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Chapters (29)
  1. Copyright Page
  2. Title Page
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. ONE
  6. TWO
  7. THREE
  8. FOUR
  9. FIVE
  10. SIX
  11. SEVEN
  12. EIGHT
  13. NINE
  14. TEN
  15. ELEVEN
  16. TWELVE
  17. THIRTEEN
  18. FOURTEEN
  19. FIFTEEN
  20. SIXTEEN
  21. SEVENTEEN
  22. EIGHTEEN
  23. NINETEEN
  24. TWENTY
  25. TWENTY-ONE
  26. TWENTY-TWO
  27. TWENTY-THREE
  28. TWENTY-FOUR
  29. TWENTY-FIVE

Waking later to the sound of joyous religious abandon floating in through the opened windows, she had asked a little diffidently that she be allowed to read. Miss Hartley’s sketchy brows contracted into a dubious frown. After a judicious pause she had answered: “No, I don’t think so.” Then, seeing the rebellious tears which had sprung into her patient’s eyes, she added kindly: “But I’ll read to you a little if you like.”

That, Helga replied, would be nice. In the next room on a high-up shelf was a book. She’d forgotten the name, but its author was Anatole France. There was a story, “The Procurator of Judea.”1 Would Miss Hartley read that? “Thanks. Thanks awfully.”

“ ‘Lælius Lamia, born in Italy of illustrious parents,’ ”2 began the nurse in her slightly harsh voice.

Helga drank it in.

“ ‘. . . For to this day the women bring down doves to the altar as their victims. . . .’ ”

Helga closed her eyes.

“ ‘. . . Africa and Asia have already enriched us with a considerable number of gods. . . .’ ”3

Miss Hartley looked up. Helga had slipped into slumber while the superbly ironic ending which she had so desired to hear was yet a long way off. A dull tale, was Miss Hartley’s opinion, as she curiously turned the pages to see how it turned out.

“ ‘Jesus? . . . Jesus—of Nazareth? I cannot call him to mind.’ ”4

“Huh!” she muttered, puzzled. “Silly.” And closed the book.

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-FIVE

DURING THE LONG PROCESS of getting well, between the dreamy intervals when she was beset by the insistent craving for sleep, Helga had had too much time to think. At first she had felt only an astonished anger at the quagmire in which she had engulfed herself. She had ruined her life. Made it impossible ever again to do the things that she wanted, have the things that she loved, mingle with the people she liked. She had, to put it as brutally as anyone could, been a fool. The damnedest kind of a fool. And she had paid for it. Enough. More than enough.

Her mind, swaying back to the protection that religion had afforded her, almost she wished that it had not failed her. An illusion. Yes. But better, far better, than this terrible reality. Religion had, after all, its uses. It blunted the perceptions. Robbed life of its crudest truths. Especially it had its uses for the poor—and the blacks.

For the blacks. The Negroes.