“God have mercy on his soul,” he muttered at last. “Poor creature. He has liberated himself from the superstitions of religion in order to fall into superstition so abject no Christian can conceive it. Imagine to yourself"—he began to pace the floor—"time is circular, man is automaton, we are doomed to repeat the same gestures over and over, forever. Oh, I say to you, Hodge, this is monstrous. The poor man. The poor man.”
I nodded. “Yes. But what is the answer? Limitless space? Limitless time? They are almost as horrifying, because they are inconceivable and awful.” “And why should the inconceivable and awful be horrifying? Is our small human understanding the ultimate measuring stick and guide? But, of course, this is not the answer. The answer is that all—time, space, matter—all is illusion. All but the good God Himself. Nothing is real but Him. We are creatures of His fancy, figments of His imagination… .”
“Then where does free will come in?”
“As a gift, naturally. Or supernaturally. How else? The greatest gift and the greatest responsibility.”
I can't say I was entirely satisfied with his exposition, though it was certainly more to my taste than Tyss's. I returned to the conversation at intervals, both in my thoughts and when I saw him, but in the end I suppose all I really accepted was his admonition to be skeptical, which I doubt I always applied the way he meant me to.
VII. OF CONFEDERATE AGENTS IN 1942
To anyone but the mooncalf I still was in the year of my majority it would have long since occurred with considerable force that Enfandin ought to be told of Tyss's connection with the Negro-hating, antiforeign Grand Army. And the thought once entertained, no matter how belatedly, would have been immediately translated into warning. For me it became a dilemma.
If I exposed Tyss to Enfandin I would certainly be basely ungrateful to the man who had saved me from destitution and given me the opportunity I wanted so much. Membership in the Grand Army was a crime, even though the laws were laxly enforced, and I could hardly expect an official receiving the hospitality of the United States to conceal knowledge of a felony against his host, especially when the Grand Army was what it was. Yet if I kept silent I would be less than a friend.
If I spoke I would be an informer; if I didn't, a hypocrite and worse. The fact that neither man, for totally different reasons, would condemn me whichever course I took increased rather than diminished my perplexity. I procrastinated, which meant I was actually protecting Tyss, and that this was against my sympathies increased my feeling of guilt.
At this juncture a series of events involved me still deeper with the Grand Army and further complicated my relationship to both Tyss and Enfandin. It began the day a customer called himself to my attention with a selfconscious clearing of his throat.
“Yes sir. Can I help you?”
He was a fat little man with palpably false teeth and hair hanging down over his collar. However, the sum of his appearance was in no way ludicrous; rather he gave the impression of ease and authority, and an assurance so strong there was no necessity to buttress it.
“Why, I was looking for—” he began, and then scrutinized me sharply. “Say, ain't you the young fella I saw walking with a Nigra? Big black buck?”
Seemingly everyone had been fascinated by the spectacle of two people of slightly different shades of color in company with each other. I felt myself reddening. “There's no law against it, is there?”
He made a gargling noise which I judged was laughter. “Wouldn't know about your damyankee laws, boy. For myself I'd say there's no harm in it, no harm in it at all. Always did like to be around Nigras myself. But then I was rared among 'em. Most damyankees seem to think Nigras ain't fitten company. Only goes to show how narrerminded and bigoted you folks can be. Present company excepted.”
“M'sieu Enfandin is consul of the Republic of Haiti,” I said; “he's a scholar and a gentleman.” As soon as the words were out I was bitterly sorry for their condescension and patronage. I felt ashamed, as if I had betrayed him by offering credentials to justify my friendship and implying it took special qualities to overcome the handicap of his color.
“A mussoo, huh? Furrin and educated Nigra? Well, guess they're all right.” His tone, still hearty, was slightly dubious. “Ben working here long?”
“Nearly four years.”
“Kind of dull, ain't it?”
“Oh no—I like to read, and there are plenty of books around here.”
He frowned. “Should think a hefty young fella'd find more interesting things. You're indented, of course? No? Well then you're a mighty lucky fella. In a way, in a way. Naturally you'll be short on cash, ay? Unless you draw a lucky number in the lottery.”
I told him I'd never bought a lottery ticket.
He slapped his leg as though I'd just repeated a very good joke. “Ain't that the pattrun,” he exclaimed; “ain't that the pattrun! Necessity makes 'em have a lottery; puritanism keeps 'em from buying tickets. Ain't that the pattrun!” He gargled the humor of it for some time, while his eyes moved restlessly around the dim interior of the store. “And what do you read, ay? Sermons? Books on witches?”
I admitted I'd dipped into both, and then, perhaps trying to impress him, explained my ambitions.
“Going to be a professional historian, hey? Little out of my line, but I don't suppose they's many of 'em up North here.”
“Not unless you count a handful of college instructors who dabble in it.”
He shook his head. “Young fella with your aims you could do better down South, I'd think.”
“Oh yes, some of the most interesting research is going on right now in Leesburg, Washington-Baltimore, and the University of Lima. You are a Confederate yourself, sir?”
“Southron, yes sir, I am that, and mighty proud of it. Now look a-here, boy; I'll lay all my cards on the table, face up. You're a free man and you ain't getting any pay here. Now how'd you like to do a little job for me? They's good money in it; and I imagine I'd be able to fix up one of those deals—what do they call 'em? scholarships—at the University of Leesburg, after.”
A scholarship at Leesburg. Where the Department of History was engaged in a monumental project—nothing less than a compilation of all known source material on the War of Southron Independence! It was only with the strongest effort that I refrained from agreeing blindly.
“It sounds fine, Mr.—?”
“Colonel Tolliburr. Jest call me cunnel.”
There wasn't anything remotely military in his bearing. “It sounds good to me, Colonel. What is the job?”
He clicked his too regular teeth thoughtfully. “Hardly anything at all, m'boy, hardly anything at all. Just want you to keep a list for me.”
He seemed to think this a complete explanation. “What kind of list, Colonel?”
“Why, list of the people that come in here steady. Especially the ones don't seem to buy anything, just talk to your boss. Names if you know 'em, but that ain't real important, and a sort of rough description. Like five foot nine, blue eyes, dark hair, busted nose, scar on right eyebrow. And so on. Nothing real detailed. And a list of deliveries.”
Was I tempted? I don't really know. “I'm sorry, Colonel. I'm afraid I can't help you.”
“Not even for that scholarship and say, a hundred dollars in real money?”
I shook my head.
“They's no harm in it, boy. Likely nothing'll come of it.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Two hundred? I'm not talking about Yankee slugs, but good CSA bills, each with a picture of President Jimmy right slapdash on the middle of it.” “It's not a matter of money, Colonel Tolliburr.”