At eight o’clock Doctor Copeland sat at his desk, studying a sheaf of papers by the bleak morning light from the window. Beside him the tree, a thick-fringed cedar, rose up dark and green to the ceiling. Since the first year he began to practice he had given an annual party on Christmas Day, and now all was in readiness. Rows of benches and chairs lined the walls of the front rooms. Throughout the house there was the sweet spiced odor of newly baked cake and steaming coffee. In the office with him Portia sat on a bench against the wall, her hands cupped beneath her chin, her body bent almost double.

‘Father, you been scrouched over that desk since five o’clock. You got no business to be up. You ought to stayed in bed until time for the to-do.’

Doctor Copeland moistened his thick lips with his tongue. So much was on his mind that he had no attention to give to Portia. Her presence fretted him.

At last he turned to her irritably. ‘Why do you sit there moping?’

‘I just got worries,’ she said. ‘For one thing, I worried about our Willie.’

‘William?’

‘You see he been writing me regular ever Sunday. The letter will get here on Monday or Tuesday. But last week he didn’t write. Course I not really anxious. Willie—he always so good-natured and sweet I know he going to be all right. He been transferred from the prison to the chain gang and they going to work up somewhere north of Atlanta. Two weeks ago he wrote this here letter to say they going to attend a church service today, and he done asked me to send him his suit of clothes and his red tie.’

‘Is that all William said?’

‘He written that this Mr. B. F. Mason is at the prison, too. And that he run into Buster Johnston—he a boy Willie used to know. And also he done asked me to please send him his harp because he can’t be happy without he got his harp to play on. I done sent everything. Also a checker set and a white-iced cake. But I sure hope I hears from him in the next few days.’

Doctor Copeland’s eyes glowed with fever and he could not rest his hands. ‘Daughter, we shall have to discuss this later. It is getting late and I must finish here. You go back to the kitchen and see that all is ready.’

Portia stood up and tried to make her face bright and happy. ‘What you done decided about that five-dollar prize?’

‘As yet I have been unable to decide just what is the wisest course,’ he said carefully.

A certain friend of his, a Negro pharmacist, gave an award of five dollars every year to the high school student who wrote the best essay on a given subject. The pharmacist always made Doctor Copeland sole judge of the papers and the winner was announced at the Christmas party. The subject of the composition this year was ‘My Ambition: How I Can Better the Position of the Negro Race in Society.’ There was only one essay worthy of real consideration. Yet this paper was so childish and ill-advised that it would hardly be prudent to confer upon it the award. Doctor Copeland put on his glasses and re-read the essay with deep concentration.

This is my ambition. First I wish to attend Tuskegee College but I do not wish to be a man like Booker Washington or Doctor Carver. Then when I deem that my education is complete I wish to start off being a fine lawyer like the one who defended the Scottsboro Boys. I would only take cases for colored people against white people. Every day our people are made in every way and by every means to feel that they are inferior. This is not so. We are a Rising Race. And we cannot sweat beneath the white man’s burdens for long. We cannot always sow where others reap.

I want to be like Moses, who led the children of Israel from the land of the oppressors. I want to get up a Secret Organization of Colored Leaders and Scholars. All colored people will organize under the direction of these picked leaders and prepare for revolt. Other nations in the world who are interested in the plight of our race and who would like to see the United States divided would come to our aid. All colored people will organize and there will be a revolution, and at the close colored people will take all the territory east of the Mississippi and south of the Potomac. I shall set up a mighty country under the control of the Organization of Colored Leaders and Scholars. No white person will be allowed a passport—and if they get into the country they will have no legal rights.

I hate the whole white race and will work always so that the colored race can achieve revenge for all their sufferings. That is my ambition.

Doctor Copeland felt the fever warm in his veins. The ticking of the clock on his desk was loud and the sound jarred his nerves. How could he give the award to a boy with such wild notions as this? What should he decide?

The other essays were without any firm content at all. The young people would not think. They wrote only about their ambitions and omitted the last part of the title altogether. Only one point was of some significance. Nine out of the lot of twenty-five began with the sentence, ‘I do not want to be a servant.’ After that they wished to fly airplanes, or be prizefighters, or preachers or dancers. One girl’s sole ambition was to be kind to the poor.

The writer of the essay that troubled him was Lancy Davis. He had known the identity of the author before he turned the last sheet over and saw the signature. Already he had had some trouble with Lancy. His older sister had gone out to work as a servant when she was eleven years old and she had been raped by her employer, a white man past middle age. Then a year or so later he had received an emergency call to attend Lancy.

Doctor Copeland went to the filing case in his bedroom where he kept notes on all of his patients. He took out the card marked ‘Mrs. Dan Davis and Family’ and glanced through the notations until he reached Lancy’s name. The date was four years ago. The entries on him were written with more care than the others and in ink: ‘thirteen years old—past puberty. Unsuccessful attempt self-emasculation. Over-sexed and hyperthyroid. Wept boisterously during two visits, though little pain. Voluble—very glad to talk though paranoiac. Environment fair with one exception. See Lucy Davis—mother washerwoman. Intelligent and well worth watching and all possible help. Keep contact. Fee: $1 (?)’

‘It is a difficult decision to make this year,’ he said to Portia. ‘But I suppose I will have to confer the award on Lancy Davis.’

‘If you done decide’, then—come tell me about some of these here presents.’

The gifts to be distributed at the party were in the kitchen. There were paper sacks of groceries and clothing, all marked with a red Christmas card. Anyone who cared to come was invited to the party, but those who meant to attend had stopped by the house and written (or had asked a friend to write) their names in a guest book kept on the table in the hall for that purpose. The sacks were piled on the floor. There were about forty of them, each one depending in size on the need of the receiver. Some gifts were only small packages of nuts or raisins and others were boxes almost too heavy for a man to lift. The kitchen was crowded with good things. Doctor Copeland stood in the doorway and his nostrils quivered with pride.

‘I think you done right well this year. Folks certainly have been kindly.’

‘Pshaw!’ he said. ‘This is not a hundredth part of what is needed.’

‘Now, there you go, Father! I know good and well you just as pleased as you can be. But you don’t want to show it. You got to find something to grumble about. Here we haves about four pecks of peas, twenty sacks of meal, about fifteen pounds of side meat, mullet, six dozen eggs, plenty grits, jars of tomatoes and peaches. Apples and two dozen oranges. Also garments. And two mattresses and four blankets. I call this something!’

‘A drop in the bucket.’

Portia pointed to a large box in the corner. ‘These here—what you intend to do with them?’

The box contained nothing but junk—a headless doll, some dirty lace, a rabbitskin. Doctor Copeland scrutinized each article. ‘Do not throw them away. There is use for everything. These are the gifts from our guests who have nothing better to contribute. I will find some purpose for them later.’

‘Then suppose you look over these here boxes and sacks so I can commence to tie them up. There ain’t going to be room here in the kitchen. Time they all pile in for the refreshments. I just going to put these here presents out on the back steps and in the yard.’

The morning sun had risen. The day would be bright and cold. In the kitchen there were rich, sweet odors. A dishpan of coffee was on the stove and iced cakes filled a shelf in the cupboard.

‘And none of this comes from white people. All from Colored.’

‘No,’ said Doctor Copeland. ‘That is not wholly true. Mr. Singer contributed a check for twelve dollars to be used for coal. And I have invited him to be present today.’

‘Holy Jesus!’ Portia said. Twelve dollars!’

‘I felt that it was proper to ask him. He is not like other people of the Caucasian race.’

‘You right,’ Portia said. ‘But I keep thinking about my Willie. I sure do wish he could enjoy this here party today. And I sure do wish I could get a letter from him. It just prey on my mind. But here! Us got to quit this here talking and get ready. It mighty near time for the party to come.’

Time enough remained. Doctor Copeland washed and clothed himself carefully. For a while he tried to rehearse what he would say when the people had all come. But expectation and restlessness would not let him concentrate. Then at ten o’clock the first guests arrived and within half an hour they were all assembled.

‘Joyful Christmas gift to you!’ said John Roberts, the postman. He moved happily about the crowded room, one shoulder held higher than the other, mopping his face with a white silk handkerchief.

‘Many happy returns of the day!’

The front of the house was thronged. Guests were blocked at the door and they formed groups on the front porch and in the yard. There was no pushing or rudeness; the turmoil was orderly. Friends called out to each other and strangers were introduced and clasped hands. Children and young people clotted together and moved back toward the kitchen.

‘Christmas gift!’

Doctor Copeland stood in the center of the front room by the tree. He was dizzy. He shook hands and answered salutations with confusion. Personal gifts, some tied elaborately with ribbons and others wrapped in newspaper, were thrust into his hands. He could find no place to put them. The air thickened and voices grew louder. Faces whirled about him so that he could recognize no one. His composure returned to him gradually. He found space to lay aside the presents in his arms. The dizziness lessened, the room cleared. He settled his spectacles and began to look around him.

‘Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!’

There was Marshall Nicolls, the pharmacist, in a long-tailed coat, conversing with his son-in-law who worked on a garbage truck. The preacher from the Most Holy Ascension Church had come. And two deacons from other churches. Highboy, wearing a loud checked suit, moved sociably through the crowd. Husky young dandies bowed to young women in long, bright-colored dresses. There were mothers with children and deliberate old men who spat into gaudy handkerchiefs. The room was warm and noisy.

Mr. Singer stood in the doorway. Many people stared at him. Doctor Copeland could not remember if he had welcomed him or not. The mute stood by himself. His face resembled somewhat a picture of Spinoza. A Jewish face. It was good to see him.

The doors and the windows were open. Draughts blew through the room so that the fire roared. The noises quieted. The seats were all filled and the young people sat in rows on the floor. The hall, the porch, even the yard were crowded with silent guests. The time had come for him to speak—and what was he to say? Panic tightened his throat. The room waited. At a sign from John Roberts all sounds were hushed.

‘My People,’ began Doctor Copeland blankly. There was a pause. Then suddenly the words came to him.

‘This is the nineteenth year that we have gathered together in this room to celebrate Christmas Day. When our people first heard of the birth of Jesus Christ it was a dark time. Our people were sold as slaves in this town on the courthouse square. Since then we have heard and told the story of His life more times than we could number. So today our story will be a different one.

‘One hundred and twenty years ago another man was born in the country that is known as Germany—a country far across the Atlantic Ocean. This man understood as did Jesus. But his thoughts were not concerned with Heaven or the future of the dead. His mission was for the living. For the great masses of human beings who work and suffer and work until they die. For people who take in washing and work as cooks, who pick cotton and work at the hot dye vats of factories. His mission was for us, and the name of this man is Karl Marx.

‘Karl Marx was a wise man. He studied and worked and understood the world around him. He said that the world was divided into two classes, the poor and the rich. For every rich man there were a thousand poor people who worked for this rich man to make him richer. He did not divide the world into Negroes or white people or Chinese—to Karl Marx it seemed that being one of the millions of poor people or one of the few rich was more important to a man than the color of his skin. The life mission of Karl Marx was to make all human beings equal and to divide the great wealth of the world so that there would be no poor or rich and each person would have his share. This is one of the commandments Karl Marx left to us: “From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs.” ’

A wrinkled, yellow palm waved timidly from the hall. ‘Were he the Mark in the Bible?’

Doctor Copeland explained. He spelled the two names and cited dates. ‘Are there any more questions? I wish each one of you to feel free to start or enter into my discussion.’

‘I presume Mr. Marx was a Christian church man?’ asked the preacher.

‘He believed in the holiness of the human spirit.’

‘Were he a white man?’

‘Yes. But he did not think of himself as a white man. He said, “I consider nothing human as alien to myself.” He thought of himself as a brother to all people.’

Doctor Copeland paused a moment longer. The faces around him were waiting.

‘What is the value of any piece of property, of any merchandise we buy in a store? The value depends only on one thing—and that is the work it took to make or to raise this article. Why does a brick house cost more than a cabbage? Because the work of many men goes into the making of one brick house. There are the people who made the bricks and mortar and the people who cut down the trees to make the planks used for the floor. There are the men who made the building of the brick house possible. There are the men who carried the materials to the ground where the house was to be built. There are the men who made the wheelbarrows and trucks that carried the materials to this place. Then finally there are the workmen who built the house. A brick house involves the labor of many, many people—while any of us can raise a cabbage in his back yard. A brick house costs more than a cabbage because it takes more work to make. So when a man buys this brick house he is paying for the labor that went to make it. But who gets the money—the profit? Not the many men who did the work—but the bosses who control them. And if you study this further you will find that these bosses have bosses above them and those bosses have bosses higher up—so that the real people who control all this work, which makes any article worth money, are very few. Is this clear so far?’

‘Us understand!’

But did they? He started all over and retold what he had said. This time there were questions.

‘But don’t clay for these here bricks cost money? And don’t it take money to rent land and raise crops on?’

‘That is a good point,’ said Doctor Copeland. ‘Land, clay, timber—those things are called natural resources. Man does not make these natural resources—man only develops them, only uses them for work. Therefore should any one person or group of persons own these things? How can a man own ground and space and sunlight and rain for crops? How can a man say “this is mine” about those things and refuse to let others share them? Therefore Marx says that these natural resources should belong to everyone, not divided into little pieces but used by all the people according to their ability to work. It is like this. Say a man died and left his mule to his four sons. The sons would not wish to cut up the mule into four parts and each take his share. They would own and work the mule together. That is the way Marx says all of the natural resources should be owned—not by one group of rich people but by all the workers of the world as a whole.

‘We in this room have no private properties. Perhaps one or two of us may own the homes we live in, or have a dollar or two set aside—but we own nothing that does not contribute directly toward keeping us alive. All that we own is our bodies. And we sell our bodies every day we live. We sell them when we go out in the morning to our jobs and when we labor all the day. We are forced to sell at any price, at any time, for any purpose. We are forced to sell our bodies so that we can eat and live. And the price which is given us for this is only enough so that we will have the strength to labor longer for the profits of others. Today we are not put up on the platforms and sold at the courthouse square. But we are forced to sell our strength, our time, our souls during almost every hour that we live. We have been freed from one kind of slavery only to be delivered into another. Is this freedom? Are we yet free men?’

A deep voice called out from the front yard. ‘That the real truth!’

‘That how things is!’

‘And we are not alone in this slavery. There are millions of others throughout the world, of all colors and races and creeds. This we must remember. There are many of our people who hate the poor of the white race, and they hate us. The people in this town living by the river who work in the mills. People who are almost as much in need as we are ourselves. This hatred is a great evil, and no good can ever come from it. We must remember the words of Karl Marx and see the truth according to his teachings. The injustice of need must bring us all together and not separate us. We must remember that we all make the things on this earth of value because of our labor. These main truths from Karl Marx we must keep in our hearts always and not forget.

‘But my people! We in this room—we Negroes—have another mission that is for ourselves alone. Within us there is a strong, true purpose, and if we fail in this purpose we will be forever lost. Let us see, then, what is the nature of this special mission.’

Doctor Copeland loosened the collar of his shirt, for in his throat there was a choked feeling. The grievous love he felt within him was too much. He looked around him at the hushed guests. They waited. The groups of people in the yard and on the porch stood with the same quiet attention as did those in the room. A deaf old man leaned forward with his hand to his ear. A woman hushed a fretful baby with a pacifier. Mr. Singer stood attentively in the doorway. Most of the young people sat on the floor. Among them was Lancy Davis. The boy’s lips were nervous and pale. He clasped his knees very tightly with his arms, and his young face was sullen. All the eyes in the room watched, and in them there was hunger for truth.

‘Today we are to confer the five-dollar award upon the high school student who wrote the best essay on the topic, “My Ambition: How I Can Better the Position of the Negro Race in Society.” This year the award goes to Lancy Davis.’ Doctor Copeland took an envelope from his pocket. ‘There is no need for me to tell you that the value of this award is not wholly in the sum of money it represents—but the sacred trust and faith that goes with it.’

Lancy rose awkwardly to his feet. His sullen lips trembled. He bowed and accepted the award. ‘Do you wish me to read the essay I have written?’

‘No,’ said Doctor Copeland. ‘But I wish you to come and talk with me sometime this week.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The room was quiet again.

‘ “I do not wish to be a servant!” That is the desire I have read over and over in these essays. Servants? Only one in a thousand of us is allowed to be a servant. We do not work! We do not serve!’

The laughter in the room was uneasy.

‘Listen! One out of five of us labors to build roads, or to take care of the sanitation of this city, or works in a sawmill or on a farm. Another one out of the five is unable to get any work at all. But the other three out of this five—the greatest number of our people? Many of us cook for those who are incompetent to prepare the food that they themselves eat. Many work a lifetime tending flower gardens for the pleasure of one or two people. Many of us polish slick waxed floors of fine houses. Or we drive automobiles for rich people who are too lazy to drive themselves. We spend our lives doing thousands of jobs that are of no real use to anybody. We labor and all of our labor is wasted. Is that service? No, that is slavery.

‘We labor, but our labor is wasted. We are not allowed to serve. You students here this morning represent the fortunate few of our race. Most of our people are not allowed to go to school at all. For each one of you there are dozens of young people who can hardly write their names. We are denied the dignity of study and wisdom.

‘ “From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs.” All of us here know what it is to suffer for real need. That is a great injustice. But there is one injustice bitterer even than that—to be denied the right to work according to one’s ability. To labor a lifetime uselessly. To be denied the chance to serve. It is far better for the profits of our purse to be taken from us than to be robbed of the riches of our minds and souls.

‘Some of you young people here this morning may feel the need to be teachers or nurses or leaders of your race. But most of you will be denied. You will have to sell yourselves for a useless purpose in order to keep alive. You will be thrust back and defeated. The young chemist picks cotton. The young writer is unable to learn to read. The teacher is held in useless slavery at some ironing-board. We have no representatives in government. We have no vote. In all of this great country we are the most oppressed of all people. We cannot lift up our voice. Our tongues rot in our mouths from lack of use. Our hearts grow empty and lose strength for our purpose.

‘People of the Negro race! We bring with us all the riches of the human mind and soul. We offer the most precious of all gifts. And our offerings are held in scorn and contempt. Our gifts are trampled in the mud and made useless. We are put to labor more useless than the work of beasts. Negroes! We must arise and be whole again! We must be free!’

In the room there was a murmur. Hysteria mounted. Doctor Copeland choked and clenched his fists. He felt as though he had swelled up to the size of a giant. The love in him made his chest a dynamo, and he wanted to shout so that his voice could be heard throughout the town. He wanted to fall upon the floor and call out in a giant voice. The room was full of moans and shouts.

‘Save us!’

‘Mighty Lord! Lead us from this wilderness of death!’

‘Hallelujah! Save us, Lord!’

He struggled for the control in him. He struggled and at last the discipline returned. He pushed down the shout in him and sought for the strong, true voice.

‘Attention!’ he called. ‘We will save ourselves. But not by prayers of mourning. Not by indolence or strong drink. Not by the pleasures of the body or by ignorance. Not by submission and humbleness. But by pride. By dignity. By becoming hard and strong. We must build strength for our real true purpose.’

He stopped abruptly and held himself very straight. ‘Each year at this time we illustrate in our small way the first commandment from Karl Marx. Every one of you at this gathering has brought in advance some gift. Many of you have denied yourselves comfort that the needs of others may be lessened. Each of you has given according to his best ability, without thought to the value of the gift he will receive in return. It is natural for us to share with each other. We have long realized that it is more blessed to give than to receive. The words of Karl Marx have always been known in our hearts: “From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs.” ’

Doctor Copeland was silent a long time as though his words were complete. Then he spoke again:

‘Our mission is to walk with strength and dignity through the days of our humiliation. Our pride must be strong, for we know the value of the human mind and soul. We must teach our children. We must sacrifice so that they may earn the dignity of study and wisdom. For the time will come. The time will come when the riches in us will not be held in scorn and contempt. The time will come when we will be allowed to serve. When we will labor and our labor will not be wasted. And our mission is to await this time with strength and faith.’

It was finished. Hands clapped, feet were stamped upon the floor and on the hard winter ground outside. The odor of hot, strong coffee floated from the kitchen. John Roberts took charge of the presents, calling out the names written on the cards. Portia ladled the coffee from the dishpan on the stove while Marshall Nicolls passed slices of cake. Doctor Copeland moved about among the guests, a little crowd always surrounding him.

Someone nagged at his elbow: ‘He the one your Buddy named for?’ He answered yes. Lancy Davis followed him with questions; he answered yes to everything. The joy made him feel like a drunken man. To teach and exhort and explain to his people—and to have them understand. That was the best of all. To speak the truth and be attended.

‘Us certainly have had one fine time at this party.’

He stood in the vestibule saying good-bye. Over and over he shook hands. He leaned heavily against the wall and only his eyes moved, for he was tired.

‘I certainly do appreciate.’

Mr. Singer was the last to leave. He was a truly good man. He was a white man of intellect and true knowledge. In him there was none of the mean insolence. When all had departed he was the last to remain. He waited and seemed to expect some final word.

Doctor Copeland held his hand to his throat because his larynx was sore. ‘Teachers,’ he said huskily. ‘That is our greatest need. Leaders. Someone to unite and guide us.’

After the festivity the rooms had a bare, ruined look. The house was cold. Portia was washing the cups in the kitchen. The silver snow on the Christmas tree had been tracked over the floors and two of the ornaments were broken.

He was tired, but the joy and the fever would not let him rest. Beginning with the bedroom, he set to work to put the house in order. On top of the filing case there was a loose card—the note on Lancy Davis. The words that he would say to him began to form in his mind, and he was restless because he could not speak them now. The boy’s sullen face was full of heart and he could not thrust it from his thoughts. He opened the top drawer of the file to replace the card. A, B, C—he thumbed through the letters nervously. Then his eye was fixed on his own name: Copeland, Benedict Mady.

In the folder were several lung X-rays and a short case history. He held an X-ray up to the light. On the upper left lung there was a bright place like a calcified star. And lower down a large clouded spot that duplicated itself in the right lung farther up. Doctor Copeland quickly replaced the X-rays in the folder. Only the brief notes he had written on himself were still in his hand. The words stretched out large and scrawling so that he could hardly read them. ‘1920—calcif. of lymph glands—very pronounced thickening of hili. Lesions arrested—duties resumed. 1937—lesion reopened—X-ray shows——’ He could not read the notes. At first he could not make out the words, and then when he read them clearly they made no reason. At the finish there were three words: ‘Prognosis: Don’t know.’

The old black, violent feeling came in him again. He leaned down and wrenched open a drawer at the bottom of the case. A jumbled pile of letters. Notes from the Association for the Advancement of Colored People. A yellowed letter from Daisy. A note from Hamilton asking for a dollar and a half. What was he looking for? His hands rummaged in the drawer and then at last he arose stiffly.

Time wasted. The past hour gone.

Portia peeled potatoes at the kitchen table. She was slumped over and her face was dolorous.

‘Hold up your shoulders,’ he said angrily. ‘And cease moping. You mope and drool around until I cannot bear to look on you.’

‘I were just thinking about Willie,’ she said. ‘Course the letter is only three days due. But he got no business to worry me like this. He not that kind of a boy. And I got this queer feeling.’

‘Have patience, Daughter.’

‘I reckon I have to.’

‘There are a few calls I must make, but I will be back shortly.’

‘O.K.’

‘All will be well,’ he said.

Most of his joy was gone in the bright, cool noonday sun. The diseases of his patients lay scattered in his mind. An abscessed kidney. Spinal meningitis. Pott’s disease. He lifted the crank of the automobile from the back seat. Usually he hailed some passing Negro from the street to crank the car for him. His people were always glad to help and serve. But today he fitted the crank and turned it vigorously himself. He wiped the perspiration from his face with the sleeve of his overcoat and hurried to get beneath the wheel and on his way.

How much that he had said today was understood? How much would be of any value? He recalled the words he had used, and they seemed to fade and lose their strength. The words left unsaid were heavier on his heart. They rolled up to his lips and fretted them. The faces of his suffering people moved in a swelling mass before his eyes. And as he steered the automobile slowly down the street his heart turned with this angry, restless love.