Nigger Heaven/Book 2/Chapter 4
Thoroughly ashamed of himself the next morning, Byron telephoned Mary, but the conversation was necessarily so unsatisfactory that in a measure he reverted to his recalcitrant mood. He knew full well, of course, that she could not speak freely over the telephone at the library, but even while his reason excused her, he was incapable of making the proper emotional adjustment. I'll show her, he assured himself. I'll show her. So he bowed his head over the blank sheet of paper lying before him on the table for the first time with a really vital interest in the undertaking.
He worked hard, in fact, all day, with a short respite for lunch—batter-bread and chittlings, which Mrs. Fox prepared for him—and by night had managed to turn out five or six pages of copy which he read over to himself not without satisfaction. He went out for dinner, but returned at an early hour to continue his labour throughout the evening. He passed another day in the same energetic manner. He found he could work like a demon once his interest and attention were won. By the close of the second day he had completed what he considered an extremely adequate version of the tale he had set himself to write.
He called on Mary that evening to tell her what he had done and for the first time in weeks they didn't quarrel.
I am so happy, dear, she said, and there were tears in her eyes.
Let me read it to you.
I'd love to have you.
After he had concluded the reading, she said, I am so proud of you, Byron. What are you going to do with it now?
He kissed her and explained, I'm going to take it to the Age office. I know a fellow over there who owns a machine he will let me use. After it's typed I'm going to send it to one of the big magazines.
I wish you all the luck in the world.
In a fever to get the manuscript off, he kissed her good-bye, and rushed away to the newspaper office. Later that night he mailed his typewritten story to a prominent magazine, enclosing, as he had been advised to do, a stamped and self-addressed envelope providing for its return in the unthinkable event of its refusal.
In two days it came back accompanied by a printed slip: Rejection of material does not imply lack of merit, etc. He carried this dejectedly to Mary, all his confidence gone.
Don't be discouraged, Byron dear, she urged him. Send it somewhere else. You may have to send it to a dozen magazines before it is accepted. See what the slip says. Doubtless the rejection is due to the fact that the editor has more copy piled up than he can use.
He followed her advice; apparently, there was no alternative procedure. 'Two days later, on his way out, he found the fat, white envelope in the box, and in the envelope another printed formula of rejection. This incident was repeated several times.
Meanwhile his funds were running low and it was paramount for him to discover some means of augmenting his income. He was too proud to appeal to the Sumners or any other of his father's successful friends. He could not bear to let them know that he needed any assistance.
One night while the girls were dressing preparatory to going out, he found himself alone with Howard in the little sitting-room.
Old fellow, Howard began, diffidently enough, you know I'm going to make a barrel of money now that I'm Pettijohn's attorney. I've already received a considerable advance. Won't you let me lend you a hundred?
Howard too! Everybody patronized him.
I don't need your money, he replied stiffly. I can get along all right by myself.
Howard was not to be so easily repulsed. See here, old boy, he insisted, you can't talk to me like that. If I needed it and you had it, I'd come to you. What have you got your back up for?
Byron's back was no longer up. He broke down and cried, his arms sprawled across the table.
He accepted the money.
Again began the weary round. Every day he went through the agony of visiting the employment agencies, searching, searching. Some firms refused to employ a Negro. When they were tolerant in this respect it often happened that he was ignorant of the technique of the business. Occasionally a prospective employer found him too well dressed, too well educated. We just want Southern darkies who are willing to work, was the tactful explanation. It was no good to give these individuals assurance of his readiness to comply. Sometimes they considered him too dark in colour; at other times, too light.
Once Mary tried to help. Discovering that a certain professor engaged in research work needed a secretary, she urged him to send for Byron, but the professor had not been warned and when he greeted Byron with, So you're the young man Mary Love has recommended, Byron stormed out of the office and refused to return. As a result of this incident he had another furious scene with Mary. Thereafter, she made no further attempt to aid him.
During this period there were recurrent nights of dissipation, cabarets, sessions in pool-rooms and at the Commonwealth Club, drink, and occasionally, casual golden-browns.
At last one morning, making his invariable search in the mail-box, he found a letter. The envelope was stamped with the name of the latest magazine to which he had dispatched his story. As he tore the flap open, his fingers trembled. He read the contents over at least twenty times.
My dear Mr. Kasson, they ran:
Will you please call to see me at your earliest convenience in regard to the story you sent me
Little Byron play on your harp! he cried aloud, and then tore down the street towards the library. He found Mary at her desk.
Mary! Mary! he cried, thrusting the letter in her face.
She read it at a glance.
Byron, she exclaimed, this is simply wonderful!
You didn't read it, he complained.
Why, of course, I did.
Well, read it again.
She obeyed him, to please him, scanning it more carefully this time, as if it were couched in obscure terms.
I'm so proud of you, she assured him.
You said I couldn't do it. You didn't believe in me. I told you I'd show you.
I hoped you could do it, Byron. You can't realize how delighted I am that you have succeeded. When are you going to see him?
Now! He says at my earliest convenience. At once! This minute! Good-bye! I'll call you up later. He rushed out of the library.
A half-hour later he walked into the office of the American Mars and asked the boy at the desk if he might see the editor. The boy responded by pushing a blank form across the desk with the nonchalant instruction, Fill that out. Byron obeyed. The boy disappeared with the slip of paper, to return presently with the invitation, Follow me.
Byron had not expected to meet so young a man. Russett Durwood possessed the sort of round, kind face to which widows might confide their secrets. His eyes were the colour that painters employ to suggest spring skies. His light-brown hair was parted in the middle smoothly over his heavy brow. His ears were prominent features. Between the fingers of his right hand he held a large, unlighted, black cigar which he flourished as he talked, or else sucked meditatively. His feet were planted on his scrupulously clean desk.
Shaking hands with Byron, he invited him to sit down.
I asked you to come in about your story, Durwood began in his resonant and cheerful voice.
Yes, Byron replied, with such eagerness that the tone trembled.
Durwood turned away and gazed out of the window. The view, terraces piled on terraces, was certainly worthy of his attention. Presently, he looked back at the figure before him.
I am very much interested in Negro literature; that's why I sent for you, the editor continued. He appeared to be in no manner of hurry, but Byron made no reply. . . . Also, Durwood went on, after a pause, when I see a fellow with talent going the wrong way, I try to be honest. It pays better in the end. It's more useful to you, too, he said, at once giving his remarks a more personal slant. Byron felt his heart thumping. . . . What I want to know is this: why in hell don't you write about something you know about? Without waiting for a response, he continued rapidly, I happen to be acquainted to some extent with Negro life. I am proud to call certain Negroes my friends. I have visited Harlem in two capacities, as a customer in the cabarets and as a guest in my friends' homes. The whole place, contrary to the general impression, is overrun with fresh, unused material. Nobody has yet written a good gambling story; nobody has touched the outskirts of cabaret life; nobody has gone into the curious subject of the divers tribes of the region. Why, there are West Indians and Abyssinian Jews, religious Negroes, pagan Negroes, and Negro intellectuals, all living together more or less amicably in the same community, each group with its own opinions and atmosphere and manner of living; each individual with his own opinions and atmosphere and manner of living. But I find that Negroes don't write about these matters; they continue to employ all the old cliches and formulas that have been worried to death by Nordic blonds who, after all, never did know anything about the subject from the inside. Well, if you young Negro intellectuals don't get busy, a new crop of Nordics is going to spring up who will take the trouble to become better informed and will exploit this material before the Negro gets around to it. Do you know why I sent you a letter instead of merely returning your manuscript with a rejection slip? he inquired suddenly.
Byron shook his head.
It's because I believe you can write. Why, the passage describing the white lad's emotions when he learns about his sister's engagement is positively Conradian. It's marvellously done, not a word too much or too little. Full of suggestion and psychologically true. You must have spent a lot of time with white people to understand them so well.
Byron looked blank.
Too much time, Durwood added, chewing savagely at the end of his cigar. The coloured parts, on the other hand, are terrible. Why don't you learn something about your people? A Methodist cab-driver would hoot at your prostitute. She's as solemn as a column-conductor. Your Negro intellectual is a little better, but I must say that although my personal acquaintance with Negro intellectuals is somewhat broad, I've never met one before who was made entirely out of wood. This hero of yours is as pious as the pope, so damned good that he becomes absolutely idiotic. He speaks in platitudes and when he walks the hinges in his legs creak. Now just look at this page. . . . Durwood opened the manuscript . . . Did you ever read the Rollo books?
No sir.
Well, you don't need to. You've written one yourself on this page. God, boy, let your characters live and breathe! Give 'em air. Let 'em react to life and talk and act naturally. You've got an idea here, but it's a dangerous idea. Damned hard not to make it melodrama or cheap propaganda. Hardly an experienced writer in the whole world would dare tackle it. I can't think of any one who could make a go of it. Let me see . . . He appeared to be reflecting . . . No, I can't think of any one. Well, that's what I mean. Select a subject you're full of, inside and out, and then consider carefully whether it's a subject safe for an inexperienced writer to handle. You must have a hundred better ideas in your head. Are you a college man?
Yes, I am.
I thought so. Writers should never go to college. It does 'em up for two years after they get out. They think in terms of the professors and remember all the rotten rules. Bunk! Pishposh! But you must have some life of your own. Do you live in Harlem?
Yes.
I wouldn't have believed it! Ever been to a cabaret?
Many times.
Well, that I can't believe! Jean Cocteau could have done a cabaret better without ever having heard of such a dive. Your scene reads like a description of a Baptist sociable for the new minister. You'll have to learn to be more observing. This story obviously is not autobiographical. Why don't you write about some experience of your own?
I don't think anything very interesting ever happens to me.
All the better! Nothing like a dull life as the inspiration for fine fiction. Huysmans constructed a whole novel around the birth of a calf and the death of a cat. But, good God, man, if you object to dulness in literature, look around you. Harlem life isn't dull. It has more aspects than a diamond has facets. Do you know anything about Marcus Garvey?
Not very much, I'm afraid.
That's a pity . . . Durwood sighed . . . I'd like to find a good character study of him. Well, it doesn't matter. There's plenty of other copy. There's the servant-girl, for instance. Nobody has ever done the Negro servant-girl, who refuses to "live in." Washing dishes in the day-time, she returns at night to her home in Harlem where she smacks her daddy in the jaw or else dances and makes love. On the whole I should say she has the best time of any domestic servant in the world. Know anything about the fast set?
Not very much.
Too bad you don't know more. The Negro fast set does everything the Long Island fast set does, plays bridge, keeps the bootlegger busy, drives around in Rolls-Royces, and commits adultery, but it is vastly more amusing than the Long Island set for the simple reason that it is amused.
After all, the main thing is to use your eyes and your brain. Why, Roy McKain visited Harlem just once and then brought me in a capital yarn about a Negro pimp. I don't suppose he even saw the fellow. Probably just made him up, imagined him, but his imagination was based on a background of observation. The milieu is correct. The story is credible. It jumps ahead; it lives. I'm featuring it in the June number.
Durwood yawned. Well, I don't suppose I've got anything more to say to you. I don't want to flatter you, because I honestly believe you ought to have your throat cut for turning in such an atrocity as this story, but it's an actual fact that I haven't wasted so much time giving an author advice in the last three years. I usually take 'em or leave 'em. There's no good arguing with authors. A sour and disorderly bunch. However, when I read that passage in your tale, I said to myself. That boy's got something if he can see the light.
Go home now, tear up everything you've written, and begin afresh. Pray and get drunk. Send me something else some time when you've decided to become a regular author and not a pseudo-literary fake. Good morning.