where the grapes of wrath are stored
[Another visit to the novel in progress, A Republic of Books, more of which may be found elsewhere on this ethereal site]
From the personal and particular back again to the spectacular, it is interesting enough to imagine—conjecture really—what would have happened if James Wilson had not fashioned his three-fifths compromise. There would have been no United States. More likely there would have been three nations, at least two of them above the Mason Dixon line, and all at odds and teeming with the vigor of youth. Such a novel of alternative history still needs to be written.
But then it was still more intriguing for me to think, what if Benjamin Lay, a man seemingly incapable of compromise, had not lived. James Wilson’s fellow delegate to the Constitutional Convention from Pennsylvania was Benjamin Franklin. And Franklin too had once been accepting of slavery.
Years ago I wrote a play about that man, Benjamin Lay. He is much forgotten now but his thoughts are still with us. That is the power of ideas. Lay was one of the first abolitionists and fought for the end of slavery when that idea was dangerous and long before there was any gain of apparent virtue to be had out of it. Importantly, he was a Quaker when the Friends had not yet forbidden the ownership of other human beings as wrong, much less evil. His dramatical harangues at Friend’s meetings were once widely accepted as instrumental to that change of heart.
Lay was born in the textile region of Essex, England in 1682, into the comfortable circumstances of a Quaker farm family, but received little formal education. For a time he worked as a shepherd and came to see his own part of following Jesus in ‘The Lamb’s War’ of his faith to build the New Jerusalem on Earth. When he was apprenticed to a glove maker and made to work with the skin of dead animals, a ‘stinking trade’ for the odors of tanning and curing the hides, he came to abhor all such use. At 21, with brothers aplenty and opportunity scarce, he went to sea instead, shipping from London. A sailor’s life was hard and exactly the sort of stringent duty, as a budding ascetic, that he wanted for himself, while allowing him to mingle among and learn to respect all manner of men. It was there that he faced the absolute authority of the ship, and the near slavery of the seaman, and his own character was further formed.
In 1718, at the age of 36 he married his beloved Sarah and settled again in Colchester, Essex, having inherited his mother’s property there. Throughout this time he had already become a thorn of contention at Quaker meetings, often protesting hypocrisy and hierarchy. His wife Sarah was no better, being an evangelist in the new faith, as Quaker women were wont to do. As a sailor Benjamin had visited the Holy Land, drunk from Jacob’s Well, and first witnessed actual slavery as well as despotism toward women. But his disputes with his neighbors seemed to plague him and the couple decided to leave, first emigrating to the Barbados, where they saw the full cruelty of human enslavement used to harvest the sugar cane that was in turn made into the rum for trade to make the money that bought more slaves. They moved on. By the time he and Sarah had reached Philadelphia in 1730, he had become a radical on the subject of slavery, as well as a vegetarian, refusing to eat meat or wear any product of forced labor.
The olden Friends had a practice of prayer at their meetings where there is no designated preacher but each member of the congregation might speak if the holy spirit moved them. Benjamin was often moved and had much to say—more of it in admonition of others sitting in the pews with him who were slave owners. He was expelled as a trouble maker. He came back, again and again, once famously with a bladder containing red berry juice that he had hidden in a hollowed book, as well as a sword, concealed in his coat, for the Friends had already sworn themselves to nonviolence. Dramatically, and in a faithful theatric tradition of early Quakers, he once again spoke against slavery and to those apostates who presumed to own other human beings, as he revealed the sword and speared the book so that the juice spatter anointed anyone close with the blood red. The event was retold for years after.
It is important to know that throughout his life, Benjamin Lay was a reader, and self-taught in subjects ranging from farming and husbandry to politics and religion, in time amassing a considerable library. And important also that, in Philadelphia, Lay became a friend to a printer, Benjamin Franklin. It was Franklin who printed Lay’s first book, All Slave-keepers that keep the Innocent in Bondage, Apostates, in 1737, and likely many of his pamphlets as well. This was not a careless act. There were penalties for printing such tracts. Franklin, the Quaker, who assiduously cultivated many connections, and who himself had owned at least two slaves, had much to lose. He refrained from putting his imprint on the book, but it is certain his own opinions had been altered. I first thought to write a novel about the man who changed them, and with them much that would follow.
But consider, the thing that most people would notice first about Benjamin Lay was not the uncut beard that made him look all the more fierce as he entered into a full throated harangue, or the plainness of the clothes, which he fashioned himself from flax on a spinning wheel in order to avoid using lamb’s wool, but the more obvious fact that he was a dwarf, little more than four feet tall, hunch-backed, with a chest that protruded like the bow of a boat and spindly legs that moved—danced people said—beneath him. And Sarah, his proselytizing mate was also a dwarf. What a match they must have made!
I have often been shamed by my lack of courage. This can happen more easily when I am actively writing because I’m trying to understand the mind of my subject and I usually write about better people than myself. The discrepancies gape from the dark recesses of my mind. It was just this feeling of personal failure that hovered over and nearly enveloped me in the years immediately before my divorce, but most especially as I was trying to write the novel then about that great little man, Benjamin Lay. For all he wrote, not very much is known about the abolitionist and so I had spent some time reading his own words looking for clues. Perhaps it was the aftermath of September 11th, 2001 that was still in me when the idea came the following December. But what I still remember now, most clearly, was a realization of my own failings and moral cowardice, when compared to his.
What had further inspired me in that dark time was a movie, the first of several fine efforts taken from the work of J. R. R. Tolkien by the director Peter Jackson. His depiction of the Hobbits and Dwarves was excellent and achieved a sense of fully realized human lives that is usually lacking in movies where those characters are chosen only from the limited number of good actors of such dramatically smaller stature. But it was Bilbo Baggins’ home in the Shire that completed the impact.
That famously small man, Benjamin Lay, had built a sort of underground abode for himself and Sarah, and for his accumulating books as well, at Abington, on the York Road just north of Philadelphia. Talk about underground politics! There is a now famous painting of the man, which had once been owned by Benjamin Franklin, with Lay standing in front of this dwelling and the very idea of the fellow living underground had so many points of reference for me, and so much resonance, that the image had stuck in my head, and when I first saw the Jackson movie I felt as if the story was already begun. But the quest I saw for ‘Little Benjamin’ as he called himself, was in his abolitionist zeal. Franklin had printed several of Lay’s many pamphlets and they had apparently been friends. What struck me out of that relationship was that Franklin had also owned slaves, and Lay had already shown himself to be both vociferous and obnoxious toward his fellow Quakers who engaged in this wrong. I could only imagine the arguments! And it was these arguments, conducted in my own head, that turned the prose of my novel into a play.
My story worked outside the famously narrow scope of Franklin’s ‘Autobiography’ and his letters, which were nearly always circumspect, in that he understood, as Postmaster, that there was no privacy in such correspondence, so I leapt happily to the conclusion that it was his friendship with Lay that turned Franklin’s thinking on the subject of slavery long before the American Revolution. And that by extension, without Franklin, that great cause would have failed.
Benjamin Lay’s features were sometimes described as grotesque—or what could be seen of them as they projected through his uncut and graying beard. And the core of my tale was his relationship with his wife, which I could only believe was extraordinary. And naturally, I was brought to wonder at my own failure in that regard as well. Margaret, by any standard, was beautiful. But her beauty had not been enough for me, nor her intelligence and ever critical wit.
Lay’s campaign against slave owners was by all accounts as Biblical as the Good Book which had been his primary source of eduction. He quoted scripture often and his writing clearly shows the influence of William Tyndale and Edmund Spencer and of the King James Bible. But to him, slavery was “the poison of dragons,” and this was simply too Tolkienesque to be ignored.
That this novel was never finished remains a sore in me now. Plays are the more difficult matter as they involve others—actors, directors, and all the rest. It is yet another failure of my courage to have seen the novel through and published it myself, as old Ben Lay would have done. Had I finished the novel, it would have require me to seek the reasons for my own lack of faith—in myself, as well as in Margaret, though I’ve heard it said, you can mend a broken cup for appearance sake, but it will never hold the hot liquid quite the same again.
My play about Benjamin Lay begins with a monologue, as he picks the grapes at the arbor just outside his door—well, not exactly. It is a dialogue, but between Benjamin and his wife, Sarah, who has been dead now for nearly sixteen years. The silent answers are clear only in his responses. The face of his home in the cave beneath a low bluff is visible at stage right. There is a short, extended, wood shingled roof from the upper ledge and this is clearly mossy; above and behind is the rise of a bluff, sylvan with small trees and broken in part by sunlight and wild flowers. The rough hewn wall behind is boarded with vertical planking trimmed at top and bottom and gray with weather, and this is divided by a wide door, as well as several windows. Glazed pots are arranged beneath the eaves along with potted flowers.
At first Ben is alone at the down stage, and the conversation is about the small matters of daily living mixed with news of the French and Indian War, which has continued. The previous October there had been a massacre at Penn’s Creek, and he has only recently learned that a friend died there with the others, but more immediately there is word still fresh of General Braddock’s defeat at the Monongahela River while attempting to capture the French Fort Duquesne. Lay despairs over the loss of life, as well as his difficulties at handling household chores by himself, interspersing his complaints with a chiding of Sarah over her unhelpfulness in not being there. He recalls that she had loved to pick the grapes herself, often eating more than she brought to the table, and he breathes deeply of the ripening odors for her.
At a point in this conversation, a figure comes into view up stage. It is recognizably the still vigorous Ben Franklin of the 1750’s. Franklin stops when he hears Lay’s voice and watches for a time, long enough to hear the poignant exchange between Lay and his wife about the grapes before coming forward to interrupt the clearly private banter. Lay does not act at all embarrassed. Franklin’s arrival is accepted, as if expected.
FRANKLIN
How are you old friend?
LAY
Better than I deserve.
FRANKLIN
Do I interrupt. Is there someone else?
LAY
Only Sarah and myself.
FRANKLIN
But Sarah has been dead these many years. I stood at her grave.
LAY
I am made aware of it each dawn! But that was only her body, sir. Her soul is still with me.
FRANKLIN
Yes—Of course. My apology.
LAY
(looking back in the direction of the road)
And where is your animal? We must see to his thirst and provender.
FRANKLIN
I walked sir. In your honor. At least ten mile.
LAY
Then, it is you I must provide for. Have a grape!
(Hands Franklin a small bunch)
FRANKLIN
Many thanks. You have always had the best. I even made wine of the lot you gave me last year in trade for printing the pamphlet. Excellent wine.
LAY
I’m sure that even in heaven my Sarah regrets not having her grapes. I try to enjoy them for her. I still keep her wine pots there by the roof to catch the rain. They are as musical as glass. But you know I’ve never ceased to talk with her. And she has become a far better listener since she has gone, and not so ready to correct me!
In the second act they are inside at the table, eating fresh fruits and talking about slavery and war. Behind them is a wall of books. There is an iron stove and hearth at stage right. The entrance door is at the front left. Light from the windows enters from down stage front. The two men are seated facing the audience and obviously in the midst of their meal, with various vegetables and fruits on the table before them.
LAY
But what of your own slaves, sir? Did you sell them?
FRANKLIN
Yes—you mean the fellow and his wife that I bought for Deborah to help with her tasks. I told you once before and you have already damned me for that. And now Debby wishes me to do so again to Peter. She fears that we will die in a state of mortal sin. Your preaching has always reached her—even those many years ago when I published your book. But, Peter, is indispensable. He says that he is content in his place, and I rely upon him.
LAY
He is afraid that you will sell him too. I suppose he believes you to be a good master. It is always the fear of the slave that his next master will be worse. But now, give him manumission! Free your own soul at last and ask forgiveness of the Lord!
FRANKLIN
I pay him wages.
LAY
The wages of your own sin. I cringe at the thought of what you did before with that couple. My preaching was proved half-worthy when you sold them after all!
FRANKLIN
I did not profit from that, though I feel the regret. They were good people. But they needed a place where they would be welcomed together. I couldn’t cast them into the storm.
LAY
Your excuse rings false!
FRANKLIN
It does. True. But Deborah did not want them in the house while I was away to England at the time. Better, I suppose, that they be cast off to the shambles by the quay and die there of the ague.
LAY
How can I condemn you properly when you make such tinplate argument. You make my task impossible! Listen! The Lord says to you ‘Inasmuch as ye did it not unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye did it not unto me.’
FRANKLIN
I feel the truth of that. My excuse does have the ring of tin.
LAY
And your Gazette continues to run advertisements for human flesh and bulletins for runaways. ‘To be sold, a likely lusty Negro man,’ was said. I’ll never forget! Aren’t you still ashamed?
FRANKLIN
You know that I’ve long since given the business chores of the press over to Mr. Hall, so that I can pursue other matters. He is bound to take such advertisements for common trade, lest we loose the business to another paper.
LAY
The truth is your neglect! Is that your excuse then? Shame! [shaking his head in exasperation] You know I had an Irish lad here for a week in hiding who had your paper in his coat with a notice of his own escape from a High Street master. His skin was whiter than yours yet he was indentured as thoroughly as any black man.
FRANKLIN
It is the state of our world. It will better, in time, I think. I hope. And though it’s true that I tend to live with the present as it is, I have endeavored to improve the prospects before me. It’s your own courage, perhaps, that I lack to face it headlong, and likely the very reason I’m here today. Business is simple by the numbers. Science is a joy, for the seeking. But your answers require more than wit or humor. I know. You are my Monk—my priest and confessor [Franklin rises and turns to the wall of books] I set out this morning only wanting to escape my thoughts—Ah! I see you have a volume from my own press, Mr. Richardson’s Pamela. Does a God-fearing man such as yourself not worry to be seen with such lewdness?
LAY
It was discarded on a rubbish heap. Likely by one of your enraged subscribers. I wanted to know why anyone would throw away a book. Now, I want to know why anyone would print it!
FRANKLIN
I am as proud of that as anything I have published. Licentiousness and hypocrisy are skewered on every page! Did you enjoy it?
LAY
It pretends that virtue is rewarded. Is marriage a just reward for lust, then?
FRANKLIN
In my own experience, that is often the case. (He puts the book back on the shelf and turns to his host.) But that is not exactly the matter at hand. Deborah will not travel over the sea. She has refused before and now I’ve been asked to go to England once more to represent the Assembly and citizens of Pennsylvania against the Proprietors, and this likely for a longer time. Even though I’ll take my grandson with me for the education, she will not go.
LAY
I have met your wife many times in these years. She is a better woman than you deserve. Yet you have abandoned her before.
FRANKLIN
Far better. And though I deserve nothing but want more.
LAY
You have said that wealth does not interest you. What is it you seek then?
FRANKLIN
Appreciation perhaps. I get little enough of that here. Deborah won’t stay awake in the night to talk with me about light and heat, or cold, much less the weather. She’d rather go to bed without me. She won’t even play chess with me, though I have taught her the rules and begged her for the company!
LAY
It is the praise, then. You want the praise. Your pride precedes you. I’ve seen the notices of your tricks in the English papers at your own Library Company. They flatter you like Market Street whores. Go then. Play there with your kites. Revel in the discovery of some other of God’s wonders as if it were new and not our ancient gift. Go! Abandon your wife again! God will only have the longer list of offenses to consider.
FRANKLIN
What I do is serious. God gave us our brains to use. To question the universe is His gift—while she is content to knit a shawl.
LAY
Like the one she gave me on my last visit? A fine flaxen shawl. That was a holy gift. My Sarah used to knit, you know, but not so fine as your wife. And my own efforts are feeble. Can you knit?
FRANKLIN
No. But I made a better loom for her. But she doesn’t use it.
LAY
You devise. I suppose that’s the way you rose yourself from printer’s devil to devil incarnate, and a rich man in the bargain. What wrong can you do to England that is worse than you do here. Either way you pay me no heed and I am a poorer monk for that. In return you bring me only self-pity, of which I have plenty.
FRANKLIN
I have always been a free man in my skull! It’s there I play against that world of material things where I am beholden, obligated and suborned, contracted, agreed upon, sworn to and oathed. Perhaps that’s why I have too little pity. I feel as if I have been indentured again as surely as I was to my brother when I was a youth. I escaped then and I must now again. Wealth can be a curse! Yet it is my contention that being poor is no blessing and being ignorant is not so much a shame as being unwilling to learn.
LAY
You can leave your aphorisms there in the garden to fertilize the carrots. You have no humility! So long as you enslave, you will be a slave to your wrong!
FRANKLIN
(Hanging his head over dramatically)
I know it.
LAY
There is no eye in a needle large enough to take a man with human spoils.
FRANKLIN
(Smiles, teasingly)
I have lately been flattered with the praise that I am a man of many parts. Perhaps the Lord will see fit to have me drawn and quartered that I might traverse the eye of His needle by smaller portions.
LAY
Ah! Vanity! Conceit! Pretension! You have no limit to your pride.
FRANKLIN
The Lord made me as I am. Would a merciful God hold a man to account for failings that He himself had fashioned?
LAY
Would a virile God not test us to our limbs. (Raising a shrunken leg to shake it)
He fashioned the babe, not the man. The man is self-made. Your sins are your own to overcome.
FRANKLIN
My pride is my folly, be certain. But I have felt it from the first inkling. Surely God made my pride as well as my heart and limbs and as surely as he made you, as you are, in order that you might see truth more clearly.
LAY
[dramatically waving off the statement] I have no gift for the truth. I may have some better glimpse of the wrong because I have been wronged. In my moments of despair, Hell has been a familiar to me. But God makes no provision for salvation merely for seeing the truth. Even Moses was not to enter the Promised Land.
FRANKLIN
Then I am damned if I do and damned if I don’t. I would as soon return to England as stay here in sin.
LAY
Will you escape unfettered by your slave?
FRANKLIN
I will take Peter with me. I need his service. But as Polly Baker said of her own habit of laying down with men, ‘ ’tis the Duty of the first and great Command of Nature, and of Nature’s God, to Increase and multiply.’ Thus, I am set on my course, by God, I think. There is some destiny to it. But I cannot be all things, though I might do more than most men.
LAY
Hah! Incorrigible! Now I must admit to another fault of my own when contending with you. I am jealous. I have never known such pride in a man. What is it like—to think you know what you do not know and not be stunned like an ox by the mystery of it? Is it a paroxysm? Does it feel at all like love? Does it consume you in that way love does from your outer flesh to your inner soul. Or is it only a nut in the throat?
FRANKLIN
Love is not so careless as pride. That foolishness burns hotter and is the more difficult to loose even when you see that you are wrong. When pride fails, it leaves you spiritless.
LAY
At least I have known love.
FRANKLIN
Then you have known the better.
The third act ends outside again, after Lay has verbally whipped Franklin for his faults once more and Franklin leaves, seemingly happier and thankful for the scourging. At the last moment Lay turns again to his wife (and the audience) and says, ‘He will charm God, if God has a fault. Now, Sarah, what was it you were saying before that lunatic printer interrupted us?’