The House Behind the Cedars (Modern Library Classics) - Softcover

Chesnutt, Charles W.

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0812966163 ISBN 13: 9780812966169

Verlag: Random House Publishing Group, 2003

Inhaltsangabe

Charles Chesnutt’s classic novel, hailed by Werner Sollors as “a pioneering work of racial passing.”

Edited and featuring an introduction and notes from Judith Jackson Fossett.
 
A riveting portrait of the shifting and intractable nature of race in American life, The House Behind the Cedars follows John and Rena Walden, mixed-race siblings who pass for white in the postbellum American South. The siblings travel carefully between Black and white worlds, but their precarious routine is threatened when Rena falls in love with a white man and hides her true heritage to start a life with him.
 
This edition revitalizes a much-neglected masterpiece by one of our most important African American writers. As Werner Sollors writes, “William Dean Howells did not overstate his case when he compared Chesnutt’s works with those by Turgenev, Maupassant, and James.”

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Judith Jackson Fossett, associate professor of English and American Studies and Ethnicity at the University of Southern California, is the author of Illuminated Darkness: Slavery and Its Shadows in Nineteenth-Century America and the editor of Race Consciousness: African-American Studies for the New Century.

Von der hinteren Coverseite

The House Behind the Cedars, which many consider Charles Chesnutt's fi nest novel, tells of John and Lena Walden, mulatto siblings who pass for white in the postbellum American South. The drama that unfolds as they travel between black and white worlds constitutes a riveting portrait of the shifting and intractable nature of race in American life. This edition revitalizes a much-neglected masterpiece by one of our most important African-American writers. As Werner Sollors writes, "William Dean Howells did not overstate his case when he compared Chesnutt's works with those by Turgenev, Maupassant, and James . . . and [Chesnutt] has become one of the most important 'crossover' authors from the African-American tradition."

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I

A Stranger from South Carolina

Time touches all things with destroying hand; and if he seem now and then to bestow the bloom of youth, the sap of spring, it is but a brief mockery, to be surely and swiftly followed by the wrinkles of old age, the dry leaves and bare branches of winter. And yet there are places where Time seems to linger lovingly long after youth has departed, and to which he seems loath to bring the evil day. Who has not known some even-tempered old man or woman who seemed to have drunk of the fountain of youth? Who has not seen somewhere an old town that, having long since ceased to grow, yet held its own without perceptible decline?

Some such trite reflection—as apposite to the subject as most random reflections are—passed through the mind of a young man who came out of the front door of the Patesville Hotel about nine o’clock one fine morning in spring, a few years after the Civil War, and started down Front Street toward the market-house.1 Arriving at the town late the previous evening, he had been driven up from the steamboat in a carriage, from which he had been able to distinguish only the shadowy outlines of the houses along the street; so that this morning walk was his first opportunity to see the town by daylight. He was dressed in a suit of linen duck—the day was warm—a panama straw hat, and patent leather shoes. In appearance he was tall, dark, with straight, black, lustrous hair, and very clean-cut, high-bred features. When he paused by the clerk’s desk on his way out, to light his cigar, the day clerk, who had just come on duty, glanced at the register and read the last entry:

“ ‘John Warwick, Clarence, South Carolina.

“One of the South Ca’lina bigbugs, I reckon—probably in cotton, or turpentine.”2 The gentleman from South Carolina, walking down the street, glanced about him with an eager look, in which curiosity and affection were mingled with a touch of bitterness. He saw little that was not familiar, or that he had not seen in his dreams a hundred times during the past ten years. There had been some changes, it is true, some melancholy changes, but scarcely anything by way of addition or improvement to counterbalance them. Here and there blackened and dismantled walls marked the place where handsome buildings once had stood, for Sherman’s march3 to the sea had left its mark upon the town. The stores were mostly of brick, two stories high, joining one another after the manner of cities. Some of the names on the signs were familiar; others, including a number of Jewish names,4 were quite unknown to him.

A two minutes’ walk brought Warwick—the name he had registered under, and as we shall call him—to the market-house, the central feature of Patesville, from both the commercial and the picturesque points of view. Standing foursquare in the heart of the town, at the intersection of the two main streets, a “jog” at each street corner left around the market-house a little public square, which at this hour was well occupied by carts and wagons from the country and empty drays awaiting hire. Warwick was unable to perceive much change in the market-house. Perhaps the surface of the red brick, long unpainted, had scaled off a little more here and there. There might have been a slight accretion of the moss and lichen on the shingled roof. But the tall tower, with its four-faced clock, rose as majestically and uncompromisingly as though the land had never been subjugated. Was it so irreconcilable, Warwick wondered, as still to peal out the curfew bell, which at nine o’clock at night had clamorously warned all negroes, slave or free, that it was unlawful for them to be abroad after that hour, under penalty of imprisonment or whipping?5 Was the old constable, whose chief business it had been to ring the bell, still alive and exercising the functions of his office, and had age lessened or increased the number of times that obliging citizens performed this duty for him during his temporary absences in the company of convivial spirits? A few moments later, Warwick saw a colored policeman in the old constable’s place—a stronger reminder than even the burned buildings that war had left its mark upon the old town, with which Time had dealt so tenderly.

The lower story of the market-house was open on all four of its sides to the public square. Warwick passed through one of the wide brick arches and traversed the building with a leisurely step. He looked in vain into the stalls for the butcher who had sold fresh meat twice a week, on market days, and he felt a genuine thrill of pleasure when he recognized the red bandana turban of old Aunt Lyddy, the ancient negro woman who had sold him gingerbread and fried fish, and told him weird tales of witchcraft and conjuration, in the old days when, as an idle boy, he had loafed about the market-house. He did not speak to her, however, or give her any sign of recognition. He threw a glance toward a certain corner where steps led to the town hall above. On this stairway he had once seen a manacled free negro shot while being taken upstairs for examination under a criminal charge. Warwick recalled vividly how the shot had rung out. He could see again the livid look of terror on the victim’s face, the gathering crowd, the resulting confusion. The murderer, he recalled, had been tried and sentenced to imprisonment for life, but was pardoned by a merciful governor after serving a year of his sentence. As Warwick was neither a prophet nor the son of a prophet, he could not foresee that, thirty years later, even this would seem an excessive punishment for so slight a misdemeanor.

Leaving the market-house, Warwick turned to the left, and kept on his course until he reached the next corner. After another turn to the right, a dozen paces brought him in front of a small weather-beaten frame building, from which projected a wooden sign-board bearing the inscription:

ARCHIBALD STRAIGHT, lawyer.

He turned the knob, but the door was locked. Retracing his steps past a vacant lot, the young man entered a shop where a colored man was employed in varnishing a coffin, which stood on two trestles in the middle of the floor. Not at all impressed by the melancholy suggestiveness of his task, he was whistling a lively air with great gusto. Upon Warwick’s entrance this effusion came to a sudden end, and the coffin-maker assumed an air of professional gravity.

“Good-mawnin’, suh,” he said, lifting his cap politely.

“Good-morning,” answered Warwick. “Can you tell me anything about Judge Straight’s office hours?”

“De ole jedge has be’n a little onreg’lar sence de wah, suh; but he gin’ally gits roun’ ’bout ten o’clock er so. He’s be’n kin’ er feeble fer de las’ few yeahs. An’ I reckon,” continued the undertaker solemnly, his glance unconsciously seeking a row of fine caskets standing against the wall,—“I reckon he’ll soon be goin’ de way er all de earth. ‘Man dat is bawn er ’oman hath but a sho’t time ter lib, an’ is full er mis’ry.6 He cometh up an’ is cut down lack as a flower.’ ‘De days er his life is three-sco’ an’ ten’—an’ de ole jedge is libbed mo’ d’n dat, suh, by five yeahs, ter say de leas’.”7

“ ‘Death,’ ” quoted Warwick, with whose mood the undertaker’s remarks were in tune, “ ‘is the penalty that all must pay for the crime of living.’ ”

“Dat’s a fac’, suh, dat’s a fac’; so dey mus’—so dey mus’. An’ den all de...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Random House Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2003
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0812966163
• ISBN 13: 9780812966169
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 256
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: gpsr@libri.de; gpsr@libri.de; ; Friedensallee 273; Hamburg; 22763; Deutschland