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SAVAGE HOLIDAY
By
RICHARD WRIGHT
Savage Holiday was originally published in 1954 by the University Press of Mississippi.
DEDICATION
To
Clinton Brewer
* * *
For he who sins a second time,
Wakes a dead soul to pain,
And draws it from its spotted shroud,
And makes it bleed again,
And makes it bleed great gouts of blood,
And makes it bleed in vain!
—Oscar Wilde’s The Ballad of Reading Gaol
And, behold, there came a great wind from the wilderness, and smote the four corners of the house...
—Job, 1:19
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Contents
DEDICATION 4
TABLE OF CONTENTS 5
PART ONE: ANXIETY 6
PART TWO: AMBUSH 43
PART THREE: ATTACK 99
REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 135
PART ONE: ANXIETY
Six days shalt thou labor, and do all thy work: But the seventh day is the sabbath of the Lord thy God: in it thou shalt not do any work...—Exodus, 20: 9, 10
Sunday is the holiday of present-day civilized humanity...But it is not given to everyone to vent their holiday wantonness...freely and naturally.—Sandor Ferenczi’s Sunday Neuroses
...in the very nature of a holiday there is excess; the holiday mood is brought about by the release of what is forbidden.—Freud’s Totem and Taboo
* * * * *
A CASCADE of shimmering yellow light showered down from crystal chandeliers and drenched the faces of more than five hundred men and women dining at the long, resplendent banquet tables in the Jefferson Banquet Salon of one of New York’s largest and most luxurious midtown hotels. Like a fabulously gaudy canopy, red, black, and gold streamers of twisted paper crisscrossed the ceiling, festooned the walls, evoking an atmosphere that was rich, dense, and colorful.
On a wall to the right, spanning the length of the room, high up near the ceiling, was strung a huge, white, eye-catching banner whose modernistically blocked characters of red and blue proclaimed:
The Longevity Life Insurance Company, Inc.
Girds the World and Brings
Security to You and Your Survivors
Tonight We Tender a Fond
HAIL AND FAREWELL
to
ERSKINE FOWLER
FOR THIRTY YEARS OF EXEMPLARY
SERVICE AND DEVOTION
Near the center windows in the left wall and at a table decorated with a giant, spraying bouquet of long-stemmed roses sat a quiet, reserved group of men whose fleshy faces, massive bodies, gray and bald heads marked them as wealthy executives. One of them, a white-haired man whose forceful, ruddy face, China blue eyes, and squared chin gave him the demeanor of a tamed pirate, was speaking:
“And now, this doughty warrior, after thirty long years of care and toil, lays down his burden of responsibility and can honestly look any man in the eye and say, ‘I’ve earned this rest of mine with the sweat of my brow—this is the end of a perfect day!’”
The speaker’s hearers were visibly moved and the handclapping was as soft, as shy, as the rustling of tree leaves in a spring wind.
“Brothers and sisters, just think—Erskine Fowler looked upon Longevity Life as his family! Ah, I remember him years ago—though it seems to my mind’s eye that it was but yesterday!—running errands, learning the ropes, figuring the angles, growing up with a growing company, becoming a Mason, a Rotarian, a Sunday School Superintendent, a man of parts...What a miracle life is! What a tremendous boon we have been to this man, and what a godsend he has been to us! What a collaboration! What a partnership! What a fulfillment of promise...!”
Applause, strident, deafening...
“Brothers and sisters, thirty years is a long, long span of time:—Time enough to cap the hair of a head like mine with silver frost....Time enough for countless souls to be chastened in the valley of suffering....Time enough for Almighty God to lay His final Hand upon some of us....Time enough for millions of new faces to make their God-given appearance here on earth in our midst....Time enough for war...Time enough for peace...Time enough for sorrow...Time enough for a little happiness...But, never forget, time enough for devotion, for service, for character building, for brotherly love....”
The speaker’s voice quavered under the stress of emotion. A few scattered handclaps began, timid and hesitant; then, gathering courage, the crowd lifted their applause to a crescendo that went on and on until the white-haired man finally stemmed the flood with his uplifted palms.
“Brothers and sisters of the Longevity Family, I’m not here to make a speech tonight. I want simply as president, or head of this family, to make manifest to the world that if Erskine Fowler has served us well, we want him and the world to know it.
“Last month our Board of Directors voted unanimously to have a special medal of gold struck in his honor.
“Long and earnestly we debated in choosing the words to be inscribed upon that medal.” Amid silence, the speaker paused, took from an inside coat pocket a flat, black box and, opening it, gazed for a moment at something which his audience could not see. “One side of this medal of gold bears the profile of Erskine Fowler, and the opposite side—“ He paused again, turned the medal in the flat box, and continued: “...bears these simple, heartfelt words which I’ll read if Erskine Fowler will be so kind as to stand up..
A six-foot, hulking, heavy, muscular man with a Lincoln-like, quiet, stolid face, deep-set brown eyes, a jutting lower lip, a shock of jet-black, bushy hair, rose nervously, ran his left hand tensely inside of his coat (as though touching something), brushed his right hand across his chin, then let his fingers, which trembled slightly, rest upon the table in front of him.
His facial features seemed hewn firm and whole from some endurable substance; his eyes were steady; he was the kind of man to whom one intuitively and readily rendered a certain degree of instant deference, not because there was anything challenging, threatening, or even strikingly intelligent in those carelessly molded and somewhat blunted features; but because one immediately felt that he was superbly alive, real, just there, with no hint in his attitude of apology for himself or his existence, confident of his inalienable right to confront you and demand his modest due of respect....He looked confoundingly younger than his forty-three years; indeed, one would easily have taken him to be thirty-five or -six....He stood with a fixed, embarrassed smile and his brown eyes shone with the moisture of emotion.
The speaker cleared his throat and declaimed: “Erskine Fowler, the Board of Directors, the President, and the officials, and more than five thousand employees of the Longevity Life Insurance Company declare unto you: ‘WELL DONE, THOU FAITHFUL STEWARD OF OUR TRUST!’”
Spontaneously, as one man, the crowd gained its feet and gave vent to prolonged cheering. The speaker extended to Erskine Fowler’s left hand the flat, black box contain
ing the gold medal; next he seized Erskine Fowler’s right hand and shook it with vigor, then clapped him in a fatherly way on the back, pronouncing: “God bless and keep you, Erskine!”
“Thank you, Mr. Warren,” the recipient said, in a half-whisper.
“Show it! Let’s see it!” Sundry voices rang out.
There were yells, whistles, stomping of feet. A maudlin mood seized the crowd. Erskine Fowler, with pride, timidity, and even an element of fear gleaming in his face, tiptoed and lifted the flat box high above his head and turned it to left and right, allowing the soft sheen of the golden disc to shed its lustrous benediction upon all eyes. His movements were stiff and constrained, as though he were acting against his will.
“Higher, higher...!”
Erskine Fowler forced a smile. A lusty singing broke out and, a moment later, the orchestra underscored the full-bodied strains:
For he’s a jolly good fellow
For he’s a jolly good fellow
For he’s a jolly good fellow
Which nobody can deny...
Erskine Fowler’s fingers shook; he fumbled clumsily with the flat black box and laid it on the table before him. His lips quivered; then he could no longer check the turbulence of his emotions. As the clapping rose louder and higher, profuse tears seeped from his eyes and etched their way slowly down his cheeks. Erskine Fowler drew forth his handkerchief, balled it, and dabbed fumblingly, trying to dry his eyes. Some of the young, dewey-eyed stenographers crooned:
“Aw look...! That’s so cute! He’s crying...!”
There were masculine shouts:
“Speech! Speech!”
Erskine Fowler brought himself under control; he hunched his huge shoulders a bit forward, made a slight, nervous, upward-shrugging motion with his arms and elbows close to his body, as though hitching up his trousers before going into combat, and set his face resolutely toward the crowd. He lifted his hands for silence and a soft chorus of “Sssshss” went around the room. When all was quiet, Erskine Fowler turned with slow and serious dignity toward Mr. Warren, bowed, and, in a rich, charged baritone, began:
“Mr. President, members of the Board of Directors, brothers and sisters of the Longevity Family:—What can I say? Truly, my heart’s full to overflowing. As all of you know, I m no speechmaker. My command of words is meager. Action is my forte, and I’m at a loss when called upon to express myself....But, believe me, I’m not unmindful of, or insensible to, the great tribute that is being tendered to me tonight Yet, if I may, with your permission, I’d like, so to speak, to turn the tables and pay a tribute to Mr. Warren, the Board of Directors, and to my thousands of co-workers who have made my services with the Longevity Life so pleasant and inspiring. It’s to you that I feel I owe thanks....”
Quiet handclapping...
“You know, as well as I, that in a strictly physical sense we have come to the parting of ways, but in a wider, deeper sense we can never really part. We will continue to commune together through what that great savior of our country, Abraham Lincoln, called the ‘better angels of our nature’!
“Brothers and sisters, it’s a poignant feeling that haunts me tonight. Leave-taking is always such a melancholy business. Really, words fail me at this moment...” Erskine Fowler swallowed, blinked; the strain of emotion pulled at the muscles in his face. With a reflex gesture, he inserted his left hand to his inner coat pocket, as though to make sure that he had not lost something, then he continued: “Yet I possess no small degree of pride for, no matter how humble my capacities really were, I did lend a willing hand in building up this our common monument of business. But what we achieved was not merely all business. As our great President has so often pointed out, and I heartily agree with him, millions of people depend upon us for their welfare, come to us in their bereavement, and seek us out in their hope...That’s not business, that’s faith!”
A ripple of handclapping...A sharp, tense struggle seemed to reflect itself in Erskine Fowler’s face; he mastered himself quickly, suddenly laughed, tossed his head roguishly, shot a shy, darting glance at Mr. Warren, and then recommenced in a lilting, jocular manner:
“I’m retiring at what is a rather unusually early age, but don’t kid yourself! Sure; I’m forty-three; but, by golly, I feel that I’m twenty-three! There’s a hell of a lot of kick left in this old mule yet!”
Laughter, shouts, even some whistling...
“Tell ‘em, Erskine!”
“Yeah!”
“Don’t give up, boy!”
“Sure; I’m retiring, but not out of action! I’m smiling and moving into the reserve ranks...!”
“Atta boy!”
“We’re with you, Erskine!”
“Now, don’t you think that because I’m retiring, that I’m going to stop living,” Erskine Fowler warned them, shaking a threatening forefinger. “Why, I haven’t even begun living yet!” He banged the table with his fist.
More handclapping...
“I’m deeply loath to sever my ties with this splendid organization.” He switched to a sober note, speaking in a husky whisper. “But, when one has served his time, he must go. Yet the sun’s not setting for me...I beg leave, with all due respect, to correct a statement of our beloved President. He spoke of this being, for me, the end of a perfect day! No; no...No; my friends! It’s high noon! Not only for me, but for Longevity Life!”
Erskine Fowler saw Mr. Warren lean forward, break into a smile, and nod his approval as more handclapping beat through the air. Erskine Fowler’s face flushed and became darkly pugnacious as he argued:
“The Board of Directors has voted to retain me in the capacity of a consulting advisor.” He turned and faced Mr. Warren. “Mr. President, sir, let me caution you that I’m going to be a mighty disappointed man if my phone doesn’t ring one of these mornings soon and I don’t hear you telling me: ‘Erskine, I want you to get right down here at once; there’s something terribly important I want you to do!’”
Amid something akin to pandemonium, Mr. Warren rose hastily and rushed to Erskine Fowler’s side, took hold of his shoulder and spun him round with affectionate rudeness. With cheers deafening their ears, the two men confronted each other, immobile, silent; then Mr. Warren flung wide his arms in a gesture of receiving to his heart a brother whom he would never deny. Elaborately he embraced Erskine Fowler and patted him tenderly on the back with both of his palms. When the cheering had subsided, Mr. Warren informed Erskine Fowler in tones that carried throughout the room:
“You bet your sweet life I’ll call you, Erskine; and by God, when I do, you’d better come!”
Staring solemnly into each other’s eyes, they shook hands. Erskine Fowler was moving his lips, trying to say something, but he could not get his words past the constriction in his throat. In the end he simply nodded his head and his eyes were dripping wet...
A tall, gray-haired man sprang to his feet, his right hand raised, and called out above the tumult: “Mr. President! Mr. President!”
The noise abated a bit.
“Yes, Mr. Edwards,” Mr. Warren answered.
“Mr. President,” the gray-haired man began as the room quieted, “I hope that I’m not out of order. And, assuming that I’m not, I hereby move that an account of these honorable proceedings be published in the next issue, along with suitable photographs, of our official journal, Longevity Life...!”
A stout, red-faced man rose and boomed: “I second that motion!”
With his arm still draped about Erskine Fowler’s shoulders, Mr. Warren proclaimed: “It has been moved and seconded that a full account of the honorable proceedings of this august ceremony be commemorated with proper dignity in the pages of our official journal, Longevity Life. Is there any discussion on this motion?”
“Question! Question!” rose from several throats.
“If there’s no discussion, I ask all who are in favor of this motion to signify their assent by saying, ‘Yes’!”
“YYYEEESSSSS!” a growl of approval t
hundered from the crowd.
“Those opposed!” Mr. Warren called.
Silence.
“The motion is carried unanimously!” Mr. Warren shouted, both of his palms stretching upwards with fingers spread.
A young woman dressed in a white suit came briskly forward with camera and flashbulb and, stooping and sighting, sent three flashes of blue lightning into Erskine Fowler’s and Mr. Warren’s face.
Erskine Fowler stood uncertainly, blinking; then, overcome, he sat abruptly. A storm of whistling, stomping, and yelling rang in his ears and there was an abortive attempt to sing For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow again; but the orchestra, at a signal from one of the executives, filled the room with a popular waltz tune and the waiters hurriedly began removing the tables and chairs. Erskine Fowler watched dazedly as dancing couples, smiling and looking at him, began to swing undulatingly past his eyes that swam in tears...
He felt lost, abandoned; he was alone amidst it all. Time was flowing pitilessly on; Longevity Life would keep marching, and he was on the outside of it all, standing on the sidelines, rejected, refused; he swallowed and dried his eyes again. Suddenly he felt that he could endure no more of it; he rose and mumbled hoarsely:
“Excuse me, please. Ill be back in a moment...”
He headed toward the men’s room, his eyes on the floor, walking slowly. Several men clapped him heartily on the back and called out their congratulations. Erskine Fowler forced himself to smile at them...
Yes; Erskine had fled. He had taken himself out of their sight, had broken his promise to remain until the end of the banquet. A sudden sense of outrage had made him decide that he would no longer be a party to his own defeat....As he made his way down the corridor toward the stairway, anger burned in him so hot and hard that his vision blurred. When he had declared to that array of upturned faces that ‘leave-taking is always such a melancholy business,” he had not been speaking at random or rhetorically. Indeed, he had had to rein himself in, while facing that crowd, to keep from bursting out with the true facts, to keep from screaming to the public that the whole thing was a farce, a put-up job! And what was now making him so angry and disgusted with himself was that, at the last moment, instead of hurling a monkey wrench into Warren’s smoothly organized machinery of falsehood, he had had a failure of nerve, had collaborated in the game of make-believe.
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