Nigger Heaven/Book 1/Chapter 5
What was it in herself, Mary wondered, that held her aloof, prevented her from actually engaging her affections? She was certain that she was not a mental prig. Was there the possibility of being a physical prig? She enjoyed going to the theatre with young men; she liked to dance with them, to talk with them, and yet an indefinable something in her makeup interfered with the progress of a more intimate relationship. She was acquainted with many empty-headed boys, sheiks, they called them in Harlem, boys about whom most of the girls were mad, boys whom married women quarrelled over, silly, conceited boys who thought of nothing but their conquests and probably spoke freely about them among themselves. These, assuredly, were not for her. The more seriousminded young men in her circle of friends were naturally quite a different matter. Howard, for instance, was her kind, but she realized that she could never consider marrying Howard. Anyway Howard belonged to Ollie, and the others like him had never actually proposed to her. It was something in herself that didn't want them to propose to her that kept them from it, she was beginning to believe.
She cherished an almost fanatic faith in her race, a love for her people in themselves, and a fervent belief in their possibilities. She admired all Negro characteristics and desired earnestly to possess them. Somehow, so many of them, through no fault of her own, eluded her. Was it because she was destined to become an old maid, a bitter-minded spinster like Hester Albright? Yet even Hester subconsciously felt her birthright. She had seen Hester fall under the sway of Negro music that evening at her home. On many other occasions she had observed this phenomenon! How many times she had watched her friends listening listlessly or with forced or affected attention to alien music, which said little to the Negro soul, by Schubert or Schumann, immediately thereafter losing themselves in a burst of jazz or the glory of an evangelical Spiritual, recognizing, no doubt, in some dim, biological way, the beat of the African rhythm.
Savages! Savages at heart! And she had lost or forfeited her birthright, this primitive birthright which was so valuable and important an asset, a birthright that all the civilized races were struggling to get back to—this fact explained the art of a Picasso or a Stravinsky. To be sure, she, too, felt this African beat—it completely aroused her emotionally—but she was conscious of feeling it. This love of drums, of exciting rhythms, this naïve delight in glowing colour—the colour that exists only in cloudless, tropical climes—this warm, sexual emotion, all these were hers only through a mental understanding. With Olive these qualities were instinctive; also with Howard; even with Hester, to some extent; Adora throbbed with this passionate instinct—that was the real reason Mary's heart went out to her. Why, Mary asked herself, is this denied to me?
We are all savages, she repeated to herself, all, apparently, but me! She recalled what she had once been told—and her reason informed her that it was probably the truth—that Negroes never premeditate murder; their murders are committed under the reign of passion. If one made a temporary escape from a man bent on killing, it was likely to prove a permanent escape. The next morning, in another mood, probably he would have forgotten his purpose. There never had been, her informant assured her, a Negro poisoner. Negroes use the instruments that deal death swiftly: knives, razors, revolvers.
If she could only let herself go, revel in colour and noise and rhythm and physical emotion, throw herself into the ring with the others, figuratively shouting and hurling their assegais! But it would not be me, she argued with herself. Unless I acted naturally like the others, it would be no use. I must be myself. Perhaps, later, this instinct will come, awaken belatedly in me.
Preparations for Olive's wedding were progressing rapidly. Olive, as expert with the needle as with the cook-stove, spent much of her spare time sewing. She was making a trousseau that would be the envy of many a girl who had all the money in the world to spend on one: delicate chiffon and linen undergarments, embroidered and hemstitched, gay with lace, ribbons, bows, and insertion, together with a rainbow array of dresses. Olive's father had sent her a cheque for one hundred and fifty dollars with which to purchase materials for this wardrobe, a sum that would go a long way when one knew where to buy remnants or when one attended the sales advertised by the big department stores.
She sewed most of the time Howard visited her in the evenings, talking to him with her mouth full of pins or while she actively plied the needle. Sometimes she would toss him an end of flimsy material to be held taut while she divided it neatly with her long pair of shears. This action would naturally conclude with an embrace, a passionate kiss. Occasionally, Mary would accidentally stroll into the sitting-room in time to see this. Not that it mattered to them—before her they felt no self-consciousness—but it mattered to Mary who saw more than they intended, more, perhaps, than they were aware of. She saw that Howard was Olive's man and that she was his woman. It was more than a marriage; it was a primitive consecration. She saw that each would fight—kill if need be—to retain the other's love. This realization made her feel her own lack more keenly than ever. How had she, during the centuries, lost this vital instinct?
Her memory returned to her childhood days, to her mother and father. Her mother's father had been a freed slave who had been given a slice of land together with the custody of his own body. On this land he had prospered sufficiently to send his daughter to Fisk. Before she had married William Love she herself had taught school. The thought of her father almost invariably brought affectionate tears to Mary's eyes. To her he was an example of how perfect a man might be: straight, handsome, tall, distinguished, honest and upright, just and intelligent: his countenance and bearing reflected his character. Sweet and gentle he was too, and yet, Mary still remembered with a little thrill how the mere reading in a newspaper of an account of a lynching in Georgia, a particularly ghastly lynching, had thrown him into such a fit of rage that he had seized his revolver and started to leave the house, threatening to kill the first white man he encountered. She recalled how her mother, moved, too, beyond her bent, had experienced the greatest difficulty in persuading him to relinquish his purpose, employing, indeed, every weapon of persuasion at her command, even resorting to what little physical force she possessed. He had not gone. The revolver had dropped from his relaxed finger-tips, and the patient, resigned expression she knew so well had returned to his eyes. Mary was five years old when this had happened, but she could still remember the anguish in her mother's tone as she had implored her to go to bed, and the grey, ashen pallor in her mother's face, as she sank, exhausted after her successful struggle, into an armchair. They had never referred thereafter to this incident, but Mary would never forget it.
Her father, reared in a small town in the Middle West, had attended white schools, first the local public schools, later the state university. Early in life he had become imbued with the ideal of doing something for his unfortunate race. Later, this ideal became a passion which drove him on until, when he had accumulated sufficient money through his law practice to make his family comfortable and to educate his daughter, he devoted as much of his time as possible to public speaking, explaining the problems of the Negro to white audiences or fostering ideals of industry and ambition in the younger generation of coloured people.
Mary adored her father and it was with a feeling of pride and joy that she had learned from one of his recent letters that he planned to make one of his rare visits to New York. He arrived one morning early in October. Mary was unable to meet him at the station, as she could find no one willing to substitute for her in the library. Mr. Love, therefore, carried his bags to the home of Aaron Sumner, where he had been invited to be a guest, and then paid a call on his daughter at the library.
Dad dear! Mary greeted him.
He kissed her affectionately. They were very close to one another, this pair. Mary regarded him—she never tired of admiring him: he was tall, light brown, with short, curly grey locks, and a grey moustache. His nose was aquiline; his cheek-bones high and well-carved. Sometimes, in a spirit of beneficent fun, Mary called him Othello. He actually represented her idea of a Moor. Might he not, indeed, be one? The old slave traders were none too particular concerning the individuals they kidnapped along the African coast. A slave was a slave and a white man brought as much as a black. Not only were the miserable human beings raped from all parts of Africa, representatives of widely differing African tribes, but also Arabs, Egyptians, Moors, and even Spaniards and Portuguese were gathered in. In America these curiously distinct races came together and bore children; further, these children were often impregnated with French, Spanish, English, and Indian blood. The result, whatever the percentage of the mixture, was known in this enlightened country as a Negro and shared all the prejudice directed towards the full-blooded African.
How is mother? Mary asked. They sat in a small chamber adjoining the reading-room.
Fine, her father responded, and very envious of me, because she wants to see you so badly herself.
Why didn't you bring her, dad?
Well, it's a long and expensive trip, and I shall be here myself only a couple of days. You see, I had the excuse of my lecture in Newark. I hope you can come out to visit us next summer.
In the evening Mary was invited to dine at the Aaron Sumners'. She always delighted to go to this house: it had such an agreeable, comfortable air, without being luxurious or arty. You sank so deeply into the upholstered divans and easy chairs. The Persian carpets were thick and pleasant to walk on. The electric lamps were shaded in soft colours and the rows of books and the few pictures had all been selected with the design of making the place livable. This design was eminently successful.
Born in Georgia, of well-to-do parents, Mr. Sumner had been educated at Fisk where, during his senior year, he was fortunate enough to become acquainted with a young, Northern white man who had come down to investigate the institution, before donating a considerable sum towards its maintenance. A little later, he had sent for Mr. Sumner to offer him a responsible position in his business in New York. From trusted employee, Mr. Sumner, gradually securing the complete confidence of his friend, had eventually acquired an interest in the business. Mrs. Sumner was the daughter of a Philadelphia caterer who long ago had assembled a modest fortune. She, as a consequence, had been educated in a French convent. She had followed her father's example by sending her own daughters to Paris to school.
Mary came a little early, as she wanted to enjoy a talk with her father before the others arrived. When the first guest was announced, Mrs. Sumner joined them in the drawing-room. Slightly past forty, she was still a handsome woman; she had always possessed distinction of manner. She bought all her clothes in Paris, a city she visited at least once a year, usually in the spring when she could accompany her daughters back to New York. This evening she wore a frock of écru crêpe which exactly matched the colour of her superbly formed shoulders so that, at a little distance, her back appeared to be entirely nude. A long chain of chrysoprase depended from her throat.
She was followed by Gareth Johns, the novelist. Mary noted immediately that the middle-aged man, with white hair, was nervous. Evidently it was his first appearance as a dinner-guest in a Negro home and he was attempting, not entirely successfully, to be easy in his manner.
What a charming place you have, Mrs. Sumner, he began, in rather a high key, from which the note of astonishment was not entirely lacking.
We find it comfortable, Mrs. Sumner replied, adding, I want you to meet Miss Love, and her father.
Delighted, I'm sure. Gareth bowed.
It's certainly a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Love responded. Are you stopping in New York this winter? I always think of you as living in Paris.
I do live abroad most of the time, Gareth explained, but this winter I've taken a house near Stamford. You see, I'm trying to write a book about America.
I enjoyed Two on the Seine, Mary said, and it was very popular at the library. At one time I think we had fifteen copies. They're all worn out now.
Gareth looked bewildered.
It's so difficult to work in New York, Mrs. Sumner remarked. I don't wonder you chose the country.
It is better, and very convenient, only an hour from town, Gareth said.
At this juncture, Galva Waldeck, the concert singer, and Leon Cazique, the new secretary to the Haytian consul, arrived. During the introductions the maid appeared with cocktails and a plate of little, round slices of bread spread with caviare and sprinkled with egg-crumbs.
I loved your exhibition, Mary, Galva exclaimed, as she sipped her cocktail. Then, turning to Cazique, Mlle. Love—I always feel like saying Mlle. Amour, Mary—a organisé une exposition épatante de sculpture africaine.
Comme c'est intéressant, the secretary responded. J'ai vu plusieurs œuvres de ce genre l'été passé à Bruxelles. Elles étaient authentiques. Vous savez, peut-être, que les Allemands ont copié beaucoup ce genre de sculpture ces temps derniers. Les imitations sont si bien faites que l'on peut à peine les distinguer des vraies.
Je le sais, et c'est pourquoi j'ai refusé beaucoup d'exemplaires, Mary explained. Je crois que nous n'en exposons que des authentiques.
By Jove, I'd like to have seen that exhibition! Gareth cried. I didn't hear about it.
They haven't gone back to the owners yet, Mary assured him. Come to the library any day and I'll be glad to show them to you.
May I come tomorrow and bring Mrs. Lorillard?
I'd be delighted. I shall be there all day.
How is Campaspe? Mrs. Sumner inquired.
Oh, 'paspe's splendid, Gareth replied. She tells me I'm to have the pleasure of dining with you there next Thursday.
I'm so glad you're included. . . . Mrs. Sumner set down her untouched cocktail. . . . I don't know whether we should wait for Dr. Lancaster. Perhaps he's keeping C. P. T.
Mr. Sumner turned to Gareth. It's almost a joke among our group, he said. We're all inclined to be late. We've even got a legend about it. It seems that when the trumpet blew announcing the Judgment Day, white people turned out of their graves and went immediately to heaven. Two days later, angels seated on the pearly walls saw dense, black clouds arising in the West and hurried back to give the alarm that a terrific storm was on its way. Oh no, St. Peter reassured them, that's only the coloured people coming to Judgment.
You're not unique in that respect, said Gareth.
My dear, Mr. Sumner went on to his wife, I don't think we'd better wait two days for Dr. Lancaster.
The ringing of the bell made it unnecessary to arrive at any decision in the matter.
There he is now, Mrs. Sumner announced, and we'll go in to dinner as soon as he takes his coat off.
The dining-room was a large ivory and blue chamber. The table was laid with rich silver and porcelain over a lace spread. In the centre, reflected in a mirror, stood a bowl of engraved blue glass from which a cluster of dahlias raised their magenta heads.
Mary was seated between Gareth Johns and Dr. Lancaster. She had never met either of them before this evening. The physician lived in Washington and, like Mary's father, was in New York on a visit. To all intents and purposes, he was as white as Gareth. His hair was a fiery red.
The conversation at first was general. Mr. Sumner spoke of Hayti, out of courtesy for his guest in the diplomatic service. This led to some discussion of the situation in the Virgin Islands.
It seems curious, Mr. Sumner averred, that the French, coloured Hayti and the Danish, coloured Virgin Islands should be dominated by an American navy government with all the prejudices of white Southerners.
I hear that the strict application of the Eighteenth Amendment—at least its official application—is destroying one of the Islands' greatest sources of revenue, Mr. Love remarked.
Do you mean to tell me, Gareth demanded indignantly, that that ridiculous law is being enforced on our dependent possessions?
Quite so, Mr. Sumner assured him, probably more rigidly than it is in New York City.
I visited the Virgin Islands once, Mr. Love continued. You know they're named after the eleven thousand that travelled about with St. Ursula. You see, Columbus landed there on St. Ursula's Day.
Upon your altars,
I have placed
The marguerite and coquelicot,
And roses
Frail as April snow;
But here, she said,
Where none can see,
I make an offering, in the grass,
Of radishes and flowers.
And then she wept
For fear the Lord would not accept.
quoted Mary.
So you know Wallace Stevens! Gareth cried with enthusiasm.
Not all by heart, but that, and Peter Quince at the Clavier, and The Emperor of Ice-Cream, and . . .
Tea! Gareth interrupted. Oh, do, for my sake, recall Tea!
Shrivelled in frost,
And the leaves on the paths
Ran like rats,
Your lamp-light fell
On shining pillows,
Of sea-shades and sky-shades,
Like umbrellas in Java.
Will you have any more of the fish? Mrs. Sumner inquired.
Gareth became aware that a servant with a heavy platter was bending over him.
I don't think I can refuse anything so good, he responded.
Dr. Lancaster took advantage of this diversion to speak to Mary.
Have you ever been in Washington, Miss Love? he asked.
No, never. I've always wanted to go, but there has never been an occasion.
Well, our life down there is varied and pleasant. There's always somebody or other from Howard if you want a game of bridge or a pleasant chat, but it's surely more interesting here. Harlem . . .
Mary smiled mischievously. I know what you're going to say: the Mecca of the New Negro!
Perhaps I was, he responded. Isn't it?
I suppose so; only we—some of us—get awfully tired of hearing about it.
To us on the outside, it seems magnificent, a dream come true, the doctor continued, sipping his Sauterne. A Negro city almost as large as Rome! We couldn't have counted on that a few years ago. You have everything here: shops and theatres and churches and libraries . . .
And cabarets, added Mary. You should have mentioned them first.
Well, they are an essential part of our life, I suppose. I think I must take in one or two before I return to Washington. Do you know, it's been years since I've visited a cabaret . . . He paused and with his fork pushed a mushroom across his plate . . . I've lived rather an odd sort of life altogether.
She regarded him with interest, but remained silent.
You can see that I might have joined the Blue Vein Circle. This fact has led me into some strange adventures. A good deal of my youth I spent among whites, passing . . . Later, I reverted to the other. On the whole, I prefer it.
T was sure you would, Mary replied.
The curious thing is this, he went on meditatively, and I've never met any one else who felt just that way; perhaps no one else has gone through just my set of experiences—the curious thing is this, he repeated, that when I'm living with whites I have a white psychology and when I live with Negroes I have a Negro psychology.
Mary stared at him. And you say you've never met any one else like that? she demanded.
Not exactly. You see, it goes even deeper. There are occasions when I'm torn between the two, confused.
Mary was silent. She looked around the table. Galva Waldeck was conversing in French with Léon Cazique. Gareth Johns and Mrs. Sumner were engaged in an animated discussion.
No one? Mary repeated her question in a lower tone.
Well, I don't suppose I could really be sure what any one else felt. What I mean is, perhaps, that no one has confessed such a feeling to me.
As Gareth turned to her, Mary felt an unaccountable sense of relief.
We're discussing Rosamond Johnson's new book of Spirituals, he explained. I haven't seen it yet.
Do you like Spirituals? Mary inquired.
I dote on 'em. Mrs. Sumner wants me to hear Stand still, Jordan.
It's a wonderful song, Mary said. You should hear Taylor Gordon sing it.
I seem to be woefully ignorant, Gareth replied. He turned to Mrs. Sumner. Who's . . . ?
Mary was listening to Cazique across the table: Proust ressemble à un cours d'eau, un vaste fleuve qui, comme le Nil, jaillit dans plusieurs endroits, s'affermit dans sa course, embrasse des villes et des iles, et finalement se joint à un fleuve énorme et se précipite dans la mer!
Well, I'll get it tomorrow. . . . She was listening to Gareth again. . . . Do you know, he went on wistfully, I think I'd like to write a Negro novel.
Mary laughed. Everybody seems to be doing that. Have we become so interesting?
Some day, Dr. Lancaster was saying, perhaps a Negro will write a novel about white people.
I'd like to see that done, Gareth said.
It has been done, said Mary.
I suppose you mean Dumas, suggested Dr. Lancaster.
Or Pushkin, Gareth offered.
No, I mean by an American Negro, Charles W. Chesnutt. He's written several novels from a white point of view.
Never heard of him, said Gareth in amazement. Suppose you tell me some of the titles. He produced a pencil and a slip of paper.
Presently, Mrs. Sumner rose. We'll have coffee in the library, she announced.
In comfortable chairs before the fire, conversation continued over coffee, and later, over whisky and soda.
You seem to read more up here than any one downtown does, Gareth remarked to Mary. I don't see how you find the time.
It's my business, you see.
Yes, but the others . . . You were telling me you have calls for Aldous Huxley.
To be perfectly frank, most of the customers prefer A. S. M. Hutchinson.
Well, that's more human, Gareth said. I was beginning to be afraid you were paragons.
A bell tinkled.
That must be Robert Kasson's son, Mrs. Sumner announced. You know Robert Kasson of Philadelphia, she interjected to Galva Waldeck. Byron's just arrived in New York, like Dick Whittington, to make his fortune.
I hope he's brought a cat! cried Galva.
I don't know about the cat, but he may have brought a typewriter. His ambition is to become an author.
Mary's hands were trembling. Her heart was thumping. At this instant the door swung open and he stood framed in the doorway.
After the introductions he came straight towards her.
This must be fate, he said. This is the first day I've been in New York since I met you at that orgy on Long Island, and here I run into you directly.
Mary smiled. Are you complaining? she inquired.
Ignoring this query, he lifted her hand. I was sure of it, he cried. You have fingers like the petals of a golden chrysanthemum. I've always remembered your fingers.
Mary felt too embarrassed to invent a reply.
Gareth Johns was still sitting near Mary. Apparently, Mr. Kasson, you have a talent for phrases, he commented. I hear that you are a writer.
Not quite yet, Byron responded. I want to write, but it's a large order, isn't it? It's difficult to begin when one realizes what you have accomplished.
So you've been reading my books.
Everybody reads your books, Mr. Johns.
Well, don't let that bother you. The critics and the public always like the new men best. They get tired of us old fellows, once they have discovered the secret of our formulas. What are you going to write about?
I don't know, Mr. Johns, that's just it. How does one go about writing?
Well, to be frank, I've always thought that the best way to go about writing was to write. You have plenty to write about. Gareth swept his eyes around the room.
I don't see any sense in writing about this, Byron protested, rather hotly, Mary thought. It's too much like Edith Wharton's set.
Well, the low life of your people is exotic. It has a splendid, fantastic quality. And the humour! How vital it is, how rich in idiom! Picturesque and fresh! I don't think the Negro has been touched in literature as yet.
I'm afraid I don't know very much about the low life of my people. Byron's tone was cold.
There's the college life . . .
I went to a white college. Byron turned away.
I seem to have offended your friend, Gareth said to Mary. I wonder how.
Oh, no you haven't. It's just because he's embarrassed at meeting a great author. Mary was surprised to find herself defending Byron. You see, he's probably never before faced a real novelist.
Shrugging his shoulders, Gareth lighted a cigarette.
I wonder, he said, if we could persuade Miss Waldeck to sing Stand still, Jordan?