Manderlay Page #4

...that made their lives better

in a convincing way,

right here and now!

I don't know

what that might be, but...

But we don't have time for that.

We've been forced to sow late before.

The harvest might be improved

if we planted a bit late.

Even says that in Mam's Law.

Mam's Law?

Yes, Mam's Law.

It's all the rules

for running the plantation.

But we weren't allowed to read it.

It was just for Mam and the family.

Only for Mam and the family,

Grace thought.

Certainly no more.

And there on Mam's bed,

skimming through the old book,

well-filled with bizarre

and vicious regulations,

she came upon a page

that looked strangely familiar.

A table with numbers

from one to seven.

Somewhere Grace had seen

something similar, for sure.

Mam's Law revealed it all.

The Manderlay plantation

with its glamorous front mansion

and pitiful rear where the slaves

had their quarters

had been kept in an iron grip

by these very numbers.

They represented the psychological

division of the Manderlay slaves.

Sammy was a Group 5:

a Clownin' N*gger.

The formidable Victoria was of course

a Number 4:
a Hittin' N*gger.

No wonder her husband Bert

had found it necessary

to accept "a helping hand"

even if it was

another color from his own.

Wilma and Mark

were Losin' N*ggers.

Wilhelm was a 2:
a Talkin' N*gger.

Flora was a Weepin' N*gger.

Et cetera et cetera.

There were Pleasin' N*ggers

and Crazy N*ggers by the dozen.

The final category,

Number 1:
Proudy N*ggers

consisted nowadays

of Timothy, as expected,

who was of course not there.

And Elizabeth.

No. It said 7, not 1.

She was a Pleasin' N*gger,

also known as a chameleon...

a person of the kind

who could transform herself

into exactly the type

the beholder wanted to see.

This was how the slave system had

been kept alive for so long at Manderlay:

bondage,

even through psychology.

As Grace, in deep thought, gazed

across the fields of Manderlay,

she recalled

another page in Mam's Law,

dealing exclusively with

the weeding of the paths

in the romantic

"Old Lady's Garden,"

the name of the narrow band

of woodland that skirted the plantation.

"Trees and tree trunks,"

Grace thought.

So there were materials

at Manderlay, after all.

Excuse me.

May I ask you all something?

Isn't it true that somebody

who's even poor and colored...

...can still take the trouble

to maintain their home?

How dare you?

You think colored folks prefer holes

in their roofs and wallowing in mud?

Then all you need to do

is to mend those holes.

But I told you.

There ain't never been no materials

for that kind of thing at Manderlay.

No materials?

That's not true.

When I'm in the fields,

I see timber wherever I look,

just waiting to be turned

into boards for a roof,

or an extension

or maybe even a whole new cabin.

That be Mam's garden.

You can't cut that down.

Then why can't we cut down

The Old Lady's Garden?

Have you really spent that many

happy hours up there on your knees

weeding her romantic paths?

That's true.

There's loads of timber.

We ain't seen it as anything

but The Old Lady's Garden.

I don't know what you think,

but to me, it sounds like

a splendid idea.

And at a stroke, these seated,

reclining, resting people

had turned into people

going full tilt...

walking,

running, working people...

without anyone having to threaten

them in the slightest

with "The Lady's Hand,"

as Grace had been told

the great whip was called.

And Grace had won

a kind of victory.

A small beginning of something

that would one day erase

all the negative, inherited

behavior patterns of Manderlay.

But as Grace had suspected,

the appetite for

improving the living quarters

unfortunately exceeded that

for preparing the fields.

A few of the former slaves

had volunteered,

and with the white family

and Grace herself,

they made up a sort of gang

to prepare the soil for the seeds

under the gaze of

a demonstratively hostile Timothy

with his mysterious

white handkerchief.

- He wasn't born here?

- He's a Munsi.

It's a line of African royalty.

It's a very proud line.

He don't drink either,

or gamble like the others be doin'

with their little blue tufts of cotton money.

It was Mam's Law.

We weren't allowed no real money.

Grace knew about the clever system

of currency in Mam's Law.

Not real money that you

could use in the outside world.

The Munsi don't gamble 'cause

they don't believe in winnings.

They believe you have to be

humble to your crops

and only take

what's absolutely necessary.

I've never heard

of these Munsi before,

but I do believe

I once heard of the Mansi.

They different.

They was slaves of African kings.

They gamble.

They is true mischief, Timothy say.

So Timothy has

prejudices, as well.

What?

Oh, nothing.

I was just thinking aloud.

So you find company, Flora.

No, no. I was on

my way out, anyway.

Timothy?

Let me tell you one thing.

I know you don't like me

and don't trust me,

and I can see why.

Although our ideals differ,

you have a pride within you,

that I believe will one day be

the salvation of everybody at Manderlay.

Let me tell you one thing, too.

You got fine words, a posse

of gangsters, and your white skin...

somethin' folks here seem to fall for,

but I ain't fooled.

You're not interested in us,

not as human beings.

After all, it's tough telling people apart

when they're from another race.

We whites have committed

an irreparable crime

against an entire people.

Manderlay is a moral obligation,

because we made you.

Luckily, I'm just a n*gger

who don't understand such words.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've come

here for the company of my girl,

and that ain't nothing

for you to see.

Black hides meeting.

And if I were you, I would leave now

before things get too nasty.

Grace regarded Timothy's hostility

as a challenge,

and the very next day,

she took a step to dispel his claim

that as a white, she was incapable

of caring for blacks as individuals.

She'd had a chat with Venus about

her somewhat maladjusted son Jim.

Venus had revealed

that Jim's behavior

was merely that of

a budding, but frustrated, artist.

Tell me, have you seen Venus?

Nobody here wants your charity.

I have something for Jim.

I've had a really good look

at his face since our little chat,

and you're right.

It does possess an artist's sensitivity.

This is far too much.

No, no, no!

Go on, call him.

These are for him.

Jim, come on out here

with me and Miss Grace, baby.

These are for you,

because we believe in you.

Now run along

and paint your fantastic pictures.

Never mind those close-minded folks

who think they know

what art is meant to look like.

Give them hell from me, Jim!

Excuse me, but I ain't Jim.

I'm Jack.

That's Jim.

It is tricky.

As a matter of fact, I've never

been able to tell them apart, either.

They're both colored,

and they both got curly hair.

Why look any deeper than that?

To be honest,

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