Nigger Heaven/Book 1/Chapter 3
Four or five weeks had slipped by almost imperceptibly since the week-end party at Adora's when one day, taking stock, Mary was amazed to discover that, although she had written her mother at least once every week, she had not mentioned the proposal made her by Randolph Pettijohn. Proposals of marriage were rare enough, eventful enough, so that they deserved at least a passing reference in the chronicle of events she sent home, more especially because, till now, her mother had enjoyed what practically amounted to her complete confidence. As a matter of self-discipline and to discover the truth in her own soul, if such a thing were possible, Mary sat down to her desk to repair the omission and tried faithfully to give a true account of what had occurred, with her own reaction to it. After she had penned the last line she realized why she hadn't written about this particular incident before: she had been ashamed. Ashamed to confess to her mother that she had attracted the attention of such a man. She was also, almost mystically, aware of something else: Byron Kasson had enlisted her sympathy, awakened her imagination, to an extraordinary degree. Olive had often assured Mary that she was cold. Everybody says you're cold, that you have no natural feeling, Olive had complained. Why don't you let yourself go once in a while? There was at least this much truth in this criticism, Mary confessed to herself, that she did not let herself go. She had an instinctive horror of promiscuity, of being handled, even touched, by a man who did not mean a good deal to her. This might, she sometimes argued with herself, have something to do with her white inheritance, but Olive, who was far whiter, was lacking in this inherent sense of prudery. At any rate, whatever the cause, Mary realized that she was different in this respect from most of the other girls she knew. The Negro blood was there, warm and passionately earnest: all her preferences and prejudices were on the side of the race into which she had been born. She was as capable, she was convinced, of amorous emotion, as any of her friends, but the fact remained that she was more selective. Oh, the others were respectable enough; they did not involve themselves too deeply. On the other hand, they did not flee from a kiss in the dark. A casual kiss in the dark was a repellant idea to Mary. What she wanted was a kiss in the light—with the right man, and the right man hitherto had never appeared. Now, thinking of Byron Kasson, she trembled as she gradually became aware of what sort of acknowledgment she was dragging out of her innermost soul. It startled her somewhat to perceive how little unwelcome to her it would be to encounter this man again. She did not mention Byron Kasson in her letter to her mother nor, conscious of this fact, could she bring herself to do so.
It was the middle of September; the sky was overcast with clouds and a slight drizzle was falling. Ollie had not yet returned from the office. Mary, alone, decided that a walk would agree admirably with her mood. Slipping a blue jersey and a raincoat over her woollen frock and pulling a tam-o'shanter over her head, she started forth. The wind had risen and the raindrops increased in size. They beat against her cheeks and wet her hair and ankles. Tingling with health, she was grateful for this attention from the elements.
It had been, she reflected, a pleasant week. She had principally been occupied in borrowing from several private collections specimens of primitive African sculpture and she had been astonishingly successful—lucky, she called it—in unearthing worthy examples, representing the creative skill of a variety of tribes from different localities in Africa. Moreover, early dates were more or less reasonably ascribed to some of them. One strangely beautiful head was said to have been executed in the tenth century, or even earlier, while a box, exquisite in proportion and design, was said to have been created in the fourteenth century. Mary was beginning to recognize the feel of the older work, the soft, smooth texture, like that of the best Chinese porcelains, of the wood, so different from that of the coarser, later pieces. She knew something too, now, about the more primitive design, lovelier in its conception, because it was more honest, than the more elaborate, later traceries, created under Portuguese influence. . . . There had been a pleasant dinner party or two; she recalled with particular pleasure an evening at the Weston Underwoods' when she had met the new secretary to the Haytian consul. He spoke only French and she welcomed this opportunity to practise the language with a young man made more tolerant, perhaps, by his obvious interest in herself. It was agreeable, too, to meet some one who knew a great deal about Cocteau and Morand and Proust, knew about them, that is, in their relation to French literature in general. René Maran, the author of Batouala, he had actually been acquainted with. . . . One night, with Howard and Olive, she had witnessed Arms and the Man at the Guild. Theatre, and another she had attended a rent-party, given by some indigent girl friends, had paid fifty cents, and had been rewarded by a shower of gin and orange-juice over the front of one of her favourite frocks. Carbona, the next morning, had only partially removed the stain. The clumsy young man who had been responsible for the catastrophe had seemed more put out by the loss of the gin—his carelessness had exhausted the supply—than over the injury to her dress. Otherwise, however, it had been a gay evening. There had been dancing to the music of a phonograph in a two-room apartment—the dimensions of the largest chamber were about twelve by eight feet—and she had danced until two. Nearly everybody danced every night: why? Mary asked herself. Is it that we want to forget? She was reminded of a Negro story called Melanctha, in Gertrude Stein's Three Lives. A white assistant in the library had brought this book to her to read and she had been recommending it ever since, but it seemed that no other copies were available. She recalled now a passage from this story which she had committed to memory. Dr. Campbell was speaking to Melanctha: It ain't very easy for you to understand what I was meaning by what I was just saying to you, and perhaps some of the good people I like so wouldn't think very much, any more than you do, Miss Melanctha, about the ways I have to be good. But that's no matter Miss Melanctha. What I mean Miss Melanctha by what I was just saying to you is, that I don't, no, never, believe in doing things just to get excited. You see Miss Melanctha I mean the way so many of the coloured people do it. Instead of just working hard and caring about their working and living regular with their families and saving up all their money, so they will have some to bring their children up better, instead of living regular and doing like that and getting all their new ways from just decent living, the coloured people just keep running around and perhaps drinking and doing everything bad they can ever think of, and not just because they like all those bad things that they are always doing, but only just because they want to get excited. No, Miss Melanctha, you see I am a coloured man myself and I ain't sorry, and I want to see the coloured people being good and careful and always honest and living just as regular as can be, and I am sure Miss Melanctha, that that way everybody can have a good time, and be happy and keep right and be busy, and not always have to be doing bad things for new ways to get excited. Yes, Miss Melanctha, I certainly do like everything to be good, and quiet, and I certainly do think that is the best way for all us coloured people. No, Miss Melanctha too, I don't mean this except only just the way I say it. I ain't got any other meaning Miss Melanctha, and it's that what I mean when I am saying about being really good. It ain't Miss Melanctha to be pious and not liking every kind of people, and I don't say ever Miss Melanctha that when other kind of people come regular into your life you shouldn't want to know them always. What I mean Miss Melanctha by what I am always saying is, you shouldn't try to know everybody just to run around and get excited. It's that kind of way of doing that I hate so always Miss Melanctha, and that is so bad for all us coloured people. I don't know as you understand now any better what I mean by what I was just saying to you. But you certainly do know now Miss Melanctha, that I always mean it what I say when I am talking. . . . Some time during the evening a strange young man with a deep baritone voice—the quality reminded her a little of Paul Robeson's—and a simple faith had sung Spirituals. Mary, recalling, softly murmured:
All Ah want is duh love o' God;
Gi' me yo' han', gi' me yo' han';
You mus' be lovin' at God's comman'.
You mus' be lovin' at God's comman',
Why doan you let yo' neighbour be,
You mus' be lovin' at . . .
Funny thing about the Spirituals, Mary reflected. I'm not religious. Nobody I know is really religious. We are, for the most part, pagans, natural pagans, but when we were slaves we turned naturally and gratefully to a religion which promised joy everlasting and a reunion with relatives—sold up and down the river—in the life to come. Now, when oppression has been removed from some of us, we revert quite simply to paganism. Those from whom it has not been removed—the servant-girls and the poor—are glad to continue to pray and shout, but I don't believe they really feel faith—except as an escape from the drudgery of their lives. They don't really stop playing Numbers or dancing on Sunday or anything else that their religion forbids them to do. They enjoy themselves in church on Sunday as they do in the cabarets on week-days. But the people who created the Spirituals must have felt a real faith, and that is why, I suppose, they touch most of us, knock us off our pins, and make us want to cry or shout.
Mary had arrived at the Park without encountering an acquaintance. She struck out down a path, the wet gravel crunching under her boots, the raindrops tossed by the wind from the dying leaves whipping her cheeks. She passed a clearing where a few days before, she remembered, she had witnessed a strange ceremony: some black people from one of the British West Indies—monkey-chasers they called them on Lenox Avenue; what a good story Rudolph Fisher had woven about one of them and the general Harlem attitude of distrust and even active dislike which they awakened—playing cricket with proper bats and wickets. She had stood for a moment watching them and listening to their Cockney speech. What a people we are! she meditated, cast into alien lands all over the earth, conforming, whether we like it or not, to the customs and manners and laws of folk who despise us, and yet everywhere, in spite of all obstacles, we manage to keep something of our own, even to make something of it. What other race in America, or anywhere else for that matter, has produced anything better than the Spirituals? Anything as good? was her succeeding interrogative boast. Yet the Spirituals had sprung from ignorant slaves, bending under the lash. Unknown black bards, James Weldon Johnson had beautifully called them. . . . .
On her return to the apartment she discovered Olive on her knees in the kitchen mopping up a lake of cream.
Why is it, Olive demanded with a groan, that one can never open an ice-box door without something popping out?
Can I help you, Ollie?
Well, Mary, I wish you'd look at my holy bran muffins in the oven and see if they are done.
After complying with Olive's request, Mary went to her room, removed her wet clothes, washed and towelled herself thoroughly, drew on a dressing-gown and was ready for dinner.
Immediately they sat down to table, Olive began to chatter.
I stopped in at George Lister's this afternoon to make an appointment. Believe me, that sheik is popular. I don't know whether it's because he's such a good dentist or whether it's just his looks. The waiting-room was crowded. It was like a Sunday morning service at Abyssinian Baptist.
How's Lenore?
Oh, George says she's doing all right and of course he assured me the baby is sweet.
We ought to go to see Lenore.
Um. Olive's mouth was full of fried chicken. After a little she went on, Howard's got a case.
No! I'm so glad, Ollie!
Yes, he's defending a poor old grandpa who is victim of a landlord. He's going to invoke the rent laws. Naturally, she added, he won't get a cent.
Poor Howard! He's had such a time getting started.
I don't mean maybe! He's got guts, though. Sometimes I wonder how he can stick it out.
They all have to begin. Doctors and lawyers can't advertise: it isn't considered professional.
I know, but look at George's practice.
Well, there aren't so many good dentists.
Not so many good-looking ones, at any rate.
They ate in silence for a time.
Where did you hear about Howard? Mary inquired.
He telephoned me. . . . Mary was aware of a curious clang-tint in Olive's voice. . . . Saw Sergia Sawyer at George's.
You must have picked up a lot of gossip.
She talked as fast as her tongue would wag. Said Buda Green's going to marry that Mr. Eddie.
He doesn't know?
And nobody's going to tell him. It's funny, Olive went on, as she poured the rich chicken gravy over her mashed potatoes, how we love to fool white people.
Of course, she said, you can understand those cotton-picking jigs in the South; they've had to put up with centuries of deceit and treachery on the part of the ofays, but we—people like you and me—are that way too. We've never suffered from white deceit and treachery and yet we're more or less like the others when it comes to handing the bunk to the ofays. Whenever my boss asks me a question and the correct answer would be derogatory to my race, I just naturally lie to him, although he's honestly interested. I can't help it. We're all alike that way.
A broad smile spread over Olive's face.
What are you laughing about, Ollie? Mary demanded.
I was thinking of a funny story the boss told me about his coloured butler. It seems Sam was several hours late one day and he apologized for his tardiness by explaining there had been a fire. The boss was solicitous. Did you lose much? he asked him. Everything Ah had, said Sam; Duh house burn 'way down to duh groun'; not a brick lef'. A day or two later the boss asks Sam what his new address is, and Sam replies: Why, Ah's livin' at duh same place.
Mary laughed as she spread butter on a bran muffin.
What else did Sergia tell you? she inquired.
Olive opened her eyes. Well, I'm glad to see you falling for gossip, Mary. That's hopefully human. Next you'll be falling for a pair of Oxford bags.
Don't tease me, Ollie.
I'm not teasing you, but I wish you'd be a little more open to infection. You must have been vaccinated against love. . . . I think, she added with some embarrassment, I'm going to marry Howard. . . . She made this announcement in a manner which suggested that the idea had just occurred to her.
Ollie dear, I'm so glad. Mary rose from her place to kiss her friend. When was it settled?
I told him last night that I thought I would and today I know I will. It's going to be soon, too. I'm not going to put it off till he's a regular butter and egg man. What's the use of waiting?
I'll miss you, Ollie.
I'll miss you too, you old darling. Olive impulsively ran around the table to return her friend's embrace. But we'll see a lot of each other just the same.
Mary went to the kitchen to bring in the blue Canton china dessert plates heaped with an aromatic pudding.
Sergia says Lasca Sartoris is back from Paris, Olive remarked.
Lasca the legendary! Where is she stopping?
With Sylvia for a few weeks until she can find an apartment. Sergia says she's brought back a flock of trunks: Poiret and Vionnet gowns and Reboux hats and fans and shoes and shawls and perfumes enough to fit out the whole Follies cast.
After she had assisted Olive in clearing the table and washing the dishes, Mary retired to her room to dress. Olive was waiting for Howard. Mary had promised to attend a party at Hester Albright's, a prospect which aroused in her no anticipations of pleasure. Hester, a spinster of thirty-eight, lived with her mother, a deaf, querulous, garrulous, tiresome, old lady, on the fourth floor of an apartment building on St. Nicholas Avenue. They had migrated from Washington to Harlem about five years previously. Why, nobody exactly understood, as Washington society, according to Hester, was immeasurably superior to the Harlem variety. She was in the habit, indeed, of making invidious comparisons, the more mysterious when one considered that the Albrights apparently were sufficiently well off to live comfortably wherever they might choose. As a matter of fact, living expenses in Harlem were higher than in the national capital. I think, Olive had once remarked, that it amuses them to live here so they can tell us how awful we are. . . . If Hester and her mother looked down on Harlem, they did not enjoy a similar privilege with Brooklyn. The Brooklyn set ignored their very existence.
Hester was plain, far too plain to receive masculine attentions, but vain enough to conceive herself as irresistible. A thorough prig, she was easily shocked. She was, moreover, extremely critical, not only of others' actions but also of their very thoughts. She cherished her own idiosyncratic ideas about propriety, propriety in art, in dressing, in general conduct. She particularly assumed an aggressive and antagonistic attitude towards the new literary group which was springing up in Harlem, albeit it was fostered by most of the older intellectuals as one of the most promising indications of an eventual Negro supremacy. This antagonism, Mary suspected, was inspired by the fact that this younger group was more inclined to write about the squalor and vice of Harlem life than about the respectable elegance of Washington society.
About twice a year, moved, doubtless, Mary conceived, by some vaguely charitable urge—I must be kind to this poor girl, Mary could imagine her as thinking—Hester invited Mary to her home and Mary, who considered it her duty as a librarian to mingle with as many different kinds of people as possible, dutifully accepted these invitations.
Tonight, however, she assured herself ruefully, as she surveyed her reflection and smoothed out her pale-blue silk dress before the mirror, she was in no mood for this expedition. Olive's announcement, coming as it had fast on her own self-admission in the afternoon, had somewhat upset her. She would have preferred remaining at home with Howard and Olive, later retiring to her own room where she might give herself up to her thoughts and make some attempt to unravel her perplexing mental tangle. She reminded herself, however, that she had given her promise, and she invariably made it a rigid rule of conduct to keep engagements to which she had pledged herself. Nevertheless a sigh escaped her as she raised the shade to open the window. It was no longer raining, she perceived, and she could therefore easily walk the short distance to the Albrights' apartment.
It was shortly after nine when Hester opened the door for her—the Albrights did not keep a servant.
Rest your wrap, Mary, Hester adjured her and then led her guest into the tiny sitting-room where Mrs. Albright, a withered, wrinkled, old woman with a hooked nose, waved her ear-trumpet sceptre from her arm-chair throne. On the other side of the cheerful, open fire sat Orville Snodes, who was something or other at the Harlem Y. M. C. A. Mary detested him, with no more personal reason for doing so than the fact that he bored her. The mere sight of his round, brown, empty face, so like an Ethiopian moon, exasperated her.
How are you, Mrs. Albright? Mary greeted the old lady.
How have you been? Hester's ancient mother croaked.
Mary let her relaxed palm fall limply into Orville Snodes's hand.
Mrs. Albright was the widow of a building-contractor and it had always been understood—although no one had ever heard Mrs. Albright say so directly—that she felt she had married beneath her, despite the fact that she owed her present easy mode of living to this curious expression of humility. At any rate, whatever might be her state of mind in regard to this episode, she had made at least one concession to convention by permitting the photograph of her late sire to remain in plain view on the mantelpiece. He had a pleasant face, Mary thought, when she regarded it, as she frequently did, in an attempt to decipher an excuse for the mating of this alien pair. His huge, white moustaches, decorating the centre of his honest, black countenance, gave him rather the appearance of a friendly walrus, and a deep scar, almost white, extending from the left corner of his lip to his left eye, added a human touch. It was obvious, Mary thought, that some time or other he had been cut by an inimical razor. How Mrs. Albright must have shuddered at this squalid indignity!
This evening the old lady appeared to be in a most benign mood. The fire, at least temporarily, had thawed out her cold spirit. At any rate, this was Mary's initial impression, as she observed Mrs. Albright nodding her head back and forward with a slow, languid movement, lazily drinking in the warmth.
I have asked a very few tonight, a very few, Hester was explaining. I like small parties better. They are so much more intime.
Oh, beaucoup, beaucoup plus, corroborated Orville. Man wants but little here below, nor wants that little long, he quoted. Then, so unexpectedly that Mary had a feeling that he was almost challenging her to reply affirmatively, he demanded: Have you been to the Metropolitan Art Museum lately?
No, she managed to stutter, with a distinct sensation of guilt.
The pictures are very beautiful, très, très, beaux, Orville announced, rubbing his tiny hands together. His round, brown face and his bald head appeared to glow with his enthusiasm. J'aime beaucoup l'art, he added.
What's that? Mrs. Albright screamed, lifting her trumpet still higher. What did Orville say, Hester?
He says he just loves art, mama.
So do I. . . . The old lady positively beamed. . . . I've always loved art, even as a girl. In Washington, where I come from, people—that is, people that we know—have pictures in their houses, paintings. Do you remember the Willetts' house, Hester?
Why, of course I do, mama! What a question! Our dear friends, the Willetts, she explained to her guests. Such elegance! Such taste!
Well, the Willetts have an art gallery, Mary, Mrs. Albright continued, a beautiful, long gallery with paintings in oil of trees and birds. No nudes. Nothing disgusting. It is all charming and respectable. I do not believe I know any one here who has any good pictures. New York is very different from Washington, she sighed.
Now take that picture over there. Hester pointed to a canvas on which were depicted a waterfall, a ruined castle, and a rustic bridge on which trudged a milkmaid bearing a pail. It was perhaps the tenth occasion on which Mary had been invited to regard it appreciatively. That picture, Hester went on, was presented to papa by a gentleman for whom he had built a house. It is, she added impressively, a Ridgeway Knight.
Très, très beau, Orville pronounced. I have always admired it.
Very pretty, Mary managed to stammer. If you are so much interested in art, perhaps I can persuade you to visit my exhibition of African sculpture.
What's that? Mrs. Albright demanded.
An exhibition at the library, mother. Hester turned to Mary: African sculpture! That dreadful, vulgar stuff!
I think it's very wonderful, said Mary, perhaps a little warmly.
You don't have to yell at me. I can hear you, Mrs. Albright shrieked almost savagely. Like most deaf persons she hated to have visitors raise their voices.
It's the work of heathen savages, Hester protested hotly, and it has nothing to do with art.
Sauvages! translated Orville emphatically. Sauvages!
They were our ancestors, Mary asserted.
Of course, Hester replied, everybody goes back to savages, but it does no good to unearth that sort of thing. Why, I saw one of the creatures once and I was ashamed. Horrible, woolly-headed barbarian! He was positively indecent. She shuddered.
Obscene: Orville offered the room a synonym.
What's that? the old lady demanded. Nobody seems to care whether I hear or not, she whimpered.
African statues are obscene, mama, cried Hester.
Seen? Seen where? inquired the deaf woman, staring about her with great vigour.
Not respectable, screamed her daughter.
Who's not respectable?
African wood-carving.
I should think not! I should think not indeed, Mrs. Albright proclaimed, adding with great indignation, Certainly not. In Wash . . .
There was a welcome interruption. In answer to the bell, Hester admitted Conrad Gladbrook, a shy, young school-teacher, and his wife. Mary knew them only slightly. Mrs. Gladbrook was a very black, very short woman who had a nervous habit of throwing her head back and giggling, exposing two rows of fine white teeth, and who seemed incapable of emitting an intelligent syllable. Almost immediately after the arrival of the Gladbrooks, Mary was happy to hear Webb Leverett's voice at the door. He, at least, could sing.
Oh, Webb, I'm so glad you've come, Hester greeted him. Rest your coat, please. Now we can have some music.
Isn't it a little early for music? Webb protested.
Of course, I'll give you some coffee first.
While Hester was out of the room, every one sat about in more or less open discomfort, that is every one but Mrs. Albright. Now and again, for no apparent reason, Mrs. Gladbrook tossed back her head and giggled. Fortunately, she was sitting behind Mrs. Albright who, at intervals, muttered with great ferocity, Certainly not! Presently Hester returned with a tray on which was set out a Sheffield service, very old and lovely, Mary thought, flanked by delicate porcelain cups.
You pour, mama, Hester suggested.
Is it still raining? Orville inquired of the late-comers.
I think it has stopped, Conrad Gladbrook replied.
His wife giggled nervously.
It's stopped raining, mama, Hester announced.
I never said it hadn't, her mother replied testily. Will you take cream, Mrs. Gladbrook?
Please, that lady barely whispered.
I asked you if you take cream? Mrs. Albright thundered.
She says she'll have some, mama.
I say: Webb was addressing Mary, I've been to see your exhibition. It's too wonderful!
Mary thanked him, but did not pursue the subject. It seemed to her that she had heard enough about this exhibition for one evening. Have you, she demanded, as she stirred her coffee, read John Bolivar's new story?
Hester, who was passing sandwiches, replied to this question which had not been addressed to her. Oh, she averred, I have. What a vulgar story! How can he write about such vulgar people? Why, even here in Harlem there are plenty of doctors and lawyers and in Washington we have a real society. I don't see any use of dragging up all that muck. Nobody wants to read about that.
I quite agree with you, Orville said. Quite. Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Mary smiled in spite of herself. Perhaps, she urged, in a mild attempt to defend the absent author, the milieu he describes is more novel and picturesque than that which surrounds the life of a physician or a lawyer.
Why, Mary, how can you say such a thing? Hester demanded. I think it is shameless.
Mary was desperate. Won't you sing, Webb? she pleaded.
Oh, oui. Chantez, s'il vous plaît, chantez! piped Orville.
Webb sings so well, Hester informed the bashful Gladbrooks. Mrs. Gladbrook giggled.
Fetching his music-roll from the hall, Webb went to the upright piano. There, after considerable fumbling, he selected a piece of music, and began to sing, playing his own accompaniment: Less than the rust, that never stained thy sword,
Less than the trust thou hast in me, O Lord,
Even less than these!
Less than the speed of hours spent far from thee,
Less than the need thou hast in life of me,
Even less am I.
Webb sang in rather an uncertain tenor voice. His tones often stuck in his throat. He did not know very well how to control them, Mary noted. The others sat up very stiffly while he sang, and when he had concluded, Hester remarked, Delightful!
This sentiment was feebly echoed by her guests.
Sing another, Hester suggested. Can you hear, mama?
Perfectly.
Webb pawed about among his music again and eventually dragged out another song.
Like birds that weary of their roaming,
And I would hasten to thy side,
Homing.
From daybreak to the twilight gloaming;
I come home with the evening star,
Homing.
Classic and sweet, Orville asserted. A true gem.
A mischievous spirit prompted Mary to inquire, Do you know any Spirituals?
One or two, Webb admitted.
Oh, do sing one, please.
Webb faced the room, standing. Hester's face was iron.
I sing Spirituals without accompaniment, he explained, and then began very simply:
Don't you get weary,
Walk together, children,
Don't you get weary,
There's a great Camp-meeting in the Promised Land.
Mourn and never tire,
Mourn and never tire,
There's a great Camp-meeting in the Promised Land.
Mary noted at once how the feeling in this music dominated him, transfigured his voice, caused one to forget the serious faults of his singing. Even without the dialect, the song sounded sincere. And the room! What a change! Mrs. Gladbrook was crying. Gladbrook and Orville were swaying to the rhythm while Mrs. Albright moved her ear-trumpet, as though it were a baton, up and down to the beat.
After a short silence, Webb spontaneously began a livelier number: 'Way up in the middle of the air;
Ezekiel saw the wheel,
'Way in the middle of the air;
And the little wheel run by faith,
And the big wheel run by the grace of God;
'Tis a wheel in a wheel,
'Way in the middle of the air.
As Webb rendered this song of simple faith, Mary witnessed what seemed to be a miracle: Hester's shoulders moved from side to side to the rhythm, while her lips formed the words of the stanza.