Chapter 11 Chapter Eleven

When we were kids, Jem and I set our limits on the south side of the block, but by the time I was in second grade, playing tricks on Boo Radley had become old fashioned, and we got interested in downtown Maycomb, so I often take North Street and pass by Mrs. Dubose's house.Unless we were willing to go the extra mile in a detour, her house was the only way to get into town.We've had a few skirmishes with her in the past that I remember vividly and never want to repeat, but Jem says I'm going to have to grow up sooner or later. Mrs. Dubose lived in the third house from ours north, with a steep front step and an open foyer.She is a lonely old woman with only one black maid who takes care of her all the year round.She is very old and spends most of the day in bed and the rest of the time in a wheelchair.According to legend, she also kept a Confederate pistol hidden among her innumerable piles of shawls and scarves.

Jem and I hate her so much.If she happened to be sitting on the porch when we passed her house, we would be swept up, down, left, and right with her angry eyes, and we would have to accept her relentless questioning of our behavior and even have to endure it. She draws dark extrapolations about what we'll become when we grow up—and her usual conclusion: we're going to get nowhere.We had long ago given up the idea of ​​walking across the street, because that would have only made her raise her voice an octave and get the whole neighborhood in on her. We can't please her no matter what.If I say hello to her beamingly: "Hey, Mrs. Dubose!" I get this answer: "Don't say 'Hey' to me, you ugly girl! Say 'Good afternoon, Mrs. Dubose '."

She is also a vicious old woman.She nearly had a stroke once when she heard Jem call our father "Atticus."Besides calling us rude, calling us the most disrespectful idiots that ever passed her door, she even said it was a great pity our father didn't remarry after our mother died.Our mother was, she said, the most lovely woman in the world, and Atticus left her children alone and let them run wild, which was heartbreaking to watch.I don't have the slightest recollection of my mother, but Jem does, and sometimes he'll tell me about her.Whenever Mrs. Dubose said something like that to us, Jem turned livid.

After experiencing a series of thrilling events such as the encounter with the weirdo Radley and the mad dog incident, Jem has come to a conclusion: it is cowardly to stay near the front steps of Miss Rachel's house waiting for Atticus to come back from get off work.He solemnly declared that we must run to the corner of the post office every evening to meet Atticus when he came home from get off work.So there were countless evenings when Atticus would find Jem very annoyed because Mrs. Dubose said something nasty again as we passed Mrs. Dubose's door. "Don't mind it, son," Atticus always said reassuringly, "she's an old lady, and she's sick. Hold your head up, and act like a gentleman. Whatever she says to you, don't lose your temper." , this is what you should do."

Jem would say her illness must be no big deal, because she was so loud and noisy.When the three of us came near her house, Atticus would take off his hat smartly, wave her chivalrously, and say, "Good evening, Mrs. Dubose! You look like It's a painting." I never heard him say what a picture Mrs. Dubose looked like.He would tell her something new about what was going on at the County Hall, and wish her a happy tomorrow with all his heart.Then he put on his hat and hung me up on his shoulders in front of Mrs. Dubose, and the family of three walked home in the twilight.It was at times like these that I thought my father was the bravest man in the world, even though he didn't like to handle guns and never fought in any wars.

The day after Jem's twelfth birthday, the money in his pocket was burning too much for him, and we both walked into town early in the afternoon.Jem figured he had enough money to buy himself a tiny steam engine, and a spinning gymnastics stick for me. I'd been eyeing one of those gymnastics sticks at VJ Elmer's—adorned with sequins and tassels, they cost 17 cents apiece.Back then, I had a burning desire to grow up and swing a gymnastics bat in the band at Maycomb County High School.Ever since I developed the knack of throwing a stick in the air and almost catching it the instant it fell, Calpurnia wouldn't let me in the house when she saw me with a stick in my hand.I thought maybe a real gymnastics stick might overcome that defect, and I thought it was a good deal of Jem to pay me for it.

When we passed Mrs. Dubose's house this time, she was sitting on the front porch. "What are you two going to do now?" she yelled, "I think it's laziness and truancy! I'll call your principal right away!" She put her hands on the wheels of the wheelchair and put on a righteous face. "Oh, Mrs. Dubose, it's Saturday," protested Jem. "Not on Saturday," she said vaguely. "Does your father know where you're going?" "Mrs. Dubose, we started going to town by ourselves when we were this tall." Jem gestured with his hands two feet off the ground.

"You can't fool me, Jeremy Finch," she roared. "Moody Atkinson told me you broke her trellis this morning. She's going to tell your father , then you’ll wish you’d never been born! If you’re not sent to work-study school by next week, my name won’t be Dubose!” Jem hadn't been near Miss Maudie's arbor since last summer, and we knew Miss Maudie wouldn't sue Atticus, so he immediately denied the accusation. "How dare you talk back to me!" Mrs. Dubose raised her voice. "And you..." she said, pointing at me with an arthritic twisted finger, "what are you doing in overalls? You should wear skirts and tights, ma'am! If you don't tell me you'll grow up to be a waitress serving dishes—think of the Finches serving plates at the OK Cafe— -what!"

For a moment I was filled with fear.The OK coffee shop she mentioned was on the north side of the square, and it was dark inside.I clung to Jem's hand, but he shook me off. "Don't be afraid, Scout!" he said in a low voice. "Don't take her seriously. Hold your head up like a gentleman." But Mrs. Dubose continued to babble: "Not only does the Finch family serve dishes, but there are also people who help niggers in court!" Jem froze for a moment.Mrs. Dubose's remark hit home, and she felt it herself. "Yes, if a Finch family disregards his upbringing and acts recklessly, what will the world be like? Let me tell you!" She covered her mouth with her hand, and when she took her hand away, Pulled out a long silver-white saliva. "Your father's suing niggers and scumbags, and he's no better than himself!"

Jem flushed.I tugged at his sleeve hastily, and we both walked down the sidewalk, with the swearing behind us relentlessly following us, blaming our family for its moral corruption, and saying that the main reason for all this was half of the Finch family. People in mental institutions, but if our mothers were still alive, we wouldn't have fallen to this level. I don't know what pissed Jem off the most, but what pissed me off the most was Mrs. Dubose's comments about our family's mental health.I'm pretty much used to hearing Atticus insulted, but this was the first time I'd heard it from an adult.In addition to belittling Atticus, Mrs. Dubose's attack was the same old one.

There was already a hint of summer in the air—it was still cool in the shade, but the sun was already warming up, which meant good times were coming: summer vacation, and Dill. After Jem bought the model steam engine, we went to Elmer's to buy gymnastic sticks.Jem couldn't cheer up the new baby he got. He stuffed the model into his pocket and walked home with me without saying a word.On the way home, I threw the gymnastics stick so hard that I missed it and nearly hit Mr. Link Dees. "Scout, watch!" he yelled at me.By the time we got close to Mrs. Dubose's house, my gymnastics stick was filthy from being dropped countless times. She's not on the porch. After all the years, I sometimes wonder to myself: What made Jem do what he did?What drove him to break the "Son, you have to act like a gentleman" agreement, to break the self-discipline he had just entered?Jem had probably endured as much gossip as I had in Atticus' defense of "niggers," and I took it for granted that he contained his anger--for he was naturally calm and mild-tempered.But at the time, the only reason I could think of was this: For those few minutes, he was just plain nuts. I'd be in for what Jem did, if Atticus's ban hadn't been there--and that ban, it seems to me, included not to go against the hideous old lady.Anyway, as soon as we got to her front yard, Jem snatched my gymnastics bat, waved it in his hand, and sprinted up the steps and into Mrs. Dubose's front yard.He completely forgot Atticus's advice, that Mrs. Dubose had a gun hidden in her scarf, and that even if Mrs. Dubose missed him, her maid, Jessie, might not miss it. He broke off all the camellia branches in Mrs. Dubose's yard in one breath, leaving behind a field of green buds and leaves. Then he calmed down, put my gymnastics stick on his knee, and snapped it in two , and throw it on the ground. I couldn't help screaming, and Jem grabbed my hair and said he didn't give a damn and would do it if he had the chance.He also said that if I don't shut up, I will pull all my hair out.Seeing that I didn't shut up, he kicked me.I lost my balance and fell flat on my face.Jem pulled me up roughly, but he looked remorseful.It's really hard to say, don't say it. That evening we decided not to meet Atticus.The two of us dawdled in the kitchen until Calpurnia kicked us out.She seemed to know the whole story by some kind of witchcraft.It was impossible to expect her to excuse us and give us some consolation, but she did give Jem a warm butter biscuit, which Jem broke and gave me half, which tasted like cotton in his mouth. We went into the living room.I picked up a football magazine, found a picture of Dixie Howell, and showed Jem: "This one looks like you." It was the nicest compliment I could think of, but it was nothing effect.He hunched over in the rocking chair by the window, sullenly, waiting for Atticus to return.The daylight gradually dimmed. It was two geological epochs before we heard the soles of Atticus' shoes scraping against the front steps.The screen door slammed open, and there was a pause—Atticus stopped by the coat rack in the hall, and we heard him call, "Jem!" in a voice like a winter wind. Atticus turned on the ceiling light in the living room and found us huddled there motionless.He held my gymnastics bat in one hand, dirty yellow tassels drooping on the carpet.He stretched out his other hand, revealing a handful of plump camellia buds. "Jem," he asked, "did you do it?" "Yes, sir." "Why did you do that?" Jem said softly, "She said you sued for niggers and scum." "You did it because she said that?" Jem's lips moved. "Yes, sir." The voice was almost inaudible. "Son, I know, because I've litigated black people, there must be kids about your age that piss you off, and you've told me that, but it's unforgivable to treat a sick old lady like this. You have to go and Talk to Mrs. Dubose," said Atticus, "and go straight home." Jem didn't move. "Go, I said." I followed Jem out of the living room. "You come back," Atticus said to me.I had no choice but to back out. Atticus picked up a copy of the Mobile Chronicle and sat in the rocking chair Jem had just vacated.I couldn't understand how his only son could be shot dead with a Confederate pistol, yet he could sit at home and read the newspaper so coldly.Of course, I'd like to kill Jem when he's against me, but he's the only brother I have, after all.Atticus didn't seem to notice it, or he didn't care if he did. I resented him a little for this, but people get tired easily after getting into trouble, and after a while I curled up in his arms and let him hug me. "You're too big for me to shake," he said. "You don't care if he lives or dies," I said. "He stood up to fight for you, but you let him die." Atticus took my head under his chin. "It's not time to worry yet," he said. "I never thought Jem would lose his mind over such a little thing—thought you'd get me into more trouble." I said, I don't see why you have to be sane, I don't know anyone in school who has to be sane about anything. "Scout," said Atticus, "it's going to be worse for you in the summer, and you'll have to keep your heads up... I know it's not fair to you and Jem, but Sometimes we can only take one step at a time. At critical moments, our way of dealing with people... how should I put it, I can only tell you now that when you and Jem grow up, maybe you will look back on this past event with a heart. Compassion and understanding, will understand that I have not let you down. This case, Tom Robinson's case, touches the deepest part of a man's conscience - Scooter, if I don't try to help this man, never again face to go to church to worship God." "Atticus, you must be wrong..." "How do you say that?" "Oh, most people seem to think they're right and you're wrong..." "Of course they have a right to think that way, and they have a right to have their opinions fully respected," Atticus said. "But I have to accept myself before I accept others. One thing that doesn't follow the herd is the human nature." conscience." I was still in Atticus' arms when Jem came back. "How's it going, son?" Atticus asked as he lowered me to the ground.I stole a peek at Jem, and he seemed all right, except for a strange look on his face.Maybe Mrs. Dubose gave him calomel. "I cleaned her up and I apologized to her, which I didn't feel sorry for. I also promised to do the flowers every Saturday so the buds would grow back." "There's no point in apologizing if you don't feel guilty," Atticus said. "Jem, she's old and sick. You can't hold her account of what she says or does. Of course. , I'd rather she tell me what she said than tell you, but we can't get everything we want." Jem stared at a rose on the carpet as if fascinated. "Atticus," he said, "she wants me to read to her." "Read to her?" "Yes, sir. She wants me to read aloud to her for two hours every afternoon after school, and every Saturday. Must I, Atticus?" "certainly." "But she wants me to go for a month." "Then you go for a month." Jem landed his big toe lightly in the middle of the rose, and pressed down hard.It was a moment before he said, "On the sidewalk, Atticus, it's all right, but inside—it's so dark in there, it gives me goosebumps. There's a shadow on the ceiling, like there's something..." Atticus grinned grimly. "That's just enough to let your imagination run wild. Just pretend you're at the Radleys." The following Monday afternoon, Jem and I climbed the high, steep steps into Mrs. Dubose's house, and walked softly down the open hall.Jem, holding a copy of "Ivanhoe" in his arms and full of esoteric knowledge in his mind, knocked on the second door on the left. "Mrs. Dubose?" he called. Jessie opened the wooden door first, and then pushed the latch of the screen door. "Here you come, Jem Finch," she called, "and you brought your sister. I didn't know--" "Jessie, let them both in," said Mrs. Dubose.After Jessie let us in, she went to the kitchen. No sooner had we stepped on the threshold than we were greeted by a suffocating smell that I often smell in dark, damp old houses where kerosene lamps, water ladles, and unrinsed Over-the-top sheets.This scene always scares me, I always feel that something is going to happen, and I am terrified every moment. In one corner of the room lay Mrs. Dubose on a brass bed.I wondered if Jem's vengeance had kept her bedridden, and I felt for a moment sympathetic to her.She was lying under a pile of quilts, and she even looked a little kind. Beside her bed was a marble-topped washstand, on which stood a glass with teaspoons in it, a red ear scrubber, a box of cotton wool, and a standing chair supported by three thin legs. There's the stainless steel alarm clock. "You brought your scruffy little sister, didn't you?" was her greeting. Jem replied calmly, "My sister is not sloppy, and I am not afraid of you." Still, I noticed that his knees were shaking slightly. I expected Mrs. Dubose to throw a fit, but instead she said, "You can read now, Jeremy." Jem sat down in a rattan chair and opened the Ivanhoe.I also pulled up a chair and sat next to him. "Come closer," said Mrs. Dubose, "to my bed." We moved the chairs forward.This is the first time I have been so close to her, and my biggest wish at this moment is to move the chair back again. She looked horrific: a face like a dirty pillowcase, a stream of drool streaming from the corner of her mouth, sliding slowly like a glacier into the deep gully around her chin.Her cheeks are dotted with age spots, and there are two small black pupils embedded in her dim eyes; her hands are covered with bumps, and the rough skin at the base of her nails is long and long, covering her nails up.She doesn't wear the lower dentures, and her upper lip stands out.From time to time, she used her lower lip to press her upper lip, and her chin was lifted up, which made the saliva flow faster. I looked away as much as I could.Jem opened "Ivanhoe" again and began to read.I tried to keep up with him, but he read too fast.Every time he came across a word he didn't know, he would jump over it, but Mrs. Dubose always interrupted him to spell it out.Jem read for about twenty minutes, during which time I either stared at the soot-blackened mantelpiece or out of the window, trying not to look at her anyway.As Jem read on, I noticed that Mrs. Dubose corrected him less and less frequently, and at longer and longer intervals, and Jem even omitted a sentence for no reason.She is no longer listening. I looked over to the bed. There was something wrong with Mrs. Dubose.She was lying on her back with the quilt pulled up to her chin, leaving only her head and shoulders exposed.Her head was swaying slowly from side to side, and she opened her mouth wide from time to time, and I could see her tongue undulating slightly.Strips of saliva hung on her lips, she sucked them in, and then opened her mouth wide.Her mouth seems to be a separate life form, operating independently of her body, stretching and shrinking, like a clam hole at low tide, and occasionally making a "pop" sound, like some viscous poisonous substance Was boiled in general. I tugged at Jem's sleeve. He looked at me, then at the bed.Mrs. Dubose's head was bobbing back and forth over and over again, just turned our way, and Jem said, "Mrs. Dubose, are you all right?" She didn't even hear it. The alarm clock rang suddenly, startling us both.A minute later Jem and I were on the sidewalk walking home, still feeling the slightest tingle in our nerves.We didn't run away on our own initiative, but Jessie sent us out: before the alarm clock went off, she came in and pushed Jem and me out of the house. "Shh," she said, "you both go home." Jem hesitated at the door. "It's time for her to take her medicine," Jessie said.The instant the door closed behind us, I saw Jessie walking briskly towards Mrs. Dubose's bed. It was only three forty-five when we got home, so Jem and I played bouncing in the backyard until it was time to pick up Atticus.Atticus gave me two yellow pencils, and Jem a football magazine, as a reward, I suppose, for our first day reading to Mrs. Dubose, though he kept it quiet.Jem told him about his reading. "Did she frighten you?" Atticus asked. "No," said Jem, "but she's disgusting the way she is. She's twitching and spitting all the time." "She can't help it. People who are sick sometimes look ugly." "She freaked me out," I said. Atticus looked at me over his glasses and said, "You don't have to go with Jem, you know." The situation at Mrs. Dubose’s house on the second afternoon was similar to that of the first day, and it was roughly the same on the third day. Gradually, a pattern was formed: at the beginning everything was normal, and Mrs. Dubose always took what she liked the most. Jem was tormented by the same subject—her camellias, and our father's sympathy and kindness for niggers—and then she talked less and less, and finally ignored us altogether.Then, when the alarm clock went off, Jessie "shushed" us out, and we were free for the rest of the day. "Atticus," I couldn't help asking one night, "what the hell is a 'nigger sympathizer'?" Atticus' face hardened suddenly. "Did anyone call you that?" "No, that's what Mrs. Dubose called you. She said you were a 'nigger sympathizer' every afternoon, like a warm-up. Last Christmas, Francis said that too, and that was the first time I heard it. " "You hit him for that?" Atticus asked. "yes……" "Then why do you still ask me what I mean?" I tried to explain to him that it was not so much what Francis said that irritated me, but rather his tone and expression. "He looked like he was calling someone a slug or something." "Scout," said Atticus, "'nigger sympathizer' is just a meaningless term, like 'slug. Black people are better than caring about them, and that's the word that's called it. It's also become an everyday language for ordinary people like us, and it's used to label people as mean and ugly." "Then you're not really a 'nigger sympathizer,' are you?" "Of course I sympathize with black people. I love everybody as much as I can . . . and sometimes it's hard for me—babe, it doesn't demean you if someone calls that an insult to you. That can only show you how miserable the person who scolds you is, and his abuse can't hurt you. So don't let Mrs. Dubose affect your emotions. She has enough troubles of her own." One afternoon, a month later, Jem was muttering through the immortal book of "Sir Walter Scooter," and Mrs. Dubose was correcting his pronunciation as usual, when there was a knock at the door. "Come in!" cried Mrs. Dubose at the top of her voice. Walking through the door was Atticus.He went to the bed and took Mrs. Dubose's hand. "I didn't see the kids when I got home from get off work," he said, "and I figured they might still be with you." Mrs. Dubose looked at him with a smile on her face.For the life of me I can't figure out how Mrs. Dubose, who made it sound like she hated Atticus so much, would talk to him. "Do you know what time it is?" she said. "It's exactly five-fourteen. The alarm clock is set for five-thirty. That's all I wanted to tell you." It dawned on me that we were staying longer at Mrs. Dubose's every day, that the alarm clock was going off a few minutes later than the day before, and that she had been ill for a while when it went off.Today she stimulated Jem with sarcastic remarks for nearly two hours, and there was no sign of illness.I suddenly felt that I had fallen into a trap, a trap of despair.The alarm is a signal that we can run away, what if one day the alarm doesn't go off? "I reckon it's time for Jem to read to you," said Atticus. "I'd like to add another week," she said, "just to make sure..." Jem stood up. "But……" Atticus held out his hand, motioning Jem to stop.On the way home, Jem said that it was not fair that the one month had already come and it was agreed to only study for one month. "Only a week longer, son," said Atticus. "I won't do it." Jem was unconvinced. "That's it," said Atticus. We continued to visit Mrs. Dubose's every day for the next week.The alarm clock didn't ring anymore, but Mrs. Dubose would say, "Just read it here," and we were forgiven.By the time we got home it was late afternoon and Atticus was at home reading the paper.Although her illness had ceased, in other respects she remained the same.When Jem read Sir Walter Scott's long passages about moats and castles in "Ivanhoe," Mrs. Dubose got a little bored and began to make fun of us. "Jeremy Finch, I told you that you would regret it for the rest of your life when you destroyed my camellias. You regret it now, don't you?" Jem said he was of course very sorry. "You thought you could kill my sassafras, didn't you? Tell you what, Jessie said, it's already sprouting new leaves. Next time you'll know what to do, right? You'll uproot it, won't you?" ?” Jem said of course he would. "Don't whine with me, boy! Hold your head up and say 'Yes, madam' politely. You can't hold your head up if you have a father like that." Hearing this, Jem lifted his chin, and looked straight at Mrs. Dubose without resentment.Over the course of a few weeks he had developed a polite, nonchalant expression with which to respond to the most infuriating slurs invented by Mrs. Dubose. We finally made it to the last day.That afternoon, Mrs. Dubose said, "That's it for now," and added, "That's it. Good-bye." This thing is the end.We were completely relieved, the two of us happily bouncing down the sidewalk, yelling along the way. It was a good spring that year: the days were getting longer, giving us more time to play and play.Jem's mind was almost full of scoring by college football players across the country.Every night Atticus read us the sports section of the paper.Judging from Alabama's prospects, they may reach the "Rose Bowl" finals this year, but we can't name any of those players.One evening, Atticus was reading us a Wendy Seton column when the phone rang. He answered the phone and walked toward the coat rack in the hall. "I'm going to Mrs. Dubose's," he said, "and I won't stay long." But Atticus didn't come back long past the time I went to bed.When he entered the house, he was holding a candy box in his hand.Atticus sat down in the living room and put the box on the floor beside the chair. "What does she want?" asked Jem. We haven't seen Mrs. Dubose for over a month.She was never on the porch when we passed her house. "She died, son," said Atticus, "just a few minutes ago." "Oh," replied Jem, "all right." "It's a good thing, indeed," said Atticus, "that she's no more tormented. She's been ill for a long time. Son, you don't know why she's having convulsions, do you?" Jem shook his head. "Mrs. Dubose is addicted to morphine," said Atticus. "She's been on morphine for years, and the doctor prescribed it. She could have lived the rest of her life on it instead of dying." It was so painful, but she wanted to compete with herself..." "What does she want?" asked Jem. Atticus went on: "Just before you did that outrageous thing, she called me and asked me to make her will. Dr. Reynolds told her she had only a few months left. She Her property affairs are all clear and clear, but she said: 'There is still one thing that hasn't been settled.'” "What's the matter?" Jem looked puzzled. "She said she was going to leave this world clean, owed to no one, and dependent on nothing. Jem, when a man is as sick as she is, there's nothing wrong with taking anything for relief, but And she wouldn't. She said she had to get off the morphine before she died, and she did." Jem said, "So she's twitching because of it?" "Yeah, that's because she's addicted to drugs. I suspect she didn't catch a word most of the time you read to her. Her mind was on that alarm clock. Even if you didn't fall In her hands, I will also let you read to her, which may distract her. There is another reason..." "Will she die with nothing to worry about?" asked Jem. "Casual as the mountain wind," Atticus replied, "she was sober almost till the end." He smiled slightly. "Sane and bad-tempered. She still objected to what I did, She didn't waver at all, and said that the rest of my life would probably be spent on bail for you. She asked Jessie to prepare this box for you..." Atticus reached up and picked up the candy box and handed it to Jem. Jem opened the box.Inside was a white, crystal-clear, flawless camellia surrounded by wads of wet cotton.It was a tea plum. Jem's eyeballs almost popped out. "Old witch, old witch!" He screamed and threw the camellia to the ground, "Why can't she let me go?" Atticus jumped to his feet and leaned over him.Jem buried his face in Atticus's front. "Well, well," said Atticus reassuringly, "I think that's her way of telling you--it's over now, Jem, it's over. She's a Wonderful, honorable lady." "Lady of honor?" Jem looked up, his face flushed. "She said so many bad things about you, and you still think of her as a lady of honor?" "She deserved it. She has her own opinion on all kinds of things, maybe very different from mine... Son, I told you, if you hadn't lost your mind and made trouble that time, I would have let you go Read to her. I want you to learn something from her--I want you to see what real bravery is, not the wrong idea that a man with a gun in his hand is brave. Bravery is, before you I knew I was doomed to lose when I started, but I did it without hesitation, and I followed through no matter what happened. One rarely wins, but there are always times. Mrs. Dubose won, all because of Her ninety-eight-pound frame. She died, as she put it, free, owed to no one, and dependent on nothing. She was the bravest person I've ever met." Jem picked up the candy box from the floor and threw it into the fire, and then picked up the camellia.When I went to sleep, I saw him stroking the broad petals with his fingers.Atticus was reading the paper.