases him more than returning home."
I sat at the table like a block and stared in silence, completely confused.
AFTER FINISHING my breakfast, which consisted of a bowl of runny oatmeal, I went into the living room. Stevens sat in a chair with his left hand resting on the back of it, and was reading the morning newspaper.
"Have you managed to get to know Theodosia?" asked he, not taking his eyes off the newspaper page.
"Get to know whom?" I did not understand.
"Miss Silver," explained Stevens. "She is a spirited lady, yes, short-tempered, but righteous..."
I nodded, shifting from foot to foot. Perhaps upon noticing some awkwardness in my behavior, Stevens got up from his chair and went towards the stairs.
"Let us go."
We wandered around the house for half an hour or more, Stevens muttering all sorts of wisdom and explaining why exactly he needed a butler. I was very absent; I was nodding, evidently with no idea of what I was nodding about. We went upstairs, through period bedrooms swathed in silk, through supply closets and bathrooms. Finally we came to his own apartment —these were the simplest rooms of all— a bedroom, a bathroom and an office. We did not enter the office, however.
"Do not ever enter my office." he warned.
"Why?"
"Because I said so. It is my own place for contemplation."
He was at first silent for ten seconds, and then asked, not in the tone of the conversation:
"Vella is a lovely girl, is she not? Such a soft, gentle creature..."
"M-m..."
A sudden question took me off guard. There was a strange fixity in Stevens' gaze: he stared at me, thoughtfully, as if trying to convey some sort of message. Alas, I did not understand him at all.
"And her smile is really very sweet," continued he. "Lots of people are attracted to such girls."
I must say, at that moment I found myself more confused than I had ever been before: maybe from the essence of the question asked, maybe from the fact that this man was trying to have a friendly conversation with me. I almost began the generalized evasions to avoid answering, but he was faster:
"What about you?"
The entire discussion was a great embarrassment; it felt so unpleasant for me that I had almost snapped and left. Ten seconds, maybe more, were spent in actual struggle. Then, to my relief, everything resolved by itself: the doorbell rang.
"Ah! It must be the delivery," exclaimed Stevens. "Come, open the door."
Rejoicing at the opportunity, I ran down the stairs and headed towards the entrance-hall. My anxiety did not flag, and every moment my irritation grew more intense. In all this behavior of his there was something which really did offend me, but I could not understand what it was exactly.
I unlocked the door and opened it. A man in a broad-brim stood on the porch; there was a truck parked right in front of the gates.
"Who are you?" I asked with no hesitation.
"I have a shipment, Sir," said the man in visible confusion. "from the grocer's..."
Pressing lightly on my shoulder to make me move, Stevens stepped onto the porch.
"Wilson, good morning," greeted he.
"Mr. Stevens, Sir," the delivery man raised his hat, "I brought everything as fast as I could."
"Just in time," Stevens nodded. "I have paid in advance, for what I remember?"
"Yes. I have unloaded the boxes, but if you wish, I could as well bring them to the porch..."
"There is no need. My butler will handle it."
"Fine."
Later, having bade farewell to the delivery man, Stevens pointed at the gates.
"Carry the boxes into the house. And try not to drop anything."
I crossed the yard, and at once saw near the gates a pile of boxes. "Damn him," I thought with vexation, "threw it all in a heap and got away!"
The boxes were three feet long each, made of rough-hewn planks. I rolled up my sleeves and tried to lift one of them. My hands tensed, trembled, and the heavy box fell to the ground. I bent down and spent about a minute trying to pick it up.
"Why, it's beyond anything..." I mumbled, almost filled with despair.
"What takes you so long?"
I turned to the gates. Stevens gazed down at me with the interested, yet almost irritated face.
I straightened up and gritted my teeth.
"I'm sorry, Sir," I said distinctly. "I cannot do that."
He smirked.
"It is not appropriate for a man to give up so fast."
I did not answer, for I felt nothing but frenzied spite. A bitter, scornful smirk appeared on Stevens' lips.
"Though the law states that you're not a man, indeed. Someone from the gardens must do it, then..."
"What is it that you want from me, though?" I interrupted.
"Pardon?"
"You insulted me just because I could not lift up the box, Sir," I uttered with an effort. "If that's how it is, why don't you do it yourself, to show me how it's done?"
At the very moment, I was struck by the strangeness of my own frankness, though I had kept up all the preceding conversations with gloomy repulsion. Stevens lifted his head, looked at me and laughed dryly. As if I had made a bad joke. This horrible answer sent a cold chill through me.
"Go, John. I shall call somebody."
"I am not going anywhere until you lift up the box."
"I will not even bother to try."
I was staring at him for a time, silent. Suddenly, I felt a passionate desire to do something revolting, grotesque, positively scandalous. Perhaps, If I had not said that, my life would turn out to be much different:
"Then you are no man yourself."
His face changed. I stood, looking almost insolently at him and taking a kind of pleasure in my own insolence. "Since I'm a slave to him and all too insignificant in his eyes, there is no point in him being offended at my rudeness..."
Stevens broke into a nervous laugh. I drew back, more amazed than scared, for it happened out of nowhere.
"You... Ungrateful fool," he cried suddenly and unnaturally, "No man, no man... And what right have you, indeed, to insult me?"
"I did not insult you..."
"No, you did. Why would I shower benefits on a man who... curses them? What is wrong with you? You... Why, you shall crawl on your knees, that's how it shall be arranged. No man..."
Such dramatic change in his mood alarmed me.
"Can't you see that I don't want your benevolence?" I snapped. "I may be ungrateful, I may be mean, only let me be, for God's sake..."
"Come. Come, right now."
Stevens grabbed my wrist and dragged me with him. I did not struggle.
We went upstairs, and he coaxed me into the dressing room.
"What are you doing?" I asked, awfully anxious now.
"I have clothes for you," Stevens muttered hurriedly, and in a whisper. "Your new clothes."
He walked to one of the racks, ripped a dress from it and handed it to me. My eyes opened wide.
"You must be out of your mind..."
"Well, don't you see that I am in possession of all my faculties now?"
"I—"
"You are not capable of being a butler. Therefore, If you cannot behave properly, you are to become a maid. In my house, maids wear dresses.
"But I am a man..."
"No, John, you are no man. You are a slave."
"Is this a joke?" I was furious. "It was base of me to say that, yes! But still, Is cross-dressing a common thing here?"
"Cross-dressing?" Stevens laughed. "Funny. Weren't you the activist in a group of men who preferred to dress as women?"
I rolled my eyes.
"I have never been an activist; I was just defending my convictions. The difference is that I do not contend that ordinary people are bound to wear fuckin' dresses. Am I a lousy raccrocheuse to you?"
Stevens winced.
"Disgusting. Though you are not attractive enough to be a raccrocheuse. "
I paused, hardly able to breathe.
"I would rather work naked..."
"Work then. I am pretty sure you will not, though."
We were both silent.
"Just as I thought."
Stevens pointed at a polished partition in the corner of the room.
"Go."
Reluctantly, I went behind the partition and changed. The dress —cotton and black— stretched tightly over my rather wide shoulders. However, I was still scrawny enough to fit in a female outfit — with long sleeves, a full skirt and an apron tied around the waist. The dress was accompanied by white stockings and a scarlet hair-tie. I pulled on the stockings and shrudded: my legs, covered in dark hairs, did not look feminine at all. The outfit was ridiculous, it fit me with no proportion, making me look either like an unattractive lady or a transvestite. A sudden frustration had almost caught me in tears.
I came out from behind the partition. Stevens raised his eyebrows. There was an expression of aversion in his look, even a malignant enjoyment of my shame. I was silent.
"I shall not condone insults, John," said he. "A reckless, oblivious creature like yourself will not even deign to touch male clothing, until it learns to follow my word."
I gritted my teeth.
"Rejoice," he continued with a certain assumed slyness and affectation of bravado. "You will not have to carry boxes, answer the phone or welcome guests. If you desire to wax floors and clean bathrooms... So be it. Perhaps the second maid might be even more useful than a butler."
I stood, clenching my fists, vexed at my own words.
"I am not a woman. Dresses are only for women..."
"Well, if we ignore the legs... You sure do look like the cheapest of raccrocheuses."
A giddiness came over me.
"You... Motherfucker..."
I gave him a hateful look and stormed out of the room.
***
MY DEN was a tiny cupboard of a room about four paces in length. Such atmosphere heated up the feeling of anxious, sharp turmoil which grew in my chest. I had raged like an imbecile, rushed about like a man in a fever, without seeing anything before my eyes. Strangely enough, something also seemed to make me hesitate, and set me to embrace the feeling of deep resentment. My thoughts strayed aimlessly... I found it hard to fix my mind on anything at that moment. I longed to forget myself altogether, to forget everything, and then to wake up and begin life anew. Scraps and shreds of thoughts were simply swarming in my brain, but I could not catch at one, I could not rest on one, in spite of all my efforts.
"That's the worst of all, a stupid skirt! They will notice me a mile off, it will be remembered... They'll beat me!" I mused, pacing up and down in my little room as in fever. If there happened to be an unsophisticated observer in the room, and if such an observer would be brave enough to inquire about my feelings, that's how I would answer: I felt as though someone had made me wear wide pantaloons with a single pant leg.
My senses were peculiarly keen, and the very rustle of the dress was more than I could stand at last. I stopped, lifted up the skirt above my knee and stared at my legs. "How am I supposed to sit?" I thought in despair. "Any man has a habit of spreading one's knees. And who would go against nature? Therefore, anyone could easily look underneath my skirt, and I would not say anything... I would not even notice!"
I was almost delirious: now it seemed to me that my legs, covered with tight stockings, actually looked feminine. If I had any strength left in me, I would raise my hands to Heaven, maybe even weep without restraint like a little child. In the morning I thought that someone else was looking at me from the mirror, that it was some sort of doppelgänger, a foreign essence. Now, I became a doppelgänger myself. This body did not belong to me.
The restless hesitation ended when I heard floorboards creak. I turned around. The door opened, and I saw the master of the house. Obviously, he already knew why he came, and now looked straight at me, preparing to say something. I felt hopeful for an instant: "Perhaps he shows mercy, asks me to change, maybe even apologizes for such impertinence..."
"You still have the same intentions?" I asked with ill-disguised contempt.
"Which intentions?" he pretended as if he did not understand me. I compressed my lips.
"Do you actually want me to dress as a woman?
"As a maid," corrected he. "Yes. You are not worthy to be a butler"
"Why bring in the question of worth? You seem to want to torture people! You humiliate me from a mere offense of yours..."
"You are a slave, John," he interrupted, " A slave is not to speak against the will of its master."
"That's all bullshit! And I can't stand this 'Slave Theory' of yours. Yes, I allow myself to say anything and sometimes ask very frank questions. But I am your slave, one is not ashamed with slaves, and a slave cannot give offense. According to your own theory, I am not a human being."
"So you admit it?"
And a certain self-satisfaction shone in his face. I clenched my fists.
"I speak of it as of a fact that does not depend on me at all. There is no point in taking offense. And why be offended? Tell me, have I ever insulted you?"
"You called me a woman."
I almost choked.
"I— When? When did I say that?" I cried. "I would remember my own words for sure. There was no such word as 'woman' spoken.
"Which word did you use then?"
He looked down upon me with his empty black eyes.
"I said that you are no man. For you didn't lift up the box."
"Here!" exclaimed he, as if I have only proven his thesis. "If I am not a man, then I am a woman. Which means you are a woman, too."
I rolled my eyes.
"Gather what you like. I already told you: If you believe in the Theory and if you don't think of me as a human being, there is no reason for you to rage at my words.
"You can't stand the Slave theory, and yet you hide behind one," Stevens crossed his arms. "Your father would be disappointed. Though, I believe he is disappointed already..."
I shuddered as if I had received a strong electric shock.
"Do not bring my father into this."
«Why so? Not any father would forgive one's son for such betrayal. Moreover, he saved your life... In a manner. Upon my honor, I didn't even mention your secret predilections; if he was telling the truth, of course."
I was flustered. "He knows... Even about that, he knows!" flashed through my mind. The vivid image of father's brow set in that ever-present disappointment appeared before my eyes, and a feeling of immense shame came over me. After two years, I remember the day of my trial only as an endless drill of photographers and newspaper men. I remember how father rose in the middle of the session, making a bold statement. I was so stunned that I almost started screaming. It seemed to me as if a rain of glowing ashes was being poured down upon me. Condemning me to feelings of unbearable shame, father tried to prolong my life; that's why I hated him.
"Enough," I snapped. "You'd better say straight out why you came. To embarrass me? Why, I am already embarrassed."
"Nor at all," Stevens shook his head. "I simply want to have another word or two with you."
"Which word?"
This pompous tone of conversation was beyond my power of endurance. Stevens scratched the back of his head.
"You must know, except for me there are only women living in this house. And, suppose your father's words were a smart trick... Don't you think that such neighbourship is not to be relied upon?"
I did not immediately understand what he meant.
"I would never... Ever... if that's what you mean," mumbled I.
Stevens shrugged.
"Who knows, John. Vella is quite pretty. She may be colored, but..."
"Don't you start with that!" I flared up. "God, she is no older than sixteen! Who do you think I am?"
I must have looked at him with a strange expression, or maybe said something special, because suddenly an unclear thought from before flashed in his eyes.
"How old are you?" asked he.
"Going on twenty-one."
Stevens looked surprised.
"I thought you were fifteen. Too scrawny."
Observing unmistakable mockery in his voice, I was going to answer, but it was too late:
"Anyhow, I would like to remind you: men are to live outside, in the barrack."
I turned cold and arranged my dress mechanically.
"No way," I mumbled. "They'll kill me!"
In prison I lived as it were with downcast eyes, and yet could not ignore a forewarned, hostile attitude towards myself. People like me were always treated with a nonsensical cruelty. Spending days on end in a confined cell, I only lived on the hope of letters from my father. I expected an apology. I do not know if he felt guilty for what he said in court. Perhaps he suspected that there was something terrible in his son's fate and was afraid to ask, for fear of hearing something still more awful. I could not forgive him for that.
"You are a madman," I flew into a fury. "You want me—a man dressed as a woman—to sleep among former criminals? Surely you must understand that they will kill me! Not because I run my mouth, but just so. You could simply send me back..."
"So I spent five hundred dollars on you, and now I am supposed to send you back?"
Stevens shook his head.
"Give me proper clothing. Didn't I tell you plainly enough that you are torturing me..."
"Shut your mouth, John," Stevens interrupted. "Shut your mouth, before I get angry."
At that moment, I feel quite sure, my face was crossed by such a burning, twitching despair, that anyone, whether it be my father, or even someone like René Mantrousse, would show mercy.
Stevens, however, did not even flinch. I had already noticed a peculiar feature of his: even when he was excited and talking irritably, his eyes somehow did not follow his mood, but betrayed something else, sometimes quite incongruous with what was passing.
Then a strange idea entered my head; that, perhaps, I could just come to Stevens and use a different method of persuasion...
"Don't you dare," warned he, as if predicting my actions. Perhaps he noticed a special determination in my gaze. "Enough arguing. You better cool your ardour and go to the barrack."
By that moment, I had already lost all hope.
"And zip the dress, please. I shall be waiting for you."
With that, he left.
"I have to escape."
***
I WAS following the pathway which surrounded the house. The weather that day was still summer-like, and yet it was rather chilly outside. My skirt blew in the wind, and the cold sun shone straight in my eyes. The daylight made me writhe with irritation, for I had already gotten used to constant darkness.
"Yes, I must, I must escape! Yes... but where? And how? Suppose I'll steal money from him. Then I'll take his car, ride... But what about the keys? What if he keeps them with him? Doesn't matter. Better escape altogether... far away... to Mexico, and forget about him! What else shall I take? Clothes? Documents? He is crazy after all, I see it in his eyes. He won't even notice. Only if I could cross the border! I've been there, on the border... Perhaps there's even more soldiers, now..."
"Gee..."
I shuddered and looked back. A tall man was staring at me from behind the corner of the house. His eyes —big and watery— were almost like a sheep's. Upon noticing the stranger, I, of course, was terribly alarmed.
"Well, I am..."
I turned around and wanted to run away.
"Why in such haste?"
The man went up to me with his wide, rushed step. I froze in the middle of the yard.
"Don't beat me, Sir... I shall explain everything... Je suis habillé parce car j'ai été trompé, monsieur..." I mumbled as if in fever.
The slave stood further off, looking at me curiously.
"Are you a frenchman or something? 'Cause I don't know a word of French. You, Gauls, are weird! Do your men actually agree to dress as women from solidarity?"
"I am not a frenchman, S-sir."
"Why wearing a dress, then? Or you're a woman?"
"No, no, Sir. You see, there was an accident..."
Here I related, in the shortest and most abrupt manner so that certain words could hardly be understood, everything that happened: about the delivery man, the boxes and our argument. The slave listened carefully, nodding at times. When I finished my story, he waved his hand.
"Eh, we know all about him: strange man! It's hard to speak of anything before him, for he gets irritated instantly. I bet he'll forget about everything in a couple of days."
"Hopefully."
The slave bent over and whispered confidentially:
"He's ill, they say."
"Ill? Ill with what?"
"Why, It's clear," he paused for effect. "He's ill with snobbery!"
..And burst out laughing.
Despite the familiar expressions, which held ever more familiarity than needed, the slave had created a certain redoubtable impression on me; his thickish, hardening body developed naturally through, I assume, hard labour. I have seen such men in prison, and, needless to say, my meetings with those men never ended well.
The slave brushed my shoulder reassuringly.
"I'm Lee. There's a trail down there between them two sheds. Just follow it. Me and the guys are workin' 'till noon — we shall come back by then.
"Thank you."
We parted. "So everything might turn out well and decently," I thought triumphantly, with a deep sigh of relief.
The barrack was a tiny concrete shed, and it was so low-pitched that a man of more than average height was ill at ease in it and felt every moment that he would knock his head against the ceiling. It had a poverty-stricken appearance with its yellowish-green walls and the furniture was in keeping with the room. There were six wooden bunks, a painted table in the corner on which lay a few newspapers; a big clumsy sofa occupied almost the whole of one wall and half the floor space of the room; "Where did the newspapers come from?" I thought, surprised. "This pre-established theory—which everyone follows slavishly— exists for a reason... We, the inhumans, are not allowed to read. And yet, the newspapers are right here..."
Once, I remember, my cellmate tried to steal the Bible. The warden caught him at this felony and gave him a sound beating.
"You're not a human being. You grew from the dirt from between the fingernails. That's what you are!" raged he. "How dare you touch The Book, you, pig..."
I have not seen my cellmate since then.
The copies were all new: a newspaper on top of the stack was dated 15 September. In spite of the momentary desire, a risky and illegal desire, to feel for information of any sort, I decided not to pay attention to the newspapers.
Right there, near the barrack, a bathhouse has been built adjoining it. Without any hesitation, I took of the hateful dress and went there. I desired to wash off the shame, to set free from a terrible burden of my slavery. I knew, however, that nothing would change unless I wipe out the disgrace with blood. But in any case I could not remain a dirty sloven; I washed my hair, my neck and especially my face. When it came to the question whether to shave my legs or not (there were capital razors that had been left by someone on the sink), the question was angrily answered in the negative. "Let it stay as it is. What if they think that I shaved on purpose to look like a woman...? They certainly would think so!"
By the moment of my return, other slaves had already come back from the gardens. On the bunks, opposite one another, sat five men — all of a remarkable physique and badly dressed. Not that I was afraid of standing up for myself. I was by no means that sort of a man. But still I could not see the glowing light in their eyes without alarm. It was only the unbounded confidence inspired by a conversation with one of them, which prevented me from trying to run away. I realized, too, that even running away was perhaps impossible now.
The silence did not last for long: one of the slaves burst out laughing.
"But can that be true?" cried the man hoarsely. "Jesus, Stevens must be crazy!"
"That's what I told you!" the familiar slave, Lee, went on. "Flaunts in a skirt, poor thing!"
After the sudden explosion of laughter I became helpless with confusion. It must have been that the details of our argument were now familiar to everyone. But it also must be admitted that such a set of circumstances almost delighted me: "So they will not beat me..."
I mechanically arranged my dress, and fidgeted uncomfortably, eventually shifting to the exit. Noticing that I was nearly dead with shame, one of the slaves —the bearded one— shushed the others.
"Stop scarin' the boy," he looked at me and pointed towards the spare bunk, "Come, sit, sit."
I went to the corner of the room and sat down. The slaves forgot about me all of a sudden.
"You know what?" began Lee. "His Excellency is having guests today."
"Why do you think so, huh?"
Lee tapped his forehead.
"Have you seen the way he's dressed? The other day it would be a miracle if he wore a fresh shirt..."
"Indeed," assented the younger-looking slave. "I barely recognized him this morning: jacket starched, hair gathered, shoes polished! It's clear enough: the man is trying to make an impression.
Meanwhile,I began listening to them with marked curiosity. There certainly was something peculiar in Stevens's whole appearance, something which seemed to justify the intention of "making an impression."
"So, I haven't imagined it," I thought. "He is dressed as if for a special occasion. But why?"
"Only if there was anyone to impress," the bearded slave chuckled. "Ain't nobody has arrived today. What, you think he's showin' off in front of the maids?"
"Someone will prob'ly arrive soon. He never wore anything like that before... Perhaps there will be ladies among the guests."
A weird conjecture begun to grow strong in me, but I ignored it. The slaves were now talking about the weather. I was silent and rather awkward: I wanted to make conversation, but did not know how.
"By the way," the bearded slave turned to Lee. 'The newspaper is arriving today, correct?"
"Yes, today," lee nodded. "But only God knows when it'll fall into our hands.
"Oh, pity. Can't wait to read what happened to that..."
At last I couldn't help myself:
"Pardon me, where did you get the newspapers?"
One and all looked at me instantly. I felt uneasy, even frightened at their searching eyes.
"Stevens doesn't keep old newspapers," answered one of the slaves. "He throws 'em away. We find 'em in garbage."
"Slaves are allowed to read?"
"No. But how can you live without knowing what's happening in the world?" answered Lee.
"What if he catches you?"
"Who? Stevens? So be it: he never punished us for that. And indeed... He never punishes anyone at all. I tell you, he's a strange man. You, my friend, must have infuriated him..."
"I don't like him." I mumbled.
"What's the matter with you?... What are you upset about? What if he wanted to make your acquaintance, and you spat him in the face? He is a capital fellow, my friend, a benefactor! In his own way, of course."
"Rather!" assented the bearded man. "He doesn't like to scold us, and he only does it out of pity. Good God, he doesn't even beat anyone..."
"I'd rather he'd beat me," I interrupted. "It is true that it takes time and care to get to know a man, but there is no mistake about Stevens. A benefactor, no doubt! Only a monster or a madman could own and sell living souls."
"You speak against the Theory?"
I nodded.
"You see, my friend," Lee did not take his glittering eyes off me. "Mr. Stevens saved our lives; all because of the Theory. Any man would rather choose slavery then meet the gallows..."
"You keep on like that because you are afraid to die," I interrupted with heat. "I had better hang myself then take part in the revolting convention of the Theory."
I gazed round at the people in the room.
"How can we reconcile to our spirited assertions of the Rights of Mankind, and yet live with the galling object of slavery? All these sentences to servitude reform no one, and what's more, deter hardly a single criminal, and the number of crimes does not diminish but is continually on the increase. Another criminal always comes to take the place of 'the saved one', and often two of them. I am persuaded of the fatuity of this system, even if others say otherwise. Also, let us not forget about the violation of human rights..."
For one moment, everyone was strangely embarrassed. The silence continued for some few moments.
"You are an abolitionist, aren't you?" asked Lee.
I turned cold.
"No. And yet I cannot stand the Slave Theory."
For an instant a serious and careworn look came into his face.
"Strange..." he mused, "You look familiar, I swear I have seen you before... What's your name?"
"They know... Of course they know!"
I swallowed and felt clearly, with all the intensity of sensation, a threat. A decision was made immediately.
"Henry. My name is Henry."
***
THE WOMEN were taken aback by my outfit. When I entered the kitchen, they stared at me silently for about ten seconds. Then Theodosia snapped and went off into her hysterical giggle. Vella covered her mouth with her hand. I answered their questions in a terrible confusion, blushing from embarrassment.
When I finished my explanation, Vella began telling me where to clean, how to clean, when to wake up and where I was forbidden to go. I felt it almost pleasant to listen to her from the first moment, for her voice was filled with pity in which there was no trace of aversion.
"That's very bad," said she. "For, though Mr. Stevens is full of generous feelings, he is irritable and short-tempered... But so is every slave-owner."
"I already know."
We went to the supply closet.
"Brushes, broomsticks, soap, buckets... You are in charge of the upstairs, I suppose. Do you know how to wax floors?"
"Of course I do," I smirked. "How could anyone not be able to?"
"Everything is possible."
There was a moment of silence; Vella turned around and gazed up at me with her big black eyes.
"Please, do not be angry at him," she whispered. "His Excellency is not very friendly, but he is kind. The Lord sent us a generous owner... Everything shall be fine."
"Why are you so certain, Miss?" I replied, also in a whisper.
Vella shook her head.
"I simply know."
Then she added, after a brief pause:
"The dress does not make you any less of a man after all."
I smiled bitterly. My heart sank at once, then ached, and, quite suddenly, calmed down. It was the first time when I discovered the true kindness of this quiet, misguided soul.