The Crock of Gold by James Stephens (black female authors TXT) 📗

“And why did you say that I had come up in a good minute?”

“Because, Mister Honey, when a woman has two men to choose from she doesn’t know what to do, for two men always become like brothers so that you wouldn’t know which of them was which: there isn’t any more difference between two men than there is between a couple of hares. But when there’s three men to choose from, there’s no trouble at all; and so I say that it’s yourself I’ll marry this night and no one else—and let you two men be sitting quiet in your places, for I’m telling you what I’ll do and that’s the end of it.”

“I’ll give you my word,” said the first man, “that I’m just as glad as you are to have it over and done with.”

“Moidered I was,” said the second man, “with the whole argument, and the this and that of it, and you not able to say a word but—maybe I will and maybe I won’t, and this is true and that is true, and why not to me and why not to him—I’ll get a sleep this night.”

The Philosopher was perplexed.

“You cannot marry me, ma’am,” said he, “because I’m married already.”

The woman turned round on him angrily.

“Don’t be making any argument with me now,” said she, “for I won’t stand it.”

The first man looked fiercely at the Philosopher, and then motioned to his companion.

“Give that man a clout in the jaw,” said he.

The second man was preparing to do this when the woman intervened angrily.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” said she, “or it’ll be the worse for you. I’m well able to take care of my own husband,” and she drew nearer and sat between the Philosopher and the men.

At that moment the Philosopher’s cake lost all its savour, and he packed the remnant into his wallet. They all sat silently looking at their feet and thinking each one according to his nature. The Philosopher’s mind, which for the past day had been in eclipse, stirred faintly to meet these new circumstances, but without much result. There was a flutter at his heart which was terrifying, but not unpleasant. Quickening through his apprehension was an expectancy which stirred his pulses into speed. So rapidly did his blood flow, so quickly were an hundred impressions visualized and recorded, so violent was the surface movement of his brain that he did not realize he was unable to think and that he was only seeing and feeling.

The first man stood up.

“The night will be coming on soon,” said he, “and we had better be walking on if we want to get a good place to sleep. Yep, you devil,” he roared at the ass, and the ass began to move almost before he lifted his head from the grass. The two men walked one on either side of the cart, and the woman and the Philosopher walked behind at the tail-board.

“If you were feeling tired, or anything like that, Mister Honey,” said the woman, “you could climb up into the little cart, and nobody would say a word to you, for I can see that you are not used to travelling.”

“I am not indeed, ma’am,” he replied; “this is the first time I ever came on a journey, and if it wasn’t for Angus Og I wouldn’t put a foot out of my own place for ever.”

“Put Angus Og out of your head, my dear,” she replied, “for what would the likes of you and me be saying to a god. He might put a curse on us would sink us into the ground or burn us up like a grip of straw. Be contented now, I’m saying, for if there is a woman in the world who knows all things I am that woman myself, and if you tell your trouble to me I’ll tell you the thing to do just as good as Angus himself, and better perhaps.”

“That is very interesting,” said the Philosopher. “What kind of things do you know best?”

“If you were to ask one of them two men walking beside the ass they’d tell you plenty of things they saw me do when they could do nothing themselves. When there wasn’t a road to take anywhere I showed them a road, and when there wasn’t a bit of food in the world I gave them food, and when they were bet to the last I put shillings in their hands, and that’s the reason they wanted to marry me.”

“Do you call that kind of thing wisdom?” said the Philosopher.

“Why wouldn’t I?” said she. “Isn’t it wisdom to go through the world without fear and not to be hungry in a hungry hour?”

“I suppose it is,” he replied, “but I never thought of it that way myself.”

“And what would you call wisdom?”

“I couldn’t rightly say now,” he replied, “but I think it was not to mind about the world, and not to care whether you were hungry or not, and not to live in the world at all but only in your own head, for the world is a tyrannous place. You have to raise yourself above things instead of letting things raise themselves above you. We must not be slaves to each other, and we must not be slaves to our necessities either. That is the problem of existence. There is no dignity in life at all if hunger can shout ‘stop’ at every turn of the road and the day’s journey is measured by the distance between one sleep and the next sleep. Life is all slavery, and Nature is driving us with the whips of appetite and weariness; but when a slave rebels he ceases to be a slave, and when we are too hungry to live we can die and have our laugh. I believe that Nature is just as alive as we are, and that she is as much frightened of us as we are of her, and, mind you this, mankind has declared war against Nature and we will win. She does not understand yet that her geologic periods won’t do any longer, and that while she is pattering along the line of least resistance we are going to travel fast and far until we find her, and then, being a female, she is bound to give in when she is challenged.”

“It’s good talk,” said the woman, “but it’s foolishness. Women never give in unless they get what they want, and where’s the harm to them then? You have to live in the world, my dear, whether you like it or not, and, believe me now, that there isn’t any wisdom but to keep clear of the hunger, for if that gets near enough it will make a hare of you. Sure, listen to reason now like a good man. What is Nature at all but a word that learned men have made to talk about. There’s clay and gods and men, and they are good friends enough.”

The sun had long since gone down, and the grey evening was bowing over the land, hiding the mountain peaks, and putting a shadow round the scattered bushes and the wide clumps of heather.

“I know a place up here where we can stop for the night,” said she, “and there’s a