_Read_--

_Some Southern Snapshots_

by GEORGE S. SCHUYLER

in the December issue of

NEW MASSES


In this article Mr. Schuyler, a Negro writer, gives short sketches
of Negro-white incidents in various Southern states. Negro boys and
girls, men and women, insulted, arrested, hounded out of town, beaten,
molested, and killed for imaginary, or at the most, ridiculously small
and superficial acts. New details of the same old stories.

  See the November and December issues of
  NEW MASSES
  _for our Special Christmas Book Offers_
  25 CENTS A COPY

  ---------------------------------------------------------------------
                                       _Rip This Off and Mail_

  NEW MASSES
  39 West Eighth Street, New York.

  Enclosed find {$2.00} for a {year’s   } subscription to the NEW
                                            MASSES:
                {$1.00}       {6 months’}

  _Name_
           --------------------------------
  _Address_
           --------------------------------

           --------------------------------

  Please send sample copies to:

  1. _Name_
              ------------------------------
     _Address_
              ------------------------------

              ------------------------------

  2. _Name_
              ------------------------------
     _Address_
              ------------------------------

              ------------------------------



[Illustration]




_Foreword_


 _FIRE_ ... _flaming, burning, searing, and penetrating far beneath the
 superficial items of the flesh to boil the sluggish blood._

 _FIRE_ ... _a cry of conquest in the night, warning those who sleep
 and revitalizing those who linger in the quiet places dozing._

 _FIRE_ ... _melting steel and iron bars, poking livid tongues between
 stone apertures and burning wooden opposition with a cackling chuckle
 of contempt._

 _FIRE_ ... _weaving vivid, hot designs upon an ebon bordered loom and
 satisfying pagan thirst for beauty unadorned ... the flesh is sweet
 and real ... the soul an inward flush of fire.... Beauty?... flesh on
 fire--on fire in the furnace of life blazing._...

    “_Fy-ah,
    Fy-ah, Lawd,
    Fy-ah gonna burn ma soul!_”

[Illustration]




FIRE!

_A Quarterly Devoted to the Younger Negro Artists_

_Wishes to Thank the Following Persons Who Acted as Patrons For the
First Issue_

[Illustration]


  MAURINE BOIE, _Minneapolis, Minn._
  NELLIE R. BRIGHT, _Philadelphia, Pa._
  ARTHUR HUFF FAUSET, _Philadelphia, Pa._
  DOROTHY HUNT HARRIS, _New York City_
  ARTHUR P. MOOR, _Harrisburg, Pa._
  DOROTHY R. PETERSON, _Brooklyn, N. Y._
  MR. AND MRS. JOHN PETERSON, _New York City_
  E. B. TAYLOR, _Baltimore, Md._
  CARL VAN VECHTEN, _New York City_

[Illustration]

Being a non-commercial product interested only in the arts, it is
necessary that we make some appeal for aid from interested friends.
For the second issue of Fire we would appreciate having fifty people
subscribe ten dollars each, and fifty more to subscribe five dollars
each.

We make no eloquent or rhetorical plea. Fire speaks for itself.

  Gratefully,
  THE BOARD OF EDITORS.




  FIRE!

  _A Quarterly Devoted to the Younger Negro Artists_

  _Premier Issue Edited by_
  WALLACE THURMAN

  _In Association With_

  Langston Hughes
  Gwendolyn Bennett
  Richard Bruce
  Zora Neale Hurston
  Aaron Douglas
  John Davis

[Illustration]




_Table of Contents_


  COVER DESIGNS                             _Aaron Douglas_

  FOREWORD                                                           1

  DRAWING                                   _Richard Bruce_          4

  CORDELIA THE CRUDE, A Harlem Sketch       _Wallace Thurman_        5

  COLOR STRUCK, A Play in Four Scenes       _Zora Neale Hurston_     7

  FLAME FROM THE DARK TOWER                 _A Section of Poetry_   15

  _Countee Cullen_
  _Edward Silvera_
  _Langston Hughes_
  _Helene Johnson_
  _Waring Cuney_
  _Arna Bontemps_
  _Lewis Alexander_

  DRAWING                                   _Richard Bruce_         24

  WEDDING DAY, A Story                      _Gwendolyn Bennett_     25

  THREE DRAWINGS                            _Aaron Douglas_         29

  SMOKE, LILIES AND JADE, A Novel, Part I   _Richard Bruce_         33

  SWEAT, A Story                            _Zora Neale Hurston_    40

  INTELLIGENTSIA, An Essay                  _Arthur Huff Fauset_    45

  FIRE BURNS, Editorial Comment             _Wallace Thurman_       47

  INCIDENTAL ART DECORATIONS                _Aaron Douglas_

[Illustration]

  Volume One                Number One

  EDITORIAL OFFICES
  314 West 138th Street, New York City
  Price $1.00 per copy             Issued Quarterly




[Illustration]




[Illustration:

  FIRE!!
  DEVOTED T^o YOUNGER NEGRO ARTISTS
]




Cordelia the Crude


_Physically_, if not mentally, Cordelia was a potential prostitute,
meaning that although she had not yet realized the moral import of
her wanton promiscuity nor become mercenary, she had, nevertheless,
become quite blasé and bountiful in the matter of bestowing sexual
favors upon persuasive and likely young men. Yet, despite her seeming
lack of discrimination, Cordelia was quite particular about the type
of male to whom she submitted, for numbers do not necessarily denote
a lack of taste, and Cordelia had discovered after several months of
active observation that one could find the qualities one admires or
reacts positively to in a varied hodge-podge of outwardly different
individuals.

The scene of Cordelia’s activities was The Roosevelt Motion Picture
Theatre on Seventh Avenue near 145th Street. Thrice weekly the program
changed, and thrice weekly Cordelia would plunk down the necessary
twenty-five cents evening admission fee, and saunter gaily into the
foul-smelling depths of her favorite cinema shrine. The Roosevelt
Theatre presented all of the latest pictures, also, twice weekly,
treated its audiences to a vaudeville bill, then too, one could always
have the most delightful physical contacts ... hmm....

Cordelia had not consciously chosen this locale nor had there been
any conscious effort upon her part to take advantage of the extra
opportunities afforded for physical pleasure. It had just happened
that the Roosevelt Theatre was more close to her home than any other
neighborhood picture palace, and it had also just happened that
Cordelia had become almost immediately initiated into the ways of a
Harlem theatre chippie soon after her discovery of the theatre itself.

It is the custom of certain men and boys who frequent these places to
idle up and down the aisle until some female is seen sitting alone, to
slouch down into a seat beside her, to touch her foot or else press her
leg in such a way that it can be construed as accidental if necessary,
and then, if the female is wise or else shows signs of willingness to
become wise, to make more obvious approaches until, if successful,
the approached female will soon be chatting with her baiter about the
picture being shown, lolling in his arms, and helping to formulate
plans for an after-theatre rendezvous. Cordelia had, you see, shown a
willingness to become wise upon her second visit to The Roosevelt. In a
short while she had even learned how to squelch the bloated, lewd faced
Jews and eager middle aged Negroes who might approach as well as how to
inveigle the likeable little yellow or brown half men, embryo avenue
sweetbacks, with their well modeled heads, stickily plastered hair,
flaming cravats, silken or broadcloth shirts, dirty underwear, low cut
vests, form fitting coats, bell-bottom trousers and shiny shoes with
metal cornered heels clicking with a brave, brazen rhythm upon the bare
concrete floor as their owners angled and searched for prey.

Cordelia, sixteen years old, matronly mature, was an undisciplined,
half literate product of rustic South Carolina, and had come to Harlem
very much against her will with her parents and her six brothers and
sisters. Against her will because she had not been at all anxious to
leave the lackadaisical life of the little corn pone settlement where
she had been born, to go trooping into the unknown vastness of New
York, for she had been in love, passionately in love with one John
Stokes who raised pigs, and who, like his father before him, found the
raising of pigs so profitable that he could not even consider leaving
Lintonville. Cordelia had blankly informed her parents that she would
not go with them when they decided to be lured to New York by an older
son who had remained there after the demobilization of the war time
troops. She had even threatened to run away with John until they should
be gone, but of course John could not leave his pigs, and John’s mother
was not very keen on having Cordelia for a daughter-in-law--those
Joneses have bad mixed blood in ’em--so Cordelia had had to join the
Gotham bound caravan and leave her lover to his succulent porkers.

However, the mere moving to Harlem had not doused the rebellious flame.
Upon arriving Cordelia had not only refused to go to school and refused
to hold even the most easily held job, but had also victoriously
defied her harassed parents so frequently when it came to matters of
discipline that she soon found herself with a mesmerizing lack of home
restraint, for the stress of trying to maintain themselves and their
family in the new environment was far too much of a task for Mr. and
Mrs. Jones to attend to facilely and at the same time try to control a
recalcitrant child. So, when Cordelia had refused either to work or to
attend school, Mrs. Jones herself had gone out for day’s work, leaving
Cordelia at home to take care of their five room railroad flat, the
front room of which was rented out to a couple “living together,” and
to see that the younger children, all of whom were of school age, made
their four trips daily between home and the nearby public school--as
well as see that they had their greasy, if slim, food rations and an
occasional change of clothing. Thus Cordelia’s days were full--and so
were her nights. The only difference being that the days belonged to
the folks at home while the nights (since the folks were too tired or
too sleepy to know or care when she came in or went out) belonged to
her and to--well--whosoever will, let them come.

Cordelia had been playing this hectic, entrancing game for six months
and was widely known among a certain group of young men and girls on
the avenue as a fus’ class chippie when she and I happened to enter the
theatre simultaneously. She had clumped down the aisle before me, her
open galoshes swishing noisily, her two arms busy wriggling themselves
free from the torn sleeve lining of a shoddy imitation fur coat that
one of her mother’s wash clients had sent to her. She was of medium
height and build, with overly developed legs and bust, and had a clear,
keen light brown complexion. Her too slick, too naturally bobbed hair,
mussed by the removing of a tight, black turban was of an undecided
nature, i.e., it was undecided whether to be kinky or to be kind,
and her body, as she sauntered along in the partial light had such a
conscious sway of invitation that unthinkingly I followed, slid into
the same row of seats and sat down beside her.

Naturally she had noticed my pursuit, and thinking that I was eager to
play the game, let me know immediately that she was wise, and not the
least bit averse to spooning with me during the evening’s performance.
Interested, and, I might as well confess, intrigued physically, I too
became wise, and played up to her with all the fervor, or so I thought,
of an old timer, but Cordelia soon remarked that I was different from
mos’ of des’ sheiks, and when pressed for an explanation brazenly told
me in a slightly scandalized and patronizing tone that I had not even
felt her legs...!

At one o’clock in the morning we strolled through the snowy bleakness
of one hundred and forty-fourth street between Lenox and Fifth Avenues
to the walk-up tenement flat in which she lived, and after stamping
the snow from our feet, pushed through the double outside doors, and
followed the dismal hallway to the rear of the building where we began
the tedious climbing of the crooked, creaking, inconveniently narrow
stairway. Cordelia had informed me earlier in the evening that she
lived on the top floor--four flights up east side rear--and on our
way we rested at each floor and at each half way landing, rested long
enough to mingle the snowy dampness of our respective coats, and to hug
clumsily while our lips met in an animal kiss.

Finally only another half flight remained, and instead of proceeding as
was usual after our amourous demonstration I abruptly drew away from
her, opened my overcoat, plunged my hand into my pants pocket, and drew
out two crumpled one dollar bills which I handed to her, and then,
while she stared at me foolishly, I muttered good-night, confusedly
pecked her on her cold brown cheek, and darted down into the creaking
darkness.

[Illustration]

Six months later I was taking two friends of mine, lately from the
provinces, to a Saturday night house-rent party in a well known whore
house on one hundred and thirty-fourth street near Lenox Avenue. The
place as we entered seemed to be a chaotic riot of raucous noise and
clashing color all rhythmically merging in the red, smoke filled room.
And there I saw Cordelia savagely careening in a drunken abortion of
the Charleston and surrounded by a perspiring circle of handclapping
enthusiasts. Finally fatigued, she whirled into an abrupt finish, and
stopped so that she stared directly into my face, but being dizzy from
the calisthenic turns and the cauterizing liquor she doubted that her
eyes recognized someone out of the past, and, visibly trying to sober
herself, languidly began to dance a slow drag with a lean hipped pimply
faced yellow man who had walked between her and me. At last he released
her, and seeing that she was about to leave the room I rushed forward
calling Cordelia?--as if I was not yet sure who it was. Stopping in the
doorway, she turned to see who had called, and finally recognizing me
said simply, without the least trace of emotion--’Lo kid....

And without another word turned her back and walked into the hall to
where she joined four girls standing there. Still eager to speak, I
followed and heard one of the girls ask: Who’s the dicty kid?...

And Cordelia answered: The guy who gimme ma’ firs’ two bucks....

                                           WALLACE THURMAN.




Color Struck

_A Play in Four Scenes_

  _Time: Twenty years ago and present._      _Place: A Southern City._




  PERSONS


  JOHN                    _A light brown-skinned man_
  EMMALINE                            _A black woman_
  WESLEY               _A boy who plays an accordion_
  EMMALINE’S DAUGHTER             _A very white girl_
  EFFIE                              _A mulatto girl_
  A RAILWAY CONDUCTOR            A DOCTOR
  _Several who play mouth organs, guitars, banjos._
  _Dancers, passengers, etc._

 SETTING.--_Early night. The inside of a “Jim Crow” railway coach.
 The car is parallel to the footlights. The seats on the down stage
 side of the coach are omitted. There are the luggage racks above the
 seats. The windows are all open. There are exits in each end of the
 car--right and left._

 ACTION.--_Before the curtain goes up there is the sound of a
 locomotive whistle and a stopping engine, loud laughter, many people
 speaking at once, good-natured shrieks, strumming of stringed
 instruments, etc. The ascending curtain discovers a happy lot of
 Negroes boarding the train dressed in the gaudy, tawdry best of 1900.
 They are mostly in couples--each couple bearing a covered-over market
 basket which the men hastily deposit in the racks as they scramble
 for seats. There is a little friendly pushing and shoving. One pair
 just miss a seat three times, much to the enjoyment of the crowd. Many
 “plug” silk hats are in evidence, also sun-flowers in button holes.
 The women are showily dressed in the manner of the time, and quite
 conscious of their finery. A few seats remain unoccupied._


_Enter Effie (left) above, with a basket._ ONE OF THE MEN (_standing,
lifting his “plug” in a grand manner_). Howdy do, Miss Effie, you’se
lookin’ jes lak a rose.

(_Effie blushes and is confused. She looks up and down for a seat._)
Fack is, if you wuzn’t walkin’ long, ah’d think you _wuz_ a rose--(_he
looks timidly behind her and the others laugh_). Looka here, where’s
Sam at?

EFFIE (_tossing her head haughtily_). I don’t know an’ I don’t keer.

THE MAN (_visibly relieved_). Then lemme scorch you to a seat. (_He
takes her basket and leads her to a seat center of the car, puts the
basket in the rack and seats himself beside her with his hat at a
rakish angle._)

MAN (_sliding his arm along the back of the seat_). How come Sam ain’t
heah--y’ll on a bust?

EFFIE (_angrily_). A man dat don’t buy me nothin tuh put in _mah_
basket, ain’t goin’ wid _me_ tuh no cake walk. (_The hand on the seat
touches her shoulder and she thrusts it away_). Take yo’ arms from
’round me, Dinky! Gwan hug yo’ Ada!

MAN (_in mock indignation_). Do you think I’d look at Ada when Ah got
a chance tuh be wid you? Ah always wuz sweet on you, but you let ole
Mullet-head Sam cut me out.

ANOTHER MAN (_with head out of the window_). Just look at de darkies
coming! (_With head inside coach._) Hey, Dinky! Heah come Ada wid a
great big basket.

(_Dinky jumps up from beside Effie and rushes to exit right. In a
moment they re-enter and take a seat near entrance. Everyone in coach
laughs. Dinky’s girl turns and calls back to Effie._)

GIRL. Where’s Sam, Effie?

EFFIE. Lawd knows, Ada.

GIRL. Lawd a mussy! Who you gointer walk de cake wid?

EFFIE. Nobody, Ah reckon, John and Emma gointer win it nohow. They’s
the bestest cake walkers in dis state.

ADA. You’se better than Emma any day in de week. Cose Sam cain’t walk
lake John. (_She stands up and scans the coach._) Looka heah, ain’t
John an’ Emma going? They ain’t on heah!

(_The locomotive bell begins to ring._)

EFFIE. Mah Gawd, s’pose dey got left!

MAN (_with head out of window_). Heah they come, nip and tuck--whoo-ee!
They’se gonna make it! (_He waves excitedly._) Come on Jawn!
(_Everybody crowds the windows, encouraging them by gesture and calls.
As the whistle blows twice, and the train begins to move, they enter
panting and laughing at left. The only seat left is the one directly in
front of Effie._)

DINKY (_standing_). Don’t y’all skeer us no mo’ lake dat! There
couldn’t be no cake walk thout y’all. Dem shad-mouf St. Augustine coons
would win dat cake and we would have tuh kill ’em all bodaciously.

JOHN. It was Emmaline nearly made us get left. She says I wuz smiling
at Effie on the street car and she had to get off and wait for another
one.

EMMA (_removing the hatpins from her hat, turns furiously upon him_).
You wuz grinning at her and she wuz grinning back jes lake a ole chessy
cat!

JOHN (_positively_). I wuzn’t.

EMMA (_about to place her hat in rack_). You wuz. I seen you looking
jes lake a possum.

JOHN. I wuzn’t. I never gits a chance tuh smile at nobody--you won’t
let me.

EMMA. Jes the same every time you sees a yaller face, you _takes_ a
chance. (_They sit down in peeved silence for a minute._)

DINKY. Ada, les we all sample de basket. I bet you got huckleberry pie.

ADA. No I aint, I got peach an’ tater pies, but we aint gonna tetch a
thing tell we gits tuh de hall.

DINKY (_mock alarm_). Naw, don’t do dat! It’s all right tuh save the
fried chicken, but pies is _always_ et on trains.

ADA. Aw shet up! (_He struggles with her for a kiss. She slaps him but
finally yields._)

JOHN (_looking behind him_). Hellow, Effie, where’s Sam?

EFFIE. Deed, I don’t know.

JOHN. Y’all on a bust?

EMMA. None ah yo’ bizness, you got enough tuh mind yo’ own self. Turn
’round!

(_She puts up a pouting mouth and he snatches a kiss. She laughs just
as he kisses her again and there is a resounding smack which causes the
crowd to laugh. And cries of_ “Oh you kid!” “Salty dog!”)

(_Enter conductor left calling tickets cheerfully and laughing at the
general merriment._)

CONDUCTOR. I hope somebody from Jacksonville wins this cake.

JOHN. You live in the “Big Jack?”

CONDUCTOR. Sure do. And I wanta taste a piece of that cake on the way
back tonight.

JOHN. Jes rest easy--them Augustiners aint gonna smell it. (_Turns to
Emma._) Is they, baby?

EMMA. Not if Ah kin help it.

_Somebody with a guitar sings_: “Ho babe, mah honey taint no lie.”

(_The conductor takes up tickets, passes on and exits right._)

WESLEY. Look heah, you cake walkers--y’all oughter git up and limber up
yo’ joints. I heard them folks over to St. Augustine been oiling up wid
goose-grease, and over to Ocala they been rubbing down in snake oil.

A WOMAN’S VOICE. You better shut up, Wesley, you just joined de church
last month. Somebody’s going to tell the pastor on you.

WESLEY. Tell it, tell it, take it up and smell it. Come on out you John
and Emma and Effie, and limber up.

JOHN. Naw, we don’t wanta do our walking steps---nobody won’t wanta see
them when we step out at the hall. But we kin do something else just to
warm ourselves up.

(_Wesley begins to play “Goo Goo Eyes” on his accordion, the other
instruments come in one by one and John and Emma step into the aisle
and “parade” up and down the aisle--Emma holding up her skirt, showing
the lace on her petticoats. They two-step back to their seat amid much
applause._)

WESLEY. Come on out, Effie! Sam aint heah so you got to hold up his
side too. Step on out. (_There is a murmur of applause as she steps
into the aisle. Wesley strikes up “I’m gointer live anyhow till I die.”
It is played quite spiritedly as Effie swings into the pas-me-la_--)

WESLEY (_in ecstasy_). Hot stuff I reckon! Hot stuff I reckon! (_The
musicians are stamping. Great enthusiasm. Some clap time with hands and
feet. She hurls herself into a modified Hoochy Koochy, and finishes up
with an ecstatic yell._)

_There is a babble of talk and laughter and exultation._

JOHN (_applauding loudly_). If dat Effie can’t step nobody can.

EMMA. Course you’d say so cause it’s her. Everything she do is pretty
to you.

JOHN (_caressing her_). Now don’t say that, Honey. Dancing is dancing
no matter who is doing it. But nobody can hold a candle to you in
nothing.

(_Some men are heard tuning up--getting pitch to sing. Four of them
crowd together in one seat and begin the chorus of “Daisies Won’t
Tell.” John and Emma grow quite affectionate._)

JOHN (_kisses her_). Emma, what makes you always picking a fuss with me
over some yaller girl. What makes you so jealous, nohow? I don’t do
nothing.

(_She clings to him, but he turns slightly away. The train whistle
blows, there is a slackening of speed. Passengers begin to take down
baskets from their racks._)

EMMA. John! John, don’t you want me to love you, honey?

JOHN (_turns and kisses her slowly_). Yes, I want you to love me, you
know I do. But I don’t like to be accused o’ ever light colored girl in
the world. It hurts my feeling. I don’t want you to be jealous like you
are.

(_Enter at right Conductor, crying “St. Augustine, St. Augustine.”
He exits left. The crowd has congregated at the two exits, pushing
good-naturedly and joking. All except John and Emma. They are still
seated with their arms about each other._)

EMMA (_sadly_). Then you don’t want my love, John, cause I can’t help
mahself from being jealous. I loves you so hard, John, and jealous love
is the only kind I got.

(_John kisses her very feelingly._)

EMMA. Just for myself alone is the only way I knows how to love.

(_They are standing in the aisle with their arms about each other as
the curtain falls._)

[Illustration]


SCENE II

 SETTING.--_A weather-board hall. A large room with the joists bare.
 The place has been divided by a curtain of sheets stretched on a
 rope across from left to right. From behind the curtain there are
 occasional sounds of laughter, a note or two on a stringed instrument
 or accordion. General stir. That is the dance hall. The front is the
 ante-room where the refreshments are being served. A “plank” seat runs
 all around the hall, along the walls. The lights are kerosene lamps
 with reflectors. They are fixed to the wall. The lunch-baskets are
 under the seat. There is a table on either side upstage with a woman
 behind each. At one, ice cream is sold, at the other, roasted peanuts
 and large red-and-white sticks of peppermint candy._

 _People come in by twos and threes, laughing, joking, horse-plays,
 gauchily flowered dresses, small waists, bulging hips and busts, hats
 worn far back on the head, etc. People from Ocala greet others from
 Palatka, Jacksonville, St. Augustine, etc._

 _Some find seats in the ante-room, others pass on into the main hall._

 _Enter the Jacksonville delegation, laughing, pushing proudly._

DINKY. Here we is, folks--here we is. Gointer take dat cake on back tuh
Jacksonville where it belongs.

MAN. Gwan! Whut wid you mullet-head Jacksonville Coons know whut to do
wid a cake. It’s gointer stay right here in Augustine where de _good_
cake walkers grow.

DINKY. Taint no ‘Walkers’ never walked till John and Emmaline prance
out--you mighty come a tootin’.

_Great laughing and joshing as more people come in. John and Emma are
encouraged, urged on to win._

EMMA. Let’s we git a seat, John, and set down.

JOHN. Sho will--nice one right over there.

(_They push over to wall seat, place basket underneath, and sit.
Newcomers shake hands with them and urge them on to win._)

(_Enter Joe Clarke and a small group. He is a rotund, expansive man
with a liberal watch chain and charm._)

DINKY (_slapping Clarke on the back_). If you don’t go ’way from here!
Lawdy, if it aint Joe.

CLARKE (_jovially_). Ah thought you had done forgot us people in
Eatonville since you been living up here in Jacksonville.

DINKY. Course Ah aint. (_Turning._) Looka heah folks! Joe Clarke oughta
be made chairman uh dis meetin’--Ah mean Past Great-Grand Master of
Ceremonies, him being the onliest mayor of de onliest colored town in
de state.

GENERAL CHORUS. Yeah, let him be--thass fine, etc.

DINKY (_setting his hat at a new angle and throwing out his chest_).
And Ah’ll scorch him to de platform. Ahem!

(_Sprinkling of laughter as Joe Clarke is escorted into next room by
Dinky._)

(_The musicians are arriving one by one during this time. A guitar,
accordion, mouth organ, banjo, etc. Soon there is a rapping for order
heard inside and the voice of Joe Clarke._)

JOE CLARKE. Git yo’ partners one an’ all for de gran’ march! Git yo’
partners, gent-mens!

A MAN (_drawing basket from under bench_). Let’s we all eat first.

(_John and Emma go buy ice-cream. They coquettishly eat from each
other’s spoons. Old Man Lizzimore crosses to Effie and removes his hat
and bows with a great flourish._)

LIZZIMORE. Sam ain’t here t’night, is he, Effie.

EFFIE (_embarrassed_). Naw suh, he aint.

LIZZ. Well, you like chicken? (_Extends arm to her._) Take a wing!

(_He struts her up to the table amid the laughter of the house. He
wears no collar._)

JOHN (_squeezes Emma’s hand_). You certainly is a ever loving
mamma--when you aint mad.

EMMA (_smiles sheepishly_). You oughtn’t to make me mad then.

JOHN. Ah don’t make you! You makes yo’self mad, den blame it on me. Ah
keep on tellin’ you Ah don’t love nobody but you. Ah knows heaps uh
half-white girls Ah could git ef Ah wanted to. But (_he squeezes her
hard again_) Ah jus’ wants _you_! You know what they say! De darker de
berry, de sweeter de taste!

EMMA (_pretending to pout_). Oh, you tries to run over me an’ keep it
under de cover, but Ah won’t let yuh. (_Both laugh._) Les’ we eat our
basket!

JOHN. Alright. (_He pulls the basket out and she removes the table
cloth. They set the basket on their knees and begin to eat fried
chicken._)

MALE VOICE. Les’ everybody eat--motion’s done carried. (_Everybody
begins to open baskets. All have fried chicken. Very good humor
prevails. Delicacies are swapped from one basket to the other. John and
Emma offer the man next them some supper. He takes a chicken leg. Effie
crosses to John and Emma with two pieces of pie on a plate._)

EFFIE. Y’ll have a piece uh mah blueberry pie--it’s mighty nice! (_She
proffers it with a timid smile to Emma who “freezes” up instantly._)

EMMA. Naw! We don’t want no pie. We got cocoanut layer-cake.

JOHN. Ah--Ah think ah’d choose a piece uh pie, Effie. (_He takes it._)
Will you set down an’ have a snack wid us? (_He slides over to make
room._)

EFFIE (_nervously_). Ah, naw, Ah got to run on back to mah basket, but
Ah thought maybe y’ll mout’ want tuh taste mah pie. (_She turns to go._)

JOHN. Thank you, Effie. It’s mighty good, too. (_He eats it. Effie
crosses to her seat. Emma glares at her for a minute, then turns
disgustedly away from the basket. John catches her shoulder and faces
her around._)

JOHN (_pleadingly_). Honey, be nice. Don’t act lak dat!

EMMA (_jerking free_). Naw, you done ruint mah appetite now, carryin’
on wid dat punkin-colored ole gal.

JOHN. Whut kin Ah do? If you had a acted polite Ah wouldn’t a had
nothin’ to say.

EMMA. Naw, youse jus’ hog-wile ovah her cause she’s half-white! No
matter whut Ah say, you keep carryin’ on wid her. Act polite? Naw Ah
aint gonna be deceitful an’ bust mah gizzard fuh nobody! Let her keep
her dirty ole pie ovah there where she is!

JOHN (_looking around to see if they are overheard_). Sh-sh! Honey, you
mustn’t talk so loud.

EMMA (_louder_). Ah-Ah aint gonna bite mah tongue! If she don’t like
it she can lump it. Mah back is broad--(_John tries to cover her mouth
with his hand_). She calls herself a big cigar, but _I_ kin smoke her!

(_The people are laughing and talking for the most part and pay no
attention. Effie is laughing and talking to those around her and does
not hear the tirade. The eating is over and everyone is going behind
the curtain. John and Emma put away their basket like the others,
and sit glum. Voice of Master-of-ceremonies can be heard from beyond
curtain announcing the pas-me-la contest. The contestants, mostly
girls, take the floor. There is no music except the clapping of hands
and the shouts of “Parse-me-lah” in time with the hand-clapping. At the
end Master announces winner. Shadows seen on curtain._)

MASTER. Mathilda Clarke is winner--if she will step forward she will
receive a beautiful wook fascinator. (_The girl goes up and receives it
with great hand-clapping and good humor._) And now since the roosters
is crowin’ foah midnight, an’ most of us got to git up an’ go to work
tomorrow, The Great Cake Walk will begin. Ah wants de floor cleared,
cause de representatives of de several cities will be announced an’ we
wants ’em to take de floor as their names is called. Den we wants ’em
to do a gran’ promenade roun’ de hall. An’ they will then commence to
walk fuh de biggest cake ever baked in dis state. Ten dozen eggs--ten
pounds of flour--ten pounds of butter, and so on and so forth. Now
then--(_he strikes a pose_) for St. Augustine--

Miss Lucy Taylor, Mr. Ned Coles.

(_They step out amid applause and stand before stage._)

For Daytona--

Miss Janie Bradley, Enoch Nixon.

(_Same business._)

For Ocala--

Miss Docia Boger, Mr. Oscar Clarke.

(_Same business._)

For Palatka--

Miss Maggie Lemmons, Mr. Senator Lewis.

(_Same business._)

And for Jacksonville the most popular “walkers” in de state--

Miss Emmaline Beazeby, Mr. John Turner.

(_Tremendous applause. John rises and offers his arm grandiloquently to
Emma._)

EMMA (_pleadingly, and clutching his coat_). John let’s we all don’t go
in there with all them. Let’s we all go on home.

JOHN (_amazed_). Why, Emma?

EMMA. Cause, cause all them girls is going to pulling and hauling on
you, and--

JOHN (_impatiently_). Shucks! Come on. Don’t you hear the people
clapping for us and calling our names? Come on!

(_He tries to pull her up--she tries to drag him back._)

Come on, Emma! Taint no sense in your acting like this. The band is
playing for us. Hear ’em? (_He moves feet in a dance step._)

EMMA. Naw, John, Ah’m skeered. I loves you--I--.

(_He tries to break away from her. She is holding on fiercely._)

JOHN. I got to go! I been practising almost a year--I--we done come all
the way down here. I can walk the cake, Emma--we got to--I got to go
in! (_He looks into her face and sees her tremendous fear._) What you
skeered about?

EMMA (_hopefully_). You won’t go in--You’ll come on go home with me all
by ourselves. Come on John. I can’t, I just can’t go in there and see
all them girls--Effie hanging after you--.

JOHN. I got to go in--(_he removes her hand from his coat_)--whether
you come with me or not.

EMMA. Oh--them yaller wenches! How I hate ’em! They gets everything
they wants--.

VOICE INSIDE. We are waiting for the couple from
Jacksonville--Jacksonville! Where is the couple from--.

(_Wesley parts the curtain and looks out._)

WESLEY. Here they is out here spooning! You all can’t even hear your
names called. Come on John and Emma.

JOHN. Coming. (_He dashes inside. Wesley stands looking at Emma in
surprise._)

WESLEY. What’s the matter, Emma? You and John spatting again? (_He goes
back inside._)

EMMA (_calmly bitter_). He went and left me. If we is spatting we
done had our last one. (_She stands and clenches her fists._) Ah,
mah God! He’s in there with her--Oh, them half whites, they gets
everything, they gets everything everybody else wants! The men, the
jobs--everything! The whole world is got a sign on it. Wanted: Light
colored. Us blacks was made for cobble stones. (_She muffles a cry and
sinks limp upon the seat._)

VOICE INSIDE. Miss Effie Jones will walk for Jacksonville with Mr. John
Turner in place of Miss Emmaline Beazeley.

[Illustration]


SCENE III--_Dance Hall_

 _Emma springs to her feet and flings the curtains wide open. She
 stands staring at the gay scene for a moment defiantly, then creeps
 over to a seat along the wall and shrinks into the Spanish Moss,
 motionless._

 _Dance hall decorated with palmetto leaves and Spanish Moss--a flag or
 two. Orchestra consists of guitar, mandolin, banjo, accordion, church
 organ and drum._

MASTER (_on platform_). Couples take yo’ places! When de music starts,
gentlemen parade yo’ ladies once round de hall, den de walk begins.
(_The music begins. Four men come out from behind the platform bearing
a huge chocolate cake. The couples are “prancing” in their tracks. The
men lead off the procession with the cake--the contestants make a grand
slam around the hall._)

MASTER. Couples to de floor! Stan’ back, ladies an’ gentlemen--give ’em
plenty room.

(_Music changes to “Way Down in Georgia.” Orchestra sings. Effie takes
the arm that John offers her and they parade to the other end of the
hall. She takes her place. John goes back upstage to the platform,
takes off his silk hat in a graceful sweep as he bows deeply to Effie.
She lifts her skirts and curtsies to the floor. Both smile broadly.
They advance toward each other, meet midway, then, arm in arm, begin
to “strut.” John falters as he faces her, but recovers promptly and
is perfection in his style. (Seven to nine minutes to curtain.)
Fervor of spectators grows until all are taking part in some
way--either hand-clapping or singing the words. At curtain they have
reached frenzy._)


QUICK CURTAIN

[Illustration]

(_It stays down a few seconds to indicate ending of contest and goes up
again on John and Effie being declared winners by Judges._)

MASTER (_on platform, with John and Effie on the floor before him_).
By unanimous decision de cake goes to de couple from Jacksonville!
(_Great enthusiasm. The cake is set down in the center of the floor and
the winning couple parade around it arm in arm. John and Effie circle
the cake happily and triumphantly. The other contestants, and then
the entire assembly fall in behind and circle the cake, singing and
clapping. The festivities continue. The Jacksonville quartet step upon
the platform and sing a verse and chorus of “Daisies won’t tell.” Cries
of “Hurrah for Jacksonville! Glory for the big town,” “Hurrah for Big
Jack.”_)

A MAN (_seeing Emma_). You’re from Jacksonville, aint you? (_He whirls
her around and around._) Aint you happy? Whoopee! (_He releases her and
she drops upon a seat. She buries her face in the moss._)

(_Quartet begins on chorus again. People are departing, laughing,
humming, with quartet cheering. John, the cake, and Effie being borne
away in triumph._)

[Illustration]


SCENE IV

 TIME--_present. The interior of a one-room shack in an alley. There
 is a small window in the rear wall upstage left. There is an enlarged
 crayon drawing of a man and woman--man sitting cross-legged, woman
 standing with her hand on his shoulder. A center table, red cover, a
 low, cheap rocker, two straight chairs, a small kitchen stove at left
 with a wood-box beside it, a water-bucket on a stand close by. A hand
 towel and a wash basin. A shelf of dishes above this. There is an
 ordinary oil lamp on the center table but it is not lighted when the
 curtain goes up. Some light enters through the window and falls on the
 woman seated in the low rocker. The door is center right. A cheap bed
 is against the upstage wall. Someone is on the bed but is lying so
 that the back is toward the audience._

 ACTION--_As the curtain rises, the woman is seen rocking to and fro in
 the low rocker. A dead silence except for the sound of the rocker and
 an occasional groan from the bed. Once a faint voice says “water” and
 the woman in the rocker arises and carries the tin dipper to the bed._

WOMAN. No mo’ right away--Doctor says not too much. (_Returns dipper to
pail.--Pause._) You got right much fever--I better go git the doctor
agin.

(_There comes a knocking at the door and she stands still for a moment,
listening. It comes again and she goes to door but does not open
it._)

WOMAN. Who’s that?

VOICE OUTSIDE. Does Emma Beasely live here?

EMMA. Yeah--(_pause_)--who is it?

VOICE. It’s me--John Turner.

EMMA (_puts hands eagerly on the fastening_). John? Did you say John
Turner?

VOICE. Yes, Emma, it’s me.

(_The door is opened and the man steps inside._)

EMMA. John! Your hand (_she feels for it and touches it_). John flesh
and blood.

JOHN (_laughing awkwardly_). It’s me alright, old girl. Just as bright
as a basket of chips. Make a light quick so I can see how you look. I’m
crazy to see you. Twenty years is a long time to wait, Emma.

EMMA (_nervously_). Oh, let’s we all just sit in the dark awhile.
(_Apologetically._) I wasn’t expecting nobody and my house aint picked
up. Sit down. (_She draws up the chair. She sits in rocker._)

JOHN. Just to think! Emma! Me and Emma sitting down side by each. Know
how I found you?

EMMA (_dully_). Naw. How?

JOHN (_brightly_). Soon’s I got in town I hunted up Wesley and he told
me how to find you. That’s who I come to see, you!

EMMA. Where you been all these years, up North somewheres? Nobody round
here could find out where you got to.

JOHN. Yes, up North. Philadelphia.

EMMA. Married yet?

JOHN. Oh yes, seventeen years ago. But my wife is dead now and so I
came as soon as it was decent to find _you_. I wants to marry you.
I couldn’t die happy if I didn’t. Couldn’t get over you--couldn’t
forget. Forget me, Emma?

EMMA. Naw, John. How could I?

JOHN (_leans over impulsively to catch her hand_). Oh, Emma, I love
you so much. Strike a light honey so I can see you--see if you changed
much. You was such a handsome girl!

EMMA. We don’t exactly need no light, do we, John, tuh jus’ set an’
talk?

JOHN. Yes, we do, Honey. Gwan, make a light. Ah wanna see you.

(_There is a silence._)

EMMA. Bet you’ wife wuz some high-yaller dickty-doo.

JOHN. Naw she wasn’t neither. She was jus’ as much like you as Ah could
get her. Make a light an’ Ah’ll show you her pictcher. Shucks, ah
gotta look at mah old sweetheart. (_He strikes a match and holds it up
between their faces and they look intently at each other over it until
it burns out._) You aint changed none atall, Emma, jus’ as pretty as a
speckled pup yet.

EMMA (_lighter_). Go long, John! (_Short pause_) ’member how you useter
bring me magnolias?

JOHN. Do I? Gee, you was sweet! ’Member how Ah useter pull mah necktie
loose so you could tie it back for me? Emma, Ah can’t see to mah soul
how we lived all this time, way from one another. ’Member how you
useter make out mah ears had done run down and you useter screw ’em up
agin for me? (_They laugh._)

EMMA. Yeah, Ah useter think you wuz gointer be mah husban’ then--but
you let dat ole--.

JOHN. Ah aint gonna let you alibi on me lak dat. Light dat lamp! You
cain’t look me in de eye and say no such. (_He strikes another match
and lights the lamp._) Course, Ah don’t wanta look too bossy, but Ah
b’lieve you got to marry me tuh git rid of me. That is, if you aint
married.

EMMA. Naw, Ah aint. (_She turns the lamp down._)

JOHN (_looking about the room_). Not so good, Emma, But wait till
you see dat little place in Philly! Got a little “Rolls-Rough,”
too--gointer teach you to drive it, too.

EMMA. Ah been havin’ a hard time, John, an’ Ah lost you--oh, aint
nothin’ been right for me! Ah aint never been happy.

(_John takes both of her hands in his._)

JOHN. You gointer be happy now, Emma. Cause Ah’m gointer make you. Gee
Whiz! Ah aint but forty-two and you aint forty yet--we got plenty time.
(_There is a groan from the bed._) Gee, what’s that?

EMMA (_ill at ease_). Thass mah chile. She’s sick. Reckon Ah bettah see
’bout her.

JOHN. You got a chile? Gee, that great! Ah always wanted one, but
didn’t have no luck. Now we kin start off with a family. Girl or boy?

EMMA (_slowly_). A girl. Comin’ tuh see me agin soon, John?

JOHN. Comin’ agin? Ah aint gone yet! We aint talked, you aint kissed
me an’ nothin’, and you aint showed me our girl. (_Another groan, more
prolonged._) She must be pretty sick--let’s see. (_He turns in his
chair and Emma rushes over to the bed and covers the girl securely,
tucking her long hair under the covers, too--before he arises. He goes
over to the bed and looks down into her face. She is mulatto. Turns to
Emma teasingly._) Talkin’ ’bout _me_ liking high-yallers--_yo_ husband
musta been pretty near _white_.

EMMA (_slowly_). Ah, never wuz married, John.

JOHN. It’s alright, Emma. (_Kisses her warmly._) Everything is going to
be O.K. (_Turning back to the bed._) Our child looks pretty sick, but
she’s pretty. (_Feels her forehead and cheek._) Think she oughter have
a doctor.

EMMA. Ah done had one. Course Ah cain’t git no specialist an’ nothin’
lak dat. (_She looks about the room and his gaze follows hers._) Ah
aint got a whole lot lake you. Nobody don’t git rich in no white-folks’
kitchen, nor in de washtub. You know Ah aint no school-teacher an’
nothin’ lak dat.

(_John puts his arm about her._)

JOHN. It’s all right, Emma. But our daughter is bad off--run out
an’ git a doctor--she needs one. Ah’d go if Ah knowed where to find
one--you kin git one the quickest--hurry, Emma.

EMMA (_looks from John to her daughter and back again._) She’ll be all
right, Ah reckon, for a while. John, you love me--you really want me
sho’ nuff?

JOHN. Sure Ah do--think Ah’d come all de way down here for nothin’? Ah
wants to marry agin.

EMMA. Soon, John?

JOHN. Real soon.

EMMA. Ah wuz jus’ thinkin’, mah folks is away now on a little trip--be
home day after tomorrow--we could git married tomorrow.

JOHN. All right. Now run on after the doctor--we must look after our
girl. Gee, she’s got a full suit of hair! Glad you didn’t let her chop
it off. (_Looks away from bed and sees Emma standing still._)

JOHN. Emma, run on after the doctor, honey. (_She goes to the bed and
again tucks the long braids of hair in, which are again pouring over
the side of the bed by the feverish tossing of the girl._) What’s our
daughter’s name?

EMMA. Lou Lillian. (_She returns to the rocker uneasily and sits
rocking jerkily. He returns to his seat and turns up the light._)

JOHN. Gee, we’re going to be happy--we gointer make up for all
them twenty years (_another groan_). Emma, git up an’ gwan git dat
doctor. You done forgot Ah’m de boss uh dis family now--gwan, while
Ah’m here to watch her whilst you’re gone. Ah got to git back to mah
stoppin’-place after a while.

EMMA. You go git one, John.

JOHN. Whilst Ah’m blunderin’ round tryin’ to find one, she’ll be
gettin’ worse. She sounds pretty bad--(_takes out his wallet and hands
her a bill_)--get a taxi if necessary. Hurry!

EMMA (_does not take the money, but tucks her arms and hair in again,
and gives the girl a drink_). Reckon Ah better go git a doctor. Don’t
want nothin’ to happen to _her_. After you left, Ah useter have such a
hurtin’ in heah (_touches bosom_) till she come an’ eased it some.

JOHN. Here, take some money and get a good doctor. There must be some
good colored ones around here now.

EMMA (_scornfully_). I wouldn’t let one of ’em tend my cat if I had
one! But let’s we don’t start a fuss.

(_John caresses her again. When he raises his head he notices the
picture on the wall and crosses over to it with her--his arm still
about her._)

JOHN. Why, that’s you and me!

EMMA. Yes, I never could part with that. You coming tomorrow morning,
John, and we’re gointer get married, aint we? Then we can talk over
everything.

JOHN. Sure, but I aint gone yet. I don’t see how come we can’t make all
our arrangements now.

(_Groans from bed and feeble movement._)

Good lord, Emma, go get that doctor!

(_Emma stares at the girl and the bed and seizes a hat from a nail on
the wall. She prepares to go but looks from John to bed and back again.
She fumbles about the table and lowers the lamp. Goes to door and opens
it. John offers the wallet. She refuses it._)

EMMA. Doctor right around the corner. Guess I’ll leave the door open
so she can get some air. She won’t need nothing while I’m gone, John.
(_She crosses and tucks the girl in securely and rushes out, looking
backward and pushing the door wide open as she exits. John sits in the
chair beside the table. Looks about him--shakes his head. The girl on
the bed groans_, “water,” “so hot.” _John looks about him excitedly.
Gives her a drink. Feels her forehead. Takes a clean handkerchief from
his pocket and wets it and places it upon her forehead. She raises her
hand to the cool object. Enter Emma running. When she sees John at the
bed she is full of fury. She rushes over and jerks his shoulder around.
They face each other._)

EMMA. I knowed it! (_She strikes him._) A half white skin. (_She rushes
at him again. John staggers back and catches her hands._)

JOHN. Emma!

EMMA (_struggles to free her hands_). Let me go so I can kill you. Come
sneaking in here like a pole cat!

JOHN (_slowly, after a long pause_). So this is the woman I’ve been
wearing over my heart like a rose for twenty years! She so despises her
own skin that she can’t believe any one else could love it!

(_Emma writhes to free herself._)

JOHN. Twenty years! Twenty years of adoration, of hunger, of worship!
(_On the verge of tears he crosses to door and exits quietly, closing
the door after him._)

(_Emma remains standing, looking dully about as if she is half asleep.
There comes a knocking at the door. She rushes to open it. It is the
doctor. White. She does not step aside so that he can enter._)

DOCTOR. Well, shall I come in?

EMMA (_stepping aside and laughing a little_). That’s right, doctor,
come in.

(_Doctor crosses to bed with professional air. Looks at the girl, feels
the pulse and draws up the sheet over the face. He turns to her._)

DOCTOR. Why didn’t you come sooner. I told you to let me know of the
least change in her condition.

EMMA (_flatly_). I did come--I went for the doctor.

DOCTOR. Yes, but you waited. An hour more or less is mighty important
sometimes. Why didn’t you come?

EMMA (_passes hand over face_). Couldn’t see.

(_Doctor looks at her curiously, then sympathetically takes out a small
box of pills, and hands them to her._) Here, you’re worn out. Take one
of these every hour and try to get some sleep. (_He departs._)

(_She puts the pill-box on the table, takes up the low rocking chair
and places it by the head of the bed. She seats herself and rocks
monotonously and stares out of the door. A dry sob now and then. The
wind from the open door blows out the lamp and she is seen by the
little light from the window rocking in an even, monotonous gait, and
sobbing._)




_Flame From the Dark Tower_

A Section of Poetry

[Illustration]

[Illustration]


_From the Dark Tower_

    _We shall not always plant while others reap
    The golden increment of bursting fruit,
    Nor always countenance, abject and mute,
    That lesser men should hold their brothers cheap;
    Not everlastingly while others sleep
    Shall we beguile their limbs with mellow flute,
    Not always bend to some more subtle brute;
    We were not made eternally to weep._

    _The night whose sable breast relieves the stark,
    White stars is no less lovely being dark,
    And there are buds that cannot bloom at all
    In light, but crumple, piteous, and fall.
    So in the dark we hide the heart that bleeds,
    And wait, and tend our agonizing seeds._

                                           COUNTEE CULLEN.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]


_A Southern Road_

    _Yolk-colored tongue
    Parched beneath a burning sky,
    A lazy little tune
    Hummed up the crest of some
    Soft sloping hill.
    One streaming line of beauty
    Flowing by a forest
    Pregnant with tears.
    A hidden nest for beauty
    Idly flung by God
    In one lonely lingering hour
    Before the Sabbath.
    A blue-fruited black gum,
    Like a tall predella,
    Bears a dangling figure,--
    Sacrificial dower to the raff,
    Swinging alone,
    A solemn, tortured shadow in the air._

                                           HELENE JOHNSON.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]


_Jungle Taste_

    _There is a coarseness
    In the songs of black men
    Coarse as the songs
    Of the sea.
    There is a weird strangeness
    In the songs of black men
    Which sounds not strange
    To me._

    _There is beauty
    In the faces of black women,
    Jungle beauty
    And mystery.
    Dark, hidden beauty
    In the faces of black women
    Which only black men
    See._

[Illustration]


_Finality_

    _Trees are the souls of men
    Reaching skyward.
    And while each soul
    Draws nearer God
    Its dark roots cleave
    To earthly sod:
        Death, only death
        Brings triumph to the soul.
        The silent grave alone
        Can bare the goal.
        Then roots and all
        Must lie forgot--
        To rot._

                                           EDWARD SILVERA.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]


_The Death Bed_

    _All the time they were praying
    He watched the shadow of a tree
    Flicker on the wall._

    _There is no need of prayer.
    He said,
    No need at all._

    _The kin-folk thought it strange
    That he should ask them from a dying bed.
    But they left all in a row
    And it seemed to ease him
    To see them go._

    _There were some who kept on praying
    In a room across the hall
    And some who listened to the breeze
    That made the shadows waver
    On the wall._

    _He tried his nerve
    On a song he knew
    And made an empty note
    That might have come,
    From a bird’s harsh throat._

    _And all the time it worried him
    That they were in there praying
    And all the time he wondered
    What it was they could be saying._

                                           WARING CUNEY.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]


_Elevator Boy_

    _I got a job now
    Runnin’ an elevator
    In the Dennison Hotel in Jersey,
    Job aint no good though.
    No money around.
        Jobs are just chances
        Like everything else.
        Maybe a little luck now,
        Maybe not.
        Maybe a good job sometimes:
        Step out o’ the barrel, boy.
    Two new suits an’
    A woman to sleep with.
        Maybe no luck for a long time.
        Only the elevators
        Goin’ up an’ down,
        Up an’ down,
        Or somebody else’s shoes
        To shine,
        Or greasy pots in a dirty kitchen.
    I been runnin’ this
    Elevator too long.
    Guess I’ll quit now._

                                           LANGSTON HUGHES.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]


_Railroad Avenue_

    _Dusk dark
    On Railroad Avenue.
    Lights in the fish joints,
    Lights in the pool rooms.
    A box car some train
    Has forgotten
    In the middle of the block.
    A player piano,
    A victrola.
        942
        Was the number.
    A boy
    Lounging on the corner.
    A passing girl
    With purple powdered skin.
        Laughter
        Suddenly
        Like a taut drum.
        Laughter
        Suddenly
        Neither truth nor lie.
        Laughter
    Hardening the dusk dark evening.
        Laughter
    Shaking the lights in the fish joints,
    Rolling white balls in the pool rooms,
    And leaving untouched the box car
    Some train has forgotten._

                                           LANGSTON HUGHES.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]


_Length of Moon_

    _Then the golden hour
    Will tick its last
    And the flame will go down in the flower._

    _A briefer length of moon
    Will mark the sea-line and the yellow dune._

    _Then we may think of this, yet
    There will be something forgotten
    And something we should forget._

    _It will be like all things we know:
    A stone will fail; a rose is sure to go._

    _It will be quiet then and we may stay
    Long at the picket gate,--
    But there will be less to say._

                                           ARNA BONTEMPS.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]


_Little Cinderella_

    _Look me over, kid!
    I knows I’m neat,--
    Little Cinderella from head to feet.
    Drinks all night at Club Alabam,--
    What comes next I don’t give a damn!_

    _Daddy, daddy,
    You sho’ looks keen!
    I likes men that are long and lean.
    Broad Street ain’t got no brighter lights
    Than your eyes at pitch midnight._

[Illustration]


_Streets_

    _Avenues of dreams
    Boulevards of pain
    Moving black streams
    Shimmering like rain._

                                           LEWIS ALEXANDER.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]




Wedding Day


_His name_ was Paul Watson and as he shambled down rue Pigalle he might
have been any other Negro of enormous height and size. But as I have
said, his name was Paul Watson. Passing him on the street, you might
not have known or cared who he was, but any one of the residents about
the great Montmartre district of Paris could have told you who he was
as well as many interesting bits of his personal history.

He had come to Paris in the days before colored jazz bands were the
style. Back home he had been a prize fighter. In the days when Joe
Gans was in his glory Paul was following the ring, too. He didn’t
have that fine way about him that Gans had and for that reason luck
seemed to go against him. When he was in the ring he was like a mad
bull, especially if his opponent was a white man. In those days there
wasn’t any sympathy or nicety about the ring and so pretty soon all the
ringmasters got down on Paul and he found it pretty hard to get a bout
with anyone. Then it was that he worked his way across the Atlantic
Ocean on a big liner--in the days before colored jazz bands were the
style in Paris.

Things flowed along smoothly for the first few years with Paul’s
working here and there in the unfrequented places of Paris. On the
side he used to give boxing lessons to aspiring youths or gymnastic
young women. At that time he was working so steadily that he had
little chance to find out what was going on around Paris. Pretty
soon, however, he grew to be known among the trainers and managers
began to fix up bouts for him. After one or two successful bouts a
little fame began to come into being for him. So it was that after
one of the prize-fights, a colored fellow came to his dressing room
to congratulate him on his success as well as invite him to go to
Montmartre to meet “the boys.”

Paul had a way about him and seemed to get on with the colored fellows
who lived in Montmartre and when the first Negro jazz band played in a
tiny Parisian cafe Paul was among them playing the banjo. Those first
years were without event so far as Paul was concerned. The members of
that first band often say now that they wonder how it was that nothing
happened during those first seven years, for it was generally known
how great was Paul’s hatred for American white people. I suppose the
tranquility in the light of what happened afterwards was due to the
fact that the cafe in which they worked was one in which mostly French
people drank and danced and then too, that was before there were
so many Americans visiting Paris. However, everyone had heard Paul
speak of his intense hatred of American white folks. It only took two
Benedictines to make him start talking about what he would do to the
first “Yank” that called him “nigger.” But the seven years came to an
end and Paul Watson went to work in a larger cafe with a larger band,
patronized almost solely by Americans.

I’ve heard almost every Negro in Montmartre tell about the night that a
drunken Kentuckian came into the cafe where Paul was playing and said:

“Look heah, Bruther, what you all doin’ ovah heah?”

“None ya bizness. And looka here, I ain’t your brother, see?”

“Jack, do you heah that nigger talkin’ lak that tah me?”

As he said this, he turned to speak to his companion. I have often
wished that I had been there to have seen the thing happen myself.
Every tale I have heard about it was different and yet there was
something of truth in each of them. Perhaps the nearest one can come to
the truth is by saying that Paul beat up about four full-sized white
men that night besides doing a great deal of damage to the furniture
about the cafe. I couldn’t tell you just what did happen. Some of the
fellows say that Paul seized the nearest table and mowed down men right
and left, others say he took a bottle, then again the story runs that
a chair was the instrument of his fury. At any rate, that started Paul
Watson on his siege against the American white person who brings his
native prejudices into the life of Paris.

It is a verity that Paul was the “black terror.” The last syllable
of the word, nigger, never passed the lips of a white man without
the quick reflex action of Paul’s arm and fist to the speaker’s jaw.
He paid for more glassware and cafe furnishings in the course of the
next few years than is easily imaginable. And yet, there was something
likable about Paul. Perhaps that’s the reason that he stood in so well
with the policemen of the neighborhood. Always some divine power seemed
to intervene in his behalf and he was excused after the payment of a
small fine with advice about his future conduct. Finally, there came
the night when in a frenzy he shot the two American sailors.

They had not died from the wounds he had given them hence his sentence
had not been one of death but rather a long term of imprisonment. It
was a pitiable sight to see Paul sitting in the corner of his cell with
his great body hunched almost double. He seldom talked and when he did
his words were interspersed with oaths about the lowness of “crackers.”
Then the World War came.

It seems strange that anything so horrible as that wholesale slaughter
could bring about any good and yet there was something of a smoothing
quality about even its baseness. There has never been such equality
before or since such as that which the World War brought. Rich men
fought by the side of paupers; poets swapped yarns with dry-goods
salesmen, while Jews and Christians ate corned beef out of the same
tin. Along with the general leveling influence came France’s pardon
of her prisoners in order that they might enter the army. Paul Watson
became free and a French soldier. Because he was strong and had innate
daring in his heart he was placed in the aerial squad and cited many
times for bravery. The close of the war gave him his place in French
society as a hero. With only a memory of the war and an ugly scar on
his left cheek he took up his old life.

His firm resolutions about American white people still remained intact
and many chance encounters that followed the war are told from lip to
lip proving that the war and his previous imprisonment had changed him
little. He was the same Paul Watson to Montmartre as he shambled up rue
Pigalle.

Rue Pigalle in the early evening has a sombre beauty--gray as are most
Paris streets and other-worldish. To those who know the district it is
the Harlem of Paris and rue Pigalle is its dusky Seventh Avenue. Most
of the colored musicians that furnish Parisians and their visitors with
entertainment live somewhere in the neighborhood of rue Pigalle. Some
time during every day each of these musicians makes a point of passing
through rue Pigalle. Little wonder that almost any day will find Paul
Watson going his shuffling way up the same street.

He reached the corner of rue de la Bruyere and with sure instinct his
feet stopped. Without half thinking he turned into “the Pit.” Its full
name is The Flea Pit. If you should ask one of the musicians why it was
so called, he would answer you to the effect that it was called “the
pit” because all the “fleas” hang out there. If you did not get the
full import of this explanation, he would go further and say that there
were always “spades” in the pit and they were as thick as fleas. Unless
you could understand this latter attempt at clarity you could not fully
grasp what the Flea-Pit means to the Negro musicians in Montmartre. It
is a tiny cafe of the genus that is called _bistro_ in France. Here
the fiddle players, saxophone blowers, drum-beaters and ivory ticklers
gather at four in the afternoon for a porto or a game of billiards.
Here the cabaret entertainers and supper musicians meet at one o’clock
at night or thereafter for a whiskey and soda, or more billiards.
Occasional sandwiches and a “quiet game” also play their parts in the
popularity of the place. After a season or two it becomes a settled
fact just what time you may catch so-and-so at the famous “Pit.”

The musicians were very fond of Paul and took particular delight in
teasing him. He was one of the chosen few that all of the musicians
conceded as being “regular.” It was the pet joke of the habitues of
the cafe that Paul never bothered with girls. They always said that he
could beat up ten men but was scared to death of one woman.

“Say fellow, when ya goin’ a get hooked up?”

“Can’t say, Bo. Ain’t so much on skirts.”

“Man alive, ya don’t know what you’re missin’--somebody little and cute
telling ya sweet things in your ear. Paris is full of women folks.”

“I ain’t much on ’em all the same. Then too, they’re all white.”

“What’s it to ya? This ain’t America.”

“Can’t help that. Get this--I’m collud, see? I ain’t got nothing for no
white meat to do. If a woman eva called me nigger I’d have to kill her,
that’s all!”

“You for it, son. I can’t give you a thing on this Mr. Jefferson Lawd
way of lookin’ at women.”

“Oh, tain’t that. I guess they’re all right for those that wants ’em.
Not me!”

“Oh you ain’t so forty. You’ll fall like all the other spades I’ve ever
seen. Your kind falls hardest.”

And so Paul went his way--alone. He smoked and drank with the
fellows and sat for hours in the Montmartre cafes and never knew the
companionship of a woman. Then one night after his work he was walking
along the street in his queer shuffling way when a woman stepped up to
his side.

“Voulez vous.”

“Naw, gowan away from here.”

“Oh, you speak English, don’t you?”

“You an ’merican woman?”

“Used to be ’fore I went on the stage and got stranded over here.”

“Well, get away from here. I don’t like your kind!”

“Aw, Buddy, don’t say that. I ain’t prejudiced like some fool women.”

“You don’t know who I am, do you? I’m Paul Watson and I hate American
white folks, see?”

He pushed her aside and went on walking alone. He hadn’t gone far when
she caught up to him and said with sobs in her voice:--

“Oh, Lordy, please don’t hate me ’cause I was born white and an
American. I ain’t got a sou to my name and all the men pass me by cause
I ain’t spruced up. Now you come along and won’t look at me cause I’m
white.”

Paul strode along with her clinging to his arm. He tried to shake
her off several times but there was no use. She clung all the more
desperately to him. He looked down at her frail body shaken with sobs,
and something caught at his heart. Before he knew what he was doing he
had said:--

“Naw, I ain’t that mean. I’ll get you some grub. Quit your cryin’.
Don’t like seein’ women folks cry.”

It was the talk of Montmartre. Paul Watson takes a woman to Gavarnni’s
every night for dinner. He comes to the Flea Pit less frequently, thus
giving the other musicians plenty of opportunity to discuss him.

“How times do change. Paul, the woman-hater, has a Jane now.”

“You ain’t said nothing, fella. That ain’t all. She’s white and an
’merican, too.”

“That’s the way with these spades. They beat up all the white men they
can lay their hands on but as soon as a gang of golden hair with blue
eyes rubs up close to them they forget all they ever said about hatin’
white folks.”

“Guess he thinks that skirt’s gone on him. Dumb fool!”

“Don’ be no chineeman. That old gag don’ fit for Paul. He cain’t
understand it no more’n we can. Says he jess can’t help himself,
everytime she looks up into his eyes and asks him does he love her.
They sure are happy together. Paul’s goin’ to marry her, too. At first
she kept saying that she didn’t want to get married cause she wasn’t
the marrying kind and all that talk. Paul jus’ laid down the law to her
and told her he never would live with no woman without being married to
her. Then she began to tell him all about her past life. He told her
he didn’t care nothing about what she used to be jus’ so long as they
loved each other now. Guess they’ll make it.”

“Yeah, Paul told me the same tale last night. He’s sure gone on her all
right.”

“They’re gettin’ tied up next Sunday. So glad it’s not me. Don’t trust
these American dames. Me for the Frenchies.”

“She ain’t so worse for looks, Bud. Now that he’s been furnishing the
green for the rags.”

“Yeah, but I don’t see no reason for the wedding bells. She was
right--she ain’t the marrying kind.”

... and so Montmartre talked. In every cafe where the Negro musicians
congregated Paul Watson was the topic for conversation. He had suddenly
fallen from his place as bronze God to almost less than the dust.

The morning sun made queer patterns on Paul’s sleeping face. He
grimaced several times in his slumber, then finally half-opened his
eyes. After a succession of dream-laden blinks he gave a great yawn,
and rubbing his eyes, looked at the open window through which the sun
shone brightly. His first conscious thought was that this was the
bride’s day and that bright sunshine prophesied happiness for the bride
throughout her married life. His first impulse was to settle back into
the covers and think drowsily about Mary and the queer twists life
brings about, as is the wont of most bridegrooms on their last morning
of bachelorhood. He put this impulse aside in favor of dressing quickly
and rushing downstairs to telephone to Mary to say “happy wedding day”
to her.

One huge foot slipped into a worn bedroom slipper and then the other
dragged painfully out of the warm bed were the courageous beginnings
of his bridal toilette. With a look of triumph he put on his new grey
suit that he had ordered from an English tailor. He carefully pulled
a taffeta tie into place beneath his chin, noting as he looked at his
face in the mirror that the scar he had received in the army was very
ugly--funny, marrying an ugly man like him.

French telephones are such human faults. After trying for about fifteen
minutes to get Central 32.01 he decided that he might as well walk
around to Mary’s hotel to give his greeting as to stand there in the
lobby of his own, wasting his time. He debated this in his mind a great
deal. They were to be married at four o’clock. It was eleven now and
it did seem a shame not to let her have a minute or two by herself. As
he went walking down the street towards her hotel he laughed to think
of how one always cogitates over doing something and finally does the
thing he wanted to in the beginning anyway.

[Illustration]

Mud on his nice gray suit that the English tailor had made for him.
Damn--gray suit--what did he have a gray suit on for, anyway. Folks
with black faces shouldn’t wear gray suits. Gawd, but it was funny
that time when he beat up that cracker at the Periquet. Fool couldn’t
shut his mouth he was so surprised. Crackers--damn ’em--he was one
nigger that wasn’t ’fraid of ’em. Wouldn’t he have a hell of a time if
he went back to America where black was black. Wasn’t white nowhere,
black wasn’t. What was that thought he was trying to get ahold
of--bumping around in his head--something he started to think about but
couldn’t remember it somehow.

The shrill whistle that is typical of the French subway pierced its way
into his thoughts. Subway--why was he in the subway--he didn’t want
to go any place. He heard doors slamming and saw the blue uniforms of
the conductors swinging on to the cars as the trains began to pull out
of the station. With one or two strides he reached the last coach as
it began to move up the platform. A bit out of breath he stood inside
the train and looking down at what he had in his hand he saw that it
was a tiny pink ticket. A first class ticket in a second class coach.
The idea set him to laughing. Everyone in the car turned and eyed him,
but that did not bother him. Wonder what stop he’d get off--funny how
these French said descend when they meant get off--funny he couldn’t
pick up French--been here so long. First class ticket in a second class
coach!--that was one on him. Wedding day today, and that damn letter
from Mary. How’d she say it now, “just couldn’t go through with it,”
white women just don’t marry colored men, and she was a street woman,
too. Why couldn’t she have told him flat that she was just getting back
on her feet at his expense. Funny that first class ticket he bought,
wish he could see Mary--him a-going there to wish her “happy wedding
day,” too. Wonder what that French woman was looking at him so hard
for? Guess it was the mud.

                                           GWENDOLYN BENNETT.

[Illustration]




_Three Drawings_

Aaron Douglas

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




Smoke, Lilies and Jade


_He wanted to do something_ ... to write or draw ... or something ...
but it was so comfortable just to lay there on the bed ... ... his
shoes off ... and think ... think of everything ... short disconnected
thoughts--to wonder ... to remember ... to think and smoke ... why
wasn’t he worried that he had no money ... he _had_ had five cents ...
but he had been hungry ... he _was_ hungry and still ... all he wanted
to do was ... lay there comfortably smoking ... think ... wishing he
were writing ... or drawing ... or something ... something about the
things he felt and thought ... but what did he think ... he remembered
how his mother had awakened him one night ... ages ago ... six years
ago ... Alex ... he had always wondered at the strangeness of it ...
she had seemed so ... so ... so just the same ... Alex ... I think your
father is dead ... and it hadn’t seemed so strange ... yet ... one’s
mother didn’t say that ... didn’t wake one at midnight every night to
say ... feel him ... put your hand on his head ... then whisper with
a catch in her voice ... I’m afraid ... sh don’t wake Lam ... yet it
hadn’t seemed as it should have seemed ... even when he had felt his
father’s cool wet forehead ... it hadn’t been tragic ... the light had
been turned very low ... and flickered ... yet it hadn’t been tragic
... or weird ... not at all as one should feel when one’s father died
... even his reply of ... yes he is dead ... had been commonplace ...
hadn’t been dramatic ... there had been no tears ... no sobs ... not
even a sorrow ... and yet he must have realized that one’s father
couldn’t smile ... or sing any more ... after he had died ... every
one remembered his father’s voice ... it had been a lush voice ... a
promise ... then that dressing together ... his mother and himself
... in the bathroom ... why was the bathroom always the warmest room
in the winter ... as they had put on their clothes ... his mother had
been telling him what he must do ... and cried softly ... and that had
made him cry too but you mustn’t cry Alex ... remember you have to be
a little man now ... and that was all ... didn’t other wives and sons
cry more for their dead than that ... anyway people never cried for
beautiful sunsets ... or music ... and those were the things that hurt
... the things to sympathize with ... then out into the snow and dark
of the morning ... first to the undertaker’s ... no first to Uncle
Frank’s ... why did Aunt Lula have to act like that ... to ask again
and again ... but when did he die ... when did he die ... I just can’t
believe it ... poor Minerva ... then out into the snow and dark again
... how had his mother expected him to know where to find the night
bell at the undertaker’s ... he was the most sensible of them all tho
... all he had said was ... what ... Harry Francis ... too bad ...
tell mamma I’ll be there first thing in the morning ... then down the
deserted streets again ... to grandmother’s ... it was growing light
now ... it must be terrible to die in daylight ... grandpa had been
sweeping the snow off the yard ... he had been glad of that because ...
well he could tell him better than grandma ... grandpa ... father’s
dead ... and he hadn’t acted strange either ... books lied ... he had
just looked at Alex a moment then continued sweeping ... all he said
was ... what time did he die ... she’ll want to know ... then passing
thru the lonesome street toward home ... Mrs. Mamie Grant was closing
a window and spied him ... hallow Alex ... an’ how’s your father this
mornin’ ... dead ... get out ... tch tch tch an’ I was just around
there with a cup a’ custard yesterday ... Alex puffed contentedly on
his cigarette ... he was hungry and comfortable ... and he had an
ivory holder inlaid with red jade and green ... funny how the smoke
seemed to climb up that ray of sunlight ... went up the slant just
like imagination ... was imagination blue ... or was it because he had
spent his last five cents and couldn’t worry ... anyway it was nice
to lay there and wonder ... and remember ... why was he so different
from other people ... the only things he remembered of his father’s
funeral were the crowded church and the ride in the hack ... so many
people there in the church ... and ladies with tears in their eyes ...
and on their cheeks ... and some men too ... why did people cry ...
vanity that was all ... yet they weren’t exactly hypocrites ... but why
... it had made him furious ... all these people crying ... it wasn’t
_their_ father ... and he wasn’t crying ... couldn’t cry for sorrow
altho he had loved his father more than ... than ... it had made him
so angry that tears had come to his eyes ... and he had been ashamed
of his mother ... crying into a handkerchief ... so ashamed that tears
had run down his cheeks and he had frowned ... and some one ... a
woman ... had said ... look at that poor little dear ... Alex is just
like his father ... and the tears had run fast ... because he _wasn’t_
like his father ... he couldn’t sing ... he didn’t want to sing ... he
didn’t want to sing ... Alex blew a cloud of smoke ... blue smoke ...
when they had taken his father from the vault three weeks later ... he
had grown beautiful ... his nose had become perfect and clear ... his
hair had turned jet black and glossy and silky ... and his skin was a
transparent green ... like the sea only not so deep ... and where it
was drawn over the cheek bones a pale beautiful red appeared ... like
a blush ... why hadn’t his father looked like that always ... but no
... to have sung would have broken the wondrous repose of his lips and
maybe that was his beauty ... maybe it was wrong to think thoughts like
these ... but they were nice and pleasant and comfortable ... when one
was smoking a cigarette thru an ivory holder ... inlaid with red jade
and green....

he wondered why he couldn’t find work ... a job ... when he had first
come to New York he had ... and he had only been fourteen then was it
because he was nineteen now that he felt so idle ... and contented
... or because he was an artist ... but was he an artist ... was one
an artist until one became known ... of course he was an artist ...
and strangely enough so were all his friends ... he should be ashamed
that he didn’t work ... but ... was it five years in New York ... or
the fact that he was an artist ... when his mother said she couldn’t
understand him ... why did he vaguely pity her instead of being ashamed
... he should be ... his mother and all his relatives said so ... his
brother was three years younger than he and yet he had already been
away from home a year ... on the stage ... making thirty-five dollars
a week ... had three suits and many clothes and was going to help
mother ... while he ... Alex ... was content to lay and smoke and meet
friends at night ... to argue and read Wilde ... Freud ... Boccacio and
Schnitzler ... to attend Gurdjieff meetings and know things ... Why
did they scoff at him for knowing such people as Carl ... Mencken ...
Toomer ... Hughes ... Cullen ... Wood ... Cabell ... oh the whole lot
of them ... was it because it seemed incongruous that he ... who was
so little known ... should call by first names people they would like
to know ... were they jealous ... no mothers aren’t jealous of their
sons ... they are proud of them ... why then ... when these friends
accepted and liked him ... no matter how he dressed ... why did mother
ask ... and you went looking like that ... Langston was a fine fellow
... he knew there was something in Alex ... and so did Rene and Borgia
... and Zora and Clement and Miguel ... and ... and ... and all of them
... if he went to see mother she would ask ... how do you feel Alex
with nothing in your pockets ... I don’t see how you can be satisfied
... Really you’re a mystery to me ... and who you take after ... I’m
sure I don’t know ... none of my brothers were lazy and shiftless ...
I can never remember the time when they weren’t sending money home and
your father was your age he was supporting a family ... where you get
your nerve I don’t know ... just because you’ve tried to write one or
two little poems and stories that no one understands ... you seem to
think the world owes you a living ... you should see by now how much
is thought of them ... you can’t sell anything ... and you won’t do
anything to make money ... wake up Alex ... I don’t know what will
become of you....

it was hard to believe in one’s self after that ... did Wildes’ parents
or Shelly’s or Goya’s talk to them like that ... but it was depressing
to think in that vein ... Alex stretched and yawned ... Max had died
... Margaret had died ... so had Sonia ... Cynthia ... Juan-Jose and
Harry ... all people he had loved ... loved one by one and together
... and all had died ... he never loved a person long before they
died ... in truth he was tragic ... that was a lovely appellation ...
The Tragic Genius ... think ... to go thru life known as The Tragic
Genius ... romantic ... but it was more or less true ... Alex turned
over and blew another cloud of smoke ... was all life like that ...
smoke ... blue smoke from an ivory holder ... he wished he were in New
Bedford ... New Bedford was a nice place ... snug little houses set
complacently behind protecting lawns ... half open windows showing
prim interiors from behind waving cool curtains ... inviting ... like
precise courtesans winking from behind lace fans ... and trees ... many
trees ... casting lacey patterns of shade on the sun dipped sidewalks
... small stores ... naively proud of their pseudo grandeur ... banks
... called institutions for saving ... all naive ... that was it ...
New Bedford was naive ... after the sophistication of New York it would
fan one like a refreshing breeze ... and yet he had returned to New
York ... and sophistication ... was he sophisticated ... no because
he was seldom bored ... seldom bored by anything ... and weren’t the
sophisticated continually suffering from ennui ... on the contrary
... he was amused ... amused by the artificiality of naivety and
sophistication alike ... but may be that in itself was the essence of
sophistication or ... was it cynicism ... or were the two identical ...
he blew a cloud of smoke ... it was growing dark now ... and the smoke
no longer had a ladder to climb ... but soon the moon would rise and
then he would clothe the silver moon in blue smoke garments ... truly
smoke was like imagination....

Alex sat up ... pulled on his shoes and went out ... it was a beautiful
night ... and so large ... the dusky blue hung like a curtain in an
immense arched doorway ... fastened with silver tacks ... to wander
in the night was wonderful ... myriads of inquisitive lights ...
curiously prying into the dark ... and fading unsatisfied ... he passed
a woman ... she was not beautiful ... and he was sad because she did
not weep that she would never be beautiful ... was it Wilde who had
said ... a cigarette is the most perfect pleasure because it leaves
one unsatisfied ... the breeze gave to him a perfume stolen from some
wandering lady of the evening ... it pleased him ... why was it that
men wouldn’t use perfumes ... they should ... each and every one of
them liked perfumes ... the man who denied that was a liar ... or
a coward ... but if ever he were to voice that thought ... express
it ... he would be misunderstood ... a fine feeling that ... to be
misunderstood ... it made him feel tragic and great ... but may be it
would be nicer to be understood ... but no ... no great artist is ...
then again neither were fools ... they were strangely akin these two
... Alex thought of a sketch he would make ... a personality sketch of
Fania ... straight classic features tinted proud purple ... sensuous
fine lips ... gilded for truth ... eyes ... half opened and lids
colored mysterious green ... hair black and straight ... drawn sternly
mocking back from the false puritanical forehead ... maybe he would
made Edith too ... skin a blue ... infinite like night ... and eyes ...
slant and grey ... very complacent like a cat’s ... Mona Lisa lips ...
red and seductive as ... as pomegranate juice ... in truth it was fine
to be young and hungry and an artist ... to blow blue smoke from an
ivory holder....

here was the cafeteria ... it was almost as tho it had journeyed to
meet him ... the night was so blue ... how does blue feel ... or red
or gold or any other color ... if colors could be heard he could paint
most wondrous tunes ... symphonious ... think ... the dulcet clear
tone of a blue like night ... of a red like pomegranate juice ... like
Edith’s lips ... of the fairy tones to be heard in a sunset ... like
rubies shaken in a crystal cup ... of the symphony of Fania ... and
silver ... and gold ... he had heard the sound of gold ... but they
weren’t the sounds he wanted to catch ... no ... they must be liquid
... not so staccato but flowing variations of the same caliber ...
there was no one in the cafe as yet ... he sat and waited ... that
was a clever idea he had had about color music ... but after all he
was a monstrous clever fellow ... Jurgen had said that ... funny how
characters in books said the things one wanted to say ... he would like
to know Jurgen ... how does one go about getting an introduction to a
fiction character ... go up to the brown cover of the book and knock
gently ... and say hello ... then timidly ... is Duke Jurgen there ...
or ... no because if entered the book in the beginning Jurgen would
only be a pawn broker ... and one didn’t enter a book in the center
... but what foolishness ... Alex lit a cigarette ... but Cabell was a
master to have written Jurgen ... and an artist ... and a poet ... Alex
blew a cloud of smoke ... a few lines of one of Langston’s poems came
to describe Jurgen....

    Somewhat like Ariel
    Somewhat like Puck
    Somewhat like a gutter boy
    Who loves to play in muck.
    Somewhat like Bacchus
    Somewhat like Pan
    And a way with women
    Like a sailor man....

Langston must have known Jurgen ... suppose Jurgen had met Tonio
Kroeger ... what a vagrant thought ... Kroeger ... Kroeger ... Kroeger
... why here was Rene ... Alex had almost gone to sleep ... Alex blew
a cone of smoke as he took Rene’s hand ... it was nice to have friends
like Rene ... so comfortable ... Rene was speaking ... Borgia joined
them ... and de Diego Padro ... their talk veered to ... James Branch
Cabell ... beautiful ... marvelous ... Rene had an enchanting accent
... said sank for thank and souse for south ... but they couldn’t know
Cabell’s greatness ... Alex searched the smoke for expression ... he
... he ... well he has created a phantasy mire ... that’s it ... from
clear rich imagery ... life and silver sands ... that’s nice ... and
silver sands ... imagine lilies growing in such a mire ... when they
close at night their gilded underside would protect ... but that’s
not it at all ... his thoughts just carried and mingled like ... like
odors ... suggested but never definite ... Rene was leaving ... they
all were leaving ... Alex sauntered slowly back ... the houses all
looked sleepy ... funny ... made him feel like writing poetry ... and
about death too ... an elevated crashed by overhead scattering all his
thoughts with its noise ... making them spread ... in circles ... then
larger circles ... just like a splash in a calm pool ... what had he
been thinking ... of ... a poem about death ... but he no longer felt
that urge ... just walk and think and wonder ... think and remember and
smoke ... blow smoke that mixed with his thoughts and the night ... he
would like to live in a large white palace ... to wear a long black
cape ... very full and lined with vermillion ... to have many cushions
and to lie there among them ... talking to his friends ... lie there
in a yellow silk shirt and black velvet trousers ... like music-review
artists talking and pouring strange liquors from curiously beautiful
bottles ... bottles with long slender necks ... he climbed the noisy
stair of the odorous tenement ... smelled of fish ... of stale fried
fish and dirty milk bottles ... he rather liked it ... he liked the
acrid smell of horse manure too ... strong ... thoughts ... yes to lie
back among strangely fashioned cushions and sip eastern wines and talk
... Alex threw himself on the bed ... removed his shoes ... stretched
and relaxed ... yes and have music waft softly into the darkened and
incensed room ... he blew a cloud of smoke ... oh the joy of being an
artist and of blowing blue smoke thru an ivory holder inlaid with red
jade and green....

[Illustration]

the street was so long and narrow ... so long and narrow ... and blue
... in the distance it reached the stars ... and if he walked long
enough ... far enough ... he could reach the stars too ... the narrow
blue was so empty ... quiet ... Alex walked music ... it was nice to
walk in the blue after a party ... Zora had shone again ... her stories
... she always shone ... and Monty was glad ... every one was glad when
Zora shone ... he was glad he had gone to Monty’s party ... Monty had
a nice place in the village ... nice lights ... and friends and wine
... mother would be scandalized that he could think of going to a party
... without a copper to his name ... but then mother had never been to
Monty’s ... and mother had never seen the street seem long and narrow
and blue ... Alex walked music ... the click of his heels kept time
with a tune in his mind ... he glanced into a lighted cafe window ...
inside were people sipping coffee ... men ... why did they sit there
in the loud light ... didn’t they know that outside the street ... the
narrow blue street met the stars ... that if they walked long enough
... far enough ... Alex walked and the click of his heels sounded ...
and had an echo ... sound being tossed back and forth ... back and
forth ... some one was approaching ... and their echoes mingled ... and
gave the sound of castanets ... Alex liked the sound of the approaching
man’s footsteps ... he walked music also ... he knew the beauty of the
narrow blue ... Alex knew that by the way their echoes mingled ... he
wished he would speak ... but strangers don’t speak at four o’clock in
the morning ... at least if they did he couldn’t imagine what would be
said ... maybe ... pardon me but are you walking toward the stars ...
yes, sir, and if you walk long enough ... then may I walk with you I
want to reach the stars too ... perdone me senor tiene vd. fosforo ...
Alex was glad he had been addressed in Spanish ... to have been asked
for a match in English ... or to have been addressed in English at all
... would have been blasphemy just then ... Alex handed him a match
... he glanced at his companion apprehensively in the match glow ...
he was afraid that his appearance would shatter the blue thoughts ...
and stars ... ah ... his face was a perfect compliment to his voice
... and the echo of their steps mingled ... they walked in silence ...
the castanets of their heels clicking accompaniment ... the stranger
inhaled deeply and with a nod of content and a smile ... blew a cloud
of smoke ... Alex felt like singing ... the stranger knew the magic
of blue smoke also ... they continued in silence ... the castanets of
their heels clicking rhythmically ... Alex turned in his doorway ...
up the stairs and the stranger waited for him to light the room ...
no need for words ... they had always known each other ... as they
undressed by the blue dawn ... Alex knew he had never seen a more
perfect being ... his body was all symmetry and music ... and Alex
called him Beauty ... long they lay ... blowing smoke and exchanging
thoughts ... and Alex swallowed with difficulty ... he felt a glow of
tremor ... and they talked and ... slept....

Alex wondered more and more why he liked Adrian so ... he liked many
people ... Wallie ... Zora ... Clement ... Gloria ... Langston ... John
... Gwenny ... oh many people ... and they were friends ... but Beauty
... it was different ... once Alex had admired Beauty’s strength ...
and Beauty’s eyes had grown soft and he had said ... I like you more
than any one Dulce ... Adrian always called him Dulce ... and Alex
had become confused ... was it that he was so susceptible to beauty
that Alex liked Adrian so much ... but no ... he knew other people who
were beautiful ... Fania and Gloria ... Monty and Bunny ... but he was
never confused before them ... while Beauty ... Beauty could make him
believe in Buddha ... or imps ... and no one else could do that ...
that is no one but Melva ... but then he was in love with Melva ... and
that explained that ... he would like Beauty to know Melva ... they
were both so perfect ... such compliments ... yes he would like Beauty
to know Melva because he loved them both ... there ... he had thought
it ... actually dared to think it ... but Beauty must never know ...
Beauty couldn’t understand ... indeed Alex couldn’t understand ... and
it pained him ... almost physically ... and tired his mind ... Beauty
... Beauty was in the air ... the smoke ... Beauty ... Melva ... Beauty
... Melva ... Alex slept ... and dreamed....

he was in a field ... a field of blue smoke and black poppies and
red calla lilies ... he was searching ... on his hands and knees ...
searching ... among black poppies and red calla lilies ... he was
searching pushed aside poppy stems ... and saw two strong white legs
... dancer’s legs ... the contours pleased him ... his eyes wandered
... on past the muscular hocks to the firm white thighs ... the rounded
buttocks ... then the lithe narrow waist ... strong torso and broad
deep chest ... the heavy shoulders ... the graceful muscled neck ...
squared chin and quizzical lips ... grecian nose with its temperamental
nostrils ... the brown eyes looking at him ... like ... Monty looked at
Zora ... his hair curly and black and all tousled ... and it was Beauty
... and Beauty smiled and looked at him and smiled ... said ... I’ll
wait Alex ... and Alex became confused and continued his search ... on
his hands and knees ... pushing aside poppy stems and lily stems ...
a poppy ... a black poppy ... a lily ... a red lily ... and when he
looked back he could no longer see Beauty ... Alex continued his search
... thru poppies ... lilies ... poppies and red calla lilies ... and
suddenly he saw ... two small feet olive-ivory ... two well turned legs
curving gracefully from slender ankles ... and the contours soothed him
... he followed them ... past the narrow rounded hips to the tiny waist
... the fragile firm breasts ... the graceful slender throat ... the
soft rounded chin ... slightly parting lips and straight little nose
with its slightly flaring nostrils ... the black eyes with lights in
them ... looking at him ... the forehead and straight cut black hair
... and it was Melva ... and she looked at him and smiled and said ...
I’ll wait Alex ... and Alex became confused and kissed her ... became
confused and continued his search ... on his hands and knees ... pushed
aside a poppy stem ... a black-poppy stem ... pushed aside a lily stem
... a red-lily stem ... a poppy ... a poppy ... a lily ... and suddenly
he stood erect ... exultant ... and in his hand he held ... an ivory
holder ... inlaid with red jade ... and green....

and Alex awoke ... Beauty’s hair tickled his nose ... Beauty was
smiling in his sleep ... half his face stained flush color by the sun
... the other half in shadow ... blue shadow ... his eye lashes casting
cobwebby blue shadows on his cheek ... his lips were so beautiful ...
quizzical ... Alex wondered why he always thought of that passage from
Wilde’s Salome ... when he looked at Beauty’s lips ... I would kiss
your lips ... he _would_ like to kiss Beauty’s lips ... Alex flushed
warm ... with shame ... or was it shame ... he reached across Beauty
for a cigarette ... Beauty’s cheek felt cool to his arm ... his hair
felt soft ... Alex lay smoking ... such a dream ... red calla lilies
... red calla lilies ... and ... what could it all mean ... did dreams
have meanings ... Fania said ... and black poppies ... thousands ...
millions ... Beauty stirred ... Alex put out his cigarette ... closed
his eyes ... he mustn’t see Beauty yet ... speak to him ... his lips
were too hot ... dry ... the palms of his hands too cool and moist ...
thru his half closed eyes he could see Beauty ... propped ... cheek in
hand ... on one elbow ... looking at him ... lips smiling quizzically
... he wished Beauty wouldn’t look so hard ... Alex was finding it
difficult to breathe ... breathe normally ... why _must_ Beauty look
so long ... and smile _that_ way ... his face seemed nearer ... it was
... Alex could feel Beauty’s hair on his forehead ... breathe normally
... breathe normally ... could feel Beauty’s breath on his nostrils and
lips ... and it was clean and faintly colored with tobacco ... breathe
normally Alex ... Beauty’s lips were nearer ... Alex closed his eyes
... how did one act ... his pulse was hammering ... from wrists to
finger tip ... wrist to finger tip ... Beauty’s lips touched his ...
his temples throbbed ... throbbed ... his pulse hammered from wrist
to finger tip ... Beauty’s breath came short now ... softly staccato
... breathe normally Alex ... you are asleep ... Beauty’s lips touched
his ... breathe normally ... and pressed ... pressed hard ... cool ...
his body trembled ... breathe normally Alex ... Beauty’s lips pressed
cool ... cool and hard ... how much pressure does it take to waken one
... Alex sighed ... moved softly ... how does one act ... Beauty’s
hair barely touched him now ... his breath was faint on ... Alex’s
nostrils ... and lips ... Alex stretched and opened his eyes ... Beauty
was looking at him ... propped on one elbow ... cheek in his palm ...
Beauty spoke ... scratch my head please Dulce ... Alex was breathing
normally now ... propped against the bed head ... Beauty’s head in his
lap ... Beauty spoke ... I wonder why I like to look at some things
Dulce ... things like smoke and cats ... and you ... Alex’s pulse no
longer hammered from ... wrist to finger tip ... wrist to finger tip
... the rose dusk had become blue night ... and soon ... soon they
would go out into the blue....

[Illustration]

the little church was crowded ... warm ... the rows of benches were
brown and sticky ... Harold was there ... and Constance and Langston
and Bruce and John ... there was Mr. Robeson ... how are you Paul ...
a young man was singing ... Caver ... Caver was a very self assured
young man ... such a dream ... poppies ... black poppies ... they were
applauding ... Constance and John were exchanging notes ... the benches
were sticky ... a young lady was playing the piano ... fair ... and red
calla lilies ... who had ever heard of red calla lilies ... they were
applauding ... a young man was playing the viola ... what could it all
mean ... so many poppies ... and Beauty looking at him like ... like
Monty looked at Zora ... another young man was playing a violin ... he
was the first real artist to perform ... he had a touch of soul ... or
was it only feeling ... they were hard to differentiate on the violin
... and Melva standing in the poppies and lilies ... Mr. Phillips was
singing ... Mr. Phillips was billed as a basso ... and he had kissed
her ... they were applauding ... the first young man was singing again
... Langston’s spiritual ... Fy-ah-fy-ah-Lawd ... fy-ah’s gonna burn ma
soul ... Beauty’s hair was so black and curly ... they were applauding
... encore ... Fy-ah Lawd had been a success ... Langston bowed ...
Langston had written the words ... Hall bowed ... Hall had written
the music ... the young man was singing it again ... Beauty’s lips
had pressed hard ... cool ... cool ... fy-ah Lawd ... his breath had
trembled ... fy-ah’s gonna burn ma soul ... they were all leaving ...
first to the roof dance ... fy-ah Lawd ... there was Catherine ... she
was beautiful tonight ... she always was at night ... Beauty’s lips
... fy-ah Lawd ... hello Dot ... why don’t you take a boat that sails
... when are you leaving again ... and there’s Estelle ... every one
was there ... fy-ah Lawd ... Beauty’s body had pressed close ... close
... fy-ah’s gonna burn my soul ... let’s leave ... have to meet some
people at the New World ... then to Augusta’s party ... Harold ...
John ... Bruce ... Connie ... Langston ... ready ... down one hundred
thirty-fifth street ... fy-ah ... meet these people and leave ...
fy-ah Lawd ... now to Augusta’s party ... fy-ahs gonna burn ma soul
... they were at Augusta’s ... Alex half lay ... half sat on the floor
... sipping a cocktail ... such a dream ... red calla lilies ... Alex
left ... down the narrow streets ... fy-ah ... up the long noisy stairs
... fy-ahs gonna bu’n ma soul ... his head felt swollen ... expanding
... contracting ... expanding ... contracting ... he had never been
like this before ... expanding ... contracting ... it was that ...
fy-ah ... fy-ah Lawd ... and the cocktails ... and Beauty ... he felt
two cool strong hands on his shoulders ... it was Beauty ... lie down
Dulce ... Alex lay down ... Beauty ... Alex stopped ... no no ... don’t
say it ... Beauty mustn’t know ... Beauty couldn’t understand ... are
you going to lie down too Beauty ... the light went out expanding ...
contracting ... he felt the bed sink as Beauty lay beside him ... his
lips were dry ... hot ... the palms of his hands so moist and cool ...
Alex partly closed his eyes ... from beneath his lashes he could see
Beauty’s face over his ... nearer ... nearer ... Beauty’s hair touched
his forehead now ... he could feel his breath on his nostrils and lips
... Beauty’s breath came short ... breathe normally Beauty ... breathe
normally ... Beauty’s lips touched his ... pressed hard ... cool ...
opened slightly ... Alex opened his eyes ... into Beauty’s ... parted
his lips ... Dulce ... Beauty’s breath was hot and short ... Alex ran
his hand through Beauty’s hair ... Beauty’s lips pressed hard against
his teeth ... Alex trembled ... could feel Beauty’s body ... close
against his ... hot ... tense ... white ... and soft ... soft ...
soft....

[Illustration]

they were at Forno’s ... every one came to Forno’s once maybe only once
... but they came ... see that big fat woman Beauty ... Alex pointed
to an overly stout and bejeweled lady making her way thru the maize
of chairs ... that’s Maria Guerrero ... Beauty looked to see a lady
guiding almost the whole opera company to an immense table ... really
Dulce ... for one who appreciates beauty you do use the most abominable
English ... Alex lit a cigarette ... and that florid man with white
hair ... that’s Carl ... Beauty smiled ... The Blind bow boy ... he
asked ... Alex wondered ... everything seemed to ... so just the same
... here they were laughing and joking about people ... there’s Rene
... Rene this is my friend Adrian ... after that night ... and he
felt so unembarrassed ... Rene and Adrian were talking ... there was
Lucricia Bori ... she was bowing at their table ... oh her cousin was
with them ... and Peggy Joyce ... every one came to Forno’s ... Alex
looked toward the door ... there was Melva ... Alex beckoned ... Melva
this is Adrian ... Beauty held her hand ... they talked ... smoked ...
Alex loved Melva ... in Forno’s ... every one came there sooner or
later ... maybe once ... but....

[Illustration]

up ... up ... slow ... jerk up ... up ... not fast ... not glorious ...
but slow ... up ... up into the sun ... slow ... sure like fate ...
poise on the brim ... the brim of life ... two shining rails straight
down ... Melva’s head was on his shoulder ... his arm was around her
... poise ... the down ... gasping ... straight down ... straight like
sin ... down ... the curving shiny rail rushed up to meet them ... hit
the bottom then ... shoot up ... fast ... glorious ... up into the sun
... Melva gasped ... Alex’s arm tightened ... all goes up ... then
down ... straight like hell ... all breath squeezed out of them ...
Melva’s head on his shoulder ... up ... up ... Alex kissed her ... down
... they stepped out of the car ... walking music ... now over to the
Ferris Wheel ... out and up ... Melva’s hand was soft in his ... out
and up ... over mortals ... mortals drinking nectar ... five cents a
glass ... her cheek was soft on his ... up ... up ... till the world
seemed small ... tiny ... the ocean seemed tiny and blue ... up ... up
and out ... over the sun ... the tiny red sun ... Alex kissed her ...
up ... up ... their tongues touched ... up ... seventh heaven ... the
sea had swallowed the sun ... up and out ... her breath was perfumed
... Alex kissed her ... drift down ... soft ... soft ... the sun had
left the sky flushed ... drift down ... soft down ... back to earth ...
visit the mortals sipping nectar at five cents a glass ... Melva’s lips
brushed his ... then out among the mortals ... and the sun had left a
flush on Melva’s cheeks ... they walked hand in hand ... and the moon
came out ... they walked in silence on the silver strip ... and the
sea sang for them ... they walked toward the moon ... we’ll hang our
hats on the crook of the moon Melva ... softly on the silver strip ...
his hands molded her features and her cheeks were soft and warm to his
touch ... where is Adrian ... Alex ... Melva trod silver ... Alex trod
sand ... Alex trod sand ... the sea _sang_ for her ... Beauty ... her
hand felt cold in his ... Beauty ... the sea _dinned_ ... Beauty ...
he led the way to the train ... and the train dinned ... Beauty ...
dinned ... dinned ... her cheek _had_ been soft ... Beauty ... Beauty
... her breath _had_ been perfumed ... Beauty ... Beauty ... the sands
_had_ been silver ... Beauty ... Beauty ... they left the train ...
Melva walked music ... Melva said ... don’t make me blush again ... and
kissed him ... Alex stood on the steps after she left him and the night
was black ... down long streets to ... Alex lit a cigarette ... and his
heels clicked ... Beauty ... Melva ... Beauty ... Melva ... and the
smoke made the night blue....

Melva had said ... don’t make me blush again ... and kissed him ... and
the street had been blue ... one _can_ love two at the same time ...
Melva had kissed him ... one _can_ ... and the street had been blue ...
one _can_ ... and the room was clouded with blue smoke ... drifting
vapors of smoke and thoughts ... Beauty’s hair was so black ... and
soft ... blue smoke from an ivory holder ... was that why he loved
Beauty ... one _can_ ... or because his body was beautiful ... and
white and warm ... or because his eyes ... one _can_ love....

                                           RICHARD BRUCE.


... _To Be Continued_....

[Illustration]




Sweat


_It was eleven o’clock_ of a Spring night in Florida. It was Sunday.
Any other night, Delia Jones would have been in bed for two hours by
this time. But she was a washwoman, and Monday morning meant a great
deal to her. So she collected the soiled clothes on Saturday when she
returned the clean things. Sunday night after church, she sorted them
and put the white things to soak. It saved her almost a half day’s
start. A great hamper in the bedroom held the clothes that she brought
home. It was so much neater than a number of bundles lying around.

She squatted in the kitchen floor beside the great pile of clothes,
sorting them into small heaps according to color, and humming a song in
a mournful key, but wondering through it all where Sykes, her husband,
had gone with her horse and buckboard.

Just then something long, round, limp and black fell upon her shoulders
and slithered to the floor beside her. A great terror took hold of her.
It softened her knees and dried her mouth so that it was a full minute
before she could cry out or move. Then she saw that it was the big bull
whip her husband liked to carry when he drove.

She lifted her eyes to the door and saw him standing there bent over
with laughter at her fright. She screamed at him.

“Sykes, what you throw dat whip on me like dat? You know it would skeer
me--looks just like a snake, an’ you knows how skeered Ah is of snakes.”

“Course Ah knowed it! That’s how come Ah done it.” He slapped his
leg with his hand and almost rolled on the ground in his mirth. “If
you such a big fool dat you got to have a fit over a earth worm or a
string, Ah don’t keer how bad Ah skeer you.”

“You aint got no business doing it. Gawd knows it’s a sin. Some day
Ah’m gointuh drop dead from some of yo’ foolishness. ’Nother thing,
where you been wid mah rig? Ah feeds dat pony. He aint fuh you to be
drivin’ wid no bull whip.”

“You sho is one aggravatin’ nigger woman!” he declared and stepped into
the room. She resumed her work and did not answer him at once. “Ah done
tole you time and again to keep them white folks’ clothes outa dis
house.”

He picked up the whip and glared down at her. Delia went on with her
work. She went out into the yard and returned with a galvanized tub
and sit it on the washbench. She saw that Sykes had kicked all of the
clothes together again, and now stood in her way truculently, his whole
manner hoping, _praying_, for an argument. But she walked calmly around
him and commenced to re-sort the things.

“Next time, Ah’m gointer kick ’em outdoors,” he threatened as he struck
a match along the leg of his corduroy breeches.

Delia never looked up from her work, and her thin, stooped shoulders
sagged further.

“Ah aint for no fuss t’night Sykes. Ah just come from taking sacrament
at the church house.”

He snorted scornfully. “Yeah, you just come from de church house on a
Sunday night, but heah you is gone to work on them clothes. You ain’t
nothing but a hypocrite. One of them amen-corner Christians--sing,
whoop, and shout, then come home and wash white folks clothes on the
Sabbath.”

He stepped roughly upon the whitest pile of things, kicking them
helter-skelter as he crossed the room. His wife gave a little scream of
dismay, and quickly gathered them together again.

“Sykes, you quit grindin’ dirt into these clothes! How can Ah git
through by Sat’day if Ah don’t start on Sunday?”

“Ah don’t keer if you never git through. Anyhow, Ah done promised Gawd
and a couple of other men, Ah aint gointer have it in mah house. Don’t
gimme no lip neither, else Ah’ll throw ’em out and put mah fist up side
yo’ head to boot.”

Delia’s habitual meekness seemed to slip from her shoulders like a
blown scarf. She was on her feet; her poor little body, her bare
knuckly hands bravely defying the strapping hulk before her.

“Looka heah, Sykes, you done gone too fur. Ah been married to you fur
fifteen years, and Ah been takin’ in washin’ fur fifteen years. Sweat,
sweat, sweat! Work and sweat, cry and sweat, pray and sweat!”

“What’s that got to do with me?” he asked brutally.

“What’s it got to do with you, Sykes? Mah tub of suds is filled yo’
belly with vittles more times than yo’ hands is filled it. Mah sweat is
done paid for this house and Ah reckon Ah kin keep on sweatin’ in it.”

She seized the iron skillet from the stove and struck a defensive pose,
which act surprised him greatly, coming from her. It cowed him and he
did not strike her as he usually did.

“Naw you won’t,” she panted, “that ole snaggle-toothed black woman you
runnin’ with aint comin’ heah to pile up on _mah_ sweat and blood. You
aint paid for nothin’ on this place, and Ah’m gointer stay right heah
till Ah’m toted out foot foremost.”

“Well, you better quit gittin’ me riled up, else they’ll be totin’ you
out sooner than you expect. Ah’m so tired of you Ah don’t know whut to
do. Gawd! how Ah hates skinny wimmen!”

A little awed by this new Delia, he sidled out of the door and slammed
the back gate after him. He did not say where he had gone, but she knew
too well. She knew very well that he would not return until nearly
daybreak also. Her work over, she went on to bed but not to sleep at
once. Things had come to a pretty pass!

She lay awake, gazing upon the debris that cluttered their matrimonial
trail. Not an image left standing along the way. Anything like flowers
had long ago been drowned in the salty stream that had been pressed
from her heart. Her tears, her sweat, her blood. She had brought love
to the union and he had brought a longing after the flesh. Two months
after the wedding, he had given her the first brutal beating. She had
the memory of his numerous trips to Orlando with all of his wages
when he had returned to her penniless, even before the first year had
passed. She was young and soft then, but now she thought of her knotty,
muscled limbs, her harsh knuckly hands, and drew herself up into an
unhappy little ball in the middle of the big feather bed. Too late now
to hope for love, even if it were not Bertha it would be someone else.
This case differed from the others only in that she was bolder than
the others. Too late for everything except her little home. She had
built it for her old days, and planted one by one the trees and flowers
there. It was lovely to her, lovely.

Somehow, before sleep came, she found herself saying aloud: “Oh well,
whatever goes over the Devil’s back, is got to come under his belly.
Sometime or ruther, Sykes, like everybody else, is gointer reap his
sowing.” After that she was able to build a spiritual earthworks
against her husband. His shells could no longer reach her. _Amen._
She went to sleep and slept until he announced his presence in bed by
kicking her feet and rudely snatching the cover away.

“Gimme some kivah heah, an’ git yo’ damn foots over on yo’ own side! Ah
oughter mash you in yo’ mouf fuh drawing dat skillet on me.”

Delia went clear to the rail without answering him. A triumphant
indifference to all that he was or did.

[Illustration]

The week was as full of work for Delia as all other weeks, and Saturday
found her behind her little pony, collecting and delivering clothes.

It was a hot, hot day near the end of July. The village men on Joe
Clarke’s porch even chewed cane listlessly. They did not hurl the
cane-knots as usual. They let them dribble over the edge of the porch.
Even conversation had collapsed under the heat.

“Heah come Delia Jones,” Jim Merchant said, as the shaggy pony came
’round the bend of the road toward them. The rusty buckboard was heaped
with baskets of crisp, clean laundry.

“Yep,” Joe Lindsay agreed. “Hot or col’, rain or shine, jes ez reg’lar
ez de weeks roll roun’ Delia carries ’em an’ fetches ’em on Sat’day.”

“She better if she wanter eat,” said Moss. “Syke Jones aint wuth de
shot an’ powder hit would tek tuh kill ’em. Not to _huh_ he aint.”

“He sho’ aint,” Walter Thomas chimed in. “It’s too bad, too, cause
she wuz a right pritty lil trick when he got huh. Ah’d uh mah’ied huh
mahseff if he hadnter beat me to it.”

Delia nodded briefly at the men as she drove past.

“Too much knockin’ will ruin _any_ ’oman. He done beat huh ’nough tuh
kill three women, let ’lone change they looks,” said Elijah Mosely.
“How Syke kin stommuck dat big black greasy Mogul he’s layin’ roun’
wid, gits me. Ah swear dat eight-rock couldn’t kiss a sardine can Ah
done thowed out de back do’ ’way las’ yeah.”

“Aw, she’s fat, thass how come. He’s allus been crazy ’bout fat women,”
put in Merchant. “He’d a’ been tied up wid one long time ago if he
could a’ found one tuh have him. Did Ah tell yuh ’bout him come sidlin’
roun’ _mah_ wife--bringin’ her a basket uh pee-cans outa his yard fuh
a present? Yessir, mah wife! She tol’ him tuh take ’em right straight
back home, cause Delia works so hard ovah dat washtub she reckon
everything on de place taste lak sweat an’ soapsuds. Ah jus’ wisht Ah’d
a’ caught ’im ’roun’ dere! Ah’d a’ made his hips ketch on fiah down dat
shell road.”

“Ah know he done it, too. Ah sees ’im grinnin’ at every ’oman dat
passes,” Walter Thomas said. “But even so, he useter eat some mighty
big hunks uh humble pie tuh git dat lil’ ’oman he got. She wuz ez
pritty ez a speckled pup! Dat wuz fifteen yeahs ago. He useter be so
skeered uh losin’ huh, she could make him do some parts of a husband’s
duty. Dey never wuz de same in de mind.”

“There oughter be a law about him,” said Lindsay. “He aint fit tuh
carry guts tuh a bear.”

Clarke spoke for the first time. “Taint no law on earth dat kin make a
man be decent if it aint in ’im. There’s plenty men dat takes a wife
lak dey do a joint uh sugar-cane. It’s round, juicy an’ sweet when dey
gits it. But dey squeeze an’ grind, squeeze an’ grind an’ wring tell
dey wring every drop uh pleasure dat’s in ’em out. When dey’s satisfied
dat dey is wrung dry, dey treats ’em jes lak dey do a cane-chew. Dey
throws ’em away. Dey knows whut dey is doin’ while dey is at it, an’
hates theirselves fuh it but they keeps on hangin’ after huh tell she’s
empty. Den dey hates huh fuh bein’ a cane-chew an’ in de way.”

“We oughter take Syke an’ dat stray ’oman uh his’n down in Lake Howell
swamp an’ lay on de rawhide till they cain’t say ‘Lawd a’ mussy.’ He
allus wuz uh ovahbearin’ niggah, but since dat white ’oman from up
north done teached ’im how to run a automobile, he done got too biggety
to live--an’ we oughter kill ’im,” Old Man Anderson advised.

A grunt of approval went around the porch. But the heat was melting
their civic virtue and Elijah Moseley began to bait Joe Clarke.

“Come on, Joe, git a melon outa dere an’ slice it up for yo’ customers.
We’se all sufferin’ wid de heat. De bear’s done got _me_!”

“Thass right, Joe, a watermelon is jes’ whut Ah needs tuh cure de
eppizudicks,” Walter Thomas joined forces with Moseley. “Come on dere,
Joe. We all is steady customers an’ you aint set us up in a long time.
Ah chooses dat long, bowlegged Floridy favorite.”

“A god, an’ be dough. You all gimme twenty cents and slice away,”
Clarke retorted. “Ah needs a col’ slice m’self. Heah, everybody chip
in. Ah’ll lend y’ll mah meat knife.”

The money was quickly subscribed and the huge melon brought forth. At
that moment, Sykes and Bertha arrived. A determined silence fell on the
porch and the melon was put away again.

Merchant snapped down the blade of his jack-knife and moved toward the
store door.

“Come on in, Joe, an’ gimme a slab uh sow belly an’ uh pound uh
coffee--almost fuhgot ’twas Sat’day. Got to git on home.” Most of the
men left also.

Just then Delia drove past on her way home, as Sykes was ordering
magnificently for Bertha. It pleased him for Delia to see.

“Git whutsoever yo’ heart desires, Honey. Wait a minute, Joe. Give huh
two bottles uh strawberry soda-water, uh quart uh parched ground-peas,
an’ a block uh chewin’ gum.”

With all this they left the store, with Sykes reminding Bertha that
this was his town and she could have it if she wanted it.

The men returned soon after they left, and held their watermelon feast.

“Where did Syke Jones git dat ’oman from no-how?” Lindsay asked.

“Ovah Apopka. Guess dey musta been cleanin’ out de town when she lef’.
She don’t look lak a thing but a hunk uh liver wid hair on it.”

“Well, she sho’ kin squall,” Dave Carter contributed. “When she gits
ready tuh laff, she jes’ opens huh mouf an’ latches it back tuh de las’
notch. No ole grandpa alligator down in Lake Bell ain’t got nothin’ on
huh.”

[Illustration]

Bertha had been in town three months now. Sykes was still paying her
room rent at Della Lewis’--the only house in town that would have taken
her in. Sykes took her frequently to Winter Park to “stomps.” He still
assured her that he was the swellest man in the state.

“Sho’ you kin have dat lil’ ole house soon’s Ah kin git dat ’oman outa
dere. Everything b’longs tuh me an’ you sho’ kin have it. Ah sho’
’bominates uh skinny ’oman. Lawdy, you sho’ is got one portly shape on
you! You kin git _anything_ you wants. Dis is _mah_ town an’ you sho’
kin have it.”

Delia’s work-worn knees crawled over the earth in Gethsemane and up the
rocks of Calvary many, many times during these months. She avoided the
villagers and meeting places in her efforts to be blind and deaf. But
Bertha nullified this to a degree, by coming to Delia’s house to call
Sykes out to her at the gate.

Delia and Sykes fought all the time now with no peaceful interludes.
They slept and ate in silence. Two or three times Delia had attempted a
timid friendliness, but she was repulsed each time. It was plain that
the breaches must remain agape.

[Illustration]

The sun had burned July to August. The heat streamed down like a
million hot arrows, smiting all things living upon the earth. Grass
withered, leaves browned, snakes went blind in shedding and men and
dogs went mad. Dog days!

Delia came home one day and found Sykes there before her. She wondered,
but started to go on into the house without speaking, even though he
was standing in the kitchen door and she must either stoop under his
arm or ask him to move. He made no room for her. She noticed a soap
box beside the steps, but paid no particular attention to it, knowing
that he must have brought it there. As she was stooping to pass under
his outstretched arm, he suddenly pushed her backward, laughingly.

“Look in de box dere Delia, Ah done brung yuh somethin’!”

She nearly fell upon the box in her stumbling, and when she saw what it
held, she all but fainted outright.

“Syke! Syke, mah Gawd! You take dat rattlesnake ’way from heah! You
_gottuh_. Oh, Jesus, have mussy!”

“Ah aint gut tuh do nuthin’ uh de kin’--fact is Ah aint got tuh do
nothin’ but die. Taint no use uh you puttin’ on airs makin’ out lak
you skeered uh dat snake--he’s gointer stay right heah tell he die. He
wouldn’t bite me cause Ah knows how tuh handle ’im. Nohow he wouldn’t
risk breakin’ out his fangs ’gin _yo’_ skinny laigs.”

“Naw, now Syke, don’t keep dat thing ’roun’ heah tuh skeer me tuh
death. You knows Ah’m even feared uh earth worms. Thass de biggest
snake Ah evah did see. Kill ’im Syke, please.”

“Doan ast me tuh do nothin’ fuh yuh. Goin ’roun’ tryin’ tuh be so damn
asterperious. Naw, Ah aint gonna kill it. Ah think uh damn sight mo’ uh
him dan you! Dat’s a nice snake an’ anybody doan lak ’im kin jes’ hit
de grit.”

The village soon heard that Sykes had the snake, and came to see and
ask questions.

“How de hen-fire did you ketch dat six-foot rattler, Syke?” Thomas
asked.

“He’s full uh frogs so he caint hardly move, thass how Ah eased up on
’m. But Ah’m a snake charmer an’ knows how tuh handle ’em. Shux, dat
aint nothin’. Ah could ketch one eve’y day if Ah so wanted tuh.”

“Whut he needs is a heavy hick’ry club leaned real heavy on his head.
Dat’s de bes ’way tuh charm a rattlesnake.”

“Naw, Walt, y’ll jes’ don’t understand dese diamon’ backs lak Ah do,”
said Sykes in a superior tone of voice.

The village agreed with Walter, but the snake stayed on. His box
remained by the kitchen door with its screen wire covering. Two or
three days later it had digested its meal of frogs and literally came
to life. It rattled at every movement in the kitchen or the yard. One
day as Delia came down the kitchen steps she saw his chalky-white fangs
curved like scimitars hung in the wire meshes. This time she did not
run away with averted eyes as usual. She stood for a long time in the
doorway in a red fury that grew bloodier for every second that she
regarded the creature that was her torment.

That night she broached the subject as soon as Sykes sat down to the
table.

“Syke, Ah wants you tuh take dat snake ’way fum heah. You done starved
me an’ Ah put up widcher, you done beat me an Ah took dat, but you done
kilt all mah insides bringin’ dat varmint heah.”

Sykes poured out a saucer full of coffee and drank it deliberately
before he answered her.

“A whole lot Ah keer ’bout how you feels inside uh out. Dat snake
aint goin’ no damn wheah till Ah gits ready fuh ’im tuh go. So fur as
beatin’ is concerned, yuh aint took near all dat you gointer take ef
yuh stay ’roun’ _me_.”

Delia pushed back her plate and got up from the table. “Ah hates you,
Sykes,” she said calmly. “Ah hates you tuh de same degree dat Ah useter
love yuh. Ah done took an’ took till mah belly is full up tuh mah
neck. Dat’s de reason Ah got mah letter fum de church an’ moved mah
membership tuh Woodbridge--so Ah don’t haftuh take no sacrament wid
yuh. Ah don’t wantuh see yuh ’roun’ me atall. Lay ’roun’ wid dat ’oman
all yuh wants tuh, but gwan ’way fum me an’ mah house. Ah hates yuh lak
uh suck-egg dog.”

Sykes almost let the huge wad of corn bread and collard greens he was
chewing fall out of his mouth in amazement. He had a hard time whipping
himself up to the proper fury to try to answer Delia.

“Well, Ah’m glad you does hate me. Ah’m sho’ tiahed uh you hangin’
ontuh me. Ah don’t want yuh. Look at yuh stringey ole neck! Yo’ rawbony
laigs an’ arms is enough tuh cut uh man tuh death. You looks jes’ lak
de devvul’s doll-baby tuh _me_. You cain’t hate me no worse dan Ah
hates you. Ah been hatin’ _you_ fuh years.”

“Yo’ ole black hide don’t look lak nothin’ tuh me, but uh passle uh
wrinkled up rubber, wid yo’ big ole yeahs flappin’ on each side lak up
paih uh buzzard wings. Don’t think Ah’m gointuh be run ’way fum mah
house neither. Ah’m goin’ tuh de white folks bout _you_, mah young man,
de very nex’ time you lay yo’ han’s on me. Mah cup is done run ovah.”
Delia said this with no signs of fear and Sykes departed from the
house, threatening her, but made not the slightest move to carry out
any of them.

That night he did not return at all, and the next day being Sunday,
Delia was glad that she did not have to quarrel before she hitched up
her pony and drove the four miles to Woodbridge.

She stayed to the night service--“love feast”--which was very warm and
full of spirit. In the emotional winds her domestic trials were borne
far and wide so that she sang as she drove homeward,

    “_Jurden water, black an’ col’
    Chills de body, not de soul
    An’ Ah wantah cross Jurden in uh calm time._”

She came from the barn to the kitchen door and stopped.

“Whut’s de mattah, ol’ satan, you aint kickin’ up yo’ racket?” She
addressed the snake’s box. Complete silence. She went on into the house
with a new hope in its birth struggles. Perhaps her threat to go to
the white folks had frightened Sykes! Perhaps he was sorry! Fifteen
years of misery and suppression had brought Delia to the place where
she would hope _anything_ that looked towards a way over or through her
wall of inhibitions.

She felt in the match safe behind the stove at once for a match. There
was only one there.

“Dat niggah wouldn’t fetch nothin’ heah tuh save his rotten neck, but
he kin run threw whut Ah brings quick enough. Now he done toted off
nigh on tuh haff uh box uh matches. He done had dat ’oman heah in mah
house, too.”

Nobody but a woman could tell how she knew this even before she struck
the match. But she did and it put her into a new fury.

Presently she brought in the tubs to put the white things to soak. This
time she decided she need not bring the hamper out of the bedroom; she
would go in there and do the sorting. She picked up the pot-bellied
lamp and went in. The room was small and the hamper stood hard by
the foot of the white iron bed. She could sit and reach through the
bedposts--resting as she worked.

“Ah wantah cross Jurden in uh calm time.” She was singing again. The
mood of the “love feast” had returned. She threw back the lid of the
basket almost gaily. Then, moved by both horror and terror, she spring
back toward the door. _There lay the snake in the basket!_ He moved
sluggishly at first, but even as she turned round and round, jumped up
and down in an insanity of fear, he began to stir vigorously. She saw
him pouring his awful beauty from the basket upon the bed, then she
seized the lamp and ran as fast as she could to the kitchen. The wind
from the open door blew out the light and the darkness added to her
terror. She sped to the darkness of the yard, slamming the door after
her before she thought to set down the lamp. She did not feel safe even
on the ground, so she climbed up in the hay barn.

There for an hour or more she lay sprawled upon the hay a gibbering
wreck.

Finally she grew quiet, and after that, coherent thought. With this,
stalked through her a cold, bloody rage. Hours of this. A period of
introspection, a space of retrospection, then a mixture of both. Out of
this an awful calm.

“Well, Ah done de bes’ Ah could. If things aint right, Gawd knows taint
mah fault.”

She went to sleep--a twitchy sleep--and woke up to a faint gray sky.
There was a loud hollow sound below. She peered out. Sykes was at the
wood-pile, demolishing a wire-covered box.

He hurried to the kitchen door, but hung outside there some minutes
before he entered, and stood some minutes more inside before he closed
it after him.

The gray in the sky was spreading. Delia descended without fear now,
and crouched beneath the low bedroom window. The drawn shade shut out
the dawn, shut in the night. But the thin walls held back no sound.

“Dat ol’ scratch is woke up now!” She mused at the tremendous whirr
inside, which every woodsman knows, is one of the sound illusions. The
rattler is a ventriloquist. His whirr sounds to the right, to the left,
straight ahead, behind, close under foot--everywhere but where it is.
Woe to him who guesses wrong unless he is prepared to hold up his end
of the argument! Sometimes he strikes without rattling at all.

Inside, Sykes heard nothing until he knocked a pot lid off the stove
while trying to reach the match safe in the dark. He had emptied his
pockets at Bertha’s.

The snake seemed to wake up under the stove and Sykes made a quick leap
into the bedroom. In spite of the gin he had had, his head was clearing
now.

“Mah Gawd!” he chattered, “ef Ah could on’y strack uh light!”

The rattling ceased for a moment as he stood paralyzed. He waited. It
seemed that the snake waited also.

“Oh, fuh de light! Ah thought he’d be too sick”--Sykes was muttering to
himself when the whirr began again, closer, right underfoot this time.
Long before this, Sykes’ ability to think had been flattened down to
primitive instinct and he leaped--onto the bed.

Outside Delia heard a cry that might have come from a maddened
chimpanzee, a stricken gorilla. All the terror, all the horror, all
the rage that man possibly could express, without a recognizable human
sound.

A tremendous stir inside there, another series of animal screams, the
intermittent whirr of the reptile. The shade torn violently down from
the window, letting in the red dawn, a huge brown hand seizing the
window stick, great dull blows upon the wooden floor punctuating the
gibberish of sound long after the rattle of the snake had abruptly
subsided. All this Delia could see and hear from her place beneath the
window, and it made her ill. She crept over to the four-o’clocks and
stretched herself on the cool earth to recover.

She lay there. “Delia, Delia!” She could hear Sykes calling in a most
despairing tone as one who expected no answer. The sun crept on up, and
he called. Delia could not move--her legs were gone flabby. She never
moved, he called, and the sun kept rising.

“Mah Gawd!” She heard him moan, “Mah Gawd fum Heben!” She heard him
stumbling about and got up from her flower-bed. The sun was growing
warm. As she approached the door she heard him call out hopefully,
“Delia, is dat you Ah heah?”

She saw him on his hands and knees as soon as she reached the door. He
crept an inch or two toward her--all that he was able, and she saw his
horribly swollen neck and his one open eye shining with hope. A surge
of pity too strong to support bore her away from that eye that must,
could not, fail to see the tubs. He would see the lamp. Orlando with
its doctors was too far. She could scarcely reach the Chinaberry tree,
where she waited in the growing heat while inside she knew the cold
river was creeping up and up to extinguish that eye which must know by
now that she knew.

                                           ZORA NEALE HURSTON.

[Illustration]




Intelligentsia


_Of all the_ doughty societies that have sprung up in this age of
Kluxers and Beavers the one known by that unpronounceable word,
“Intelligentsia,” is among the most benighted. The war seems to have
given it birth, the press nurtured it, which should have been warning
enough, then the public accepted it, and now we all suffer.

Of course no one would admit that he is a member of the Intelligentsia.
Modern civilizing influences do not develop that kind of candor. But
it is just as easy to spot a member of the genus as it is to spot a
Mississippian or a Chinese: the marks are all there.

According to the ultra-advanced notions of the great majority of this
secret order if it were not for the Intelligentsia this crippled
old world would be compelled to kick up its toes and die on the
spot. Were it not for these super-men all the brilliance of the ages
and the inheritance which is so vital to the maintenance of the
spark of progress would vanish and pass away. In other words if the
Intelligentsia were to stick their divinely appointed noses a little
higher into the ethereal regions and withdraw themselves completely
from the tawdry field of life that field would soon become a burial
ground for the rest of humanity.

This is the rankest folly. The world owes about as much to the rank and
file of this society as a Negro slave owes to Georgia. Besides a few
big words added to the lexicon and one or two hifalutin’ notions about
the way the world should be run, the contribution of Intelligentsia to
society is as negligible as gin at a Methodist picnic. This is not to
discount the many notable contributions by really intelligent men and
women who didn’t know that such a society existed until insignificant
nincompoops with their eyes set towards enhancing their own positions
in society, made them honorary members.

What is intelligence anyway? If you ask a member of the Intelligentsia
he will probably sneer at you and ask who wants to know. The
Intelligentsia are very particular about observing the admonition
against putting a herd of swine on an oyster diet, so particular in
fact that they have become much more adept at discovering pigpens than
they are at digging pearls. But if you ask a truly intelligent person
he will tell you in a jiffy that intelligence is simply the ability to
solve a new problem, nothing more, nothing less.

Now that is just what the average member of the Intelligentsia does
not do. He does not solve new problems, he makes them; then he leaves
it to the true intellectuals to solve them. Sift the chaff out of
Intelligentsia and you will find that the residuum is about fifty-six
one hundredths of one per cent. For the rest, the society is made up of
non-producers and bloodsuckers who feed voraciously on the bones which
the true intellectuals pass on to them to pick over.

The average member of Intelligentsia comes as near being a true
intellectual as the proverbial hot water in which resides a cabbage
leaf comes to being stew. His earmarks are abundant information
about the most recent literature, an obsession for the latest shows,
wild notions about art in general, along with a flair for disdaining
Babbits, and for feigning spiritual chumminess with the true
intellectuals who are accomplishing things.

He reads H. L. M. and George Jean Nathan, knows his Freud from cover
to cover, and has an ability for spotting morons which is positively
as uncanny as the ability of a Texas bloodhound to sniff a nigger. If
he’s a man he is as incapable of attending to his own affairs and doing
something once in a while, as a hobo is incapable of paying a month’s
rent. All this goes for the feminine Intelligentsia, with this added
distinction--they sneer at every homely virtue, including taking care
of babies and frying eggs without breaking the yolks.

Far be it from me to sing paens to the days when men amused themselves
with dominoes and the fair sex waded through enough dishwater to make a
Jordan. Those days and their folk hold no illusions for me. But it is
high time that a halt is called on these snobbish sycophantish highbrow
hero-worshippers who, having got a smattering of wisdom from one of the
fifty-seven hundred purveyors of this rare article in America, deign to
damn with their sneers and jibes any activity, institution, or mortal
it strikes their fancy to treat in such a manner.

These are the folk who talk Bolshevism in their parlors and wouldn’t go
to Russia if it were placed, like milk for cats, in saucers on their
doorsteps. They slur Beethoven or Tennyson and extol Stravinsky and
Whitman when they are hardly able to grasp such simple minded folk as
Leybach or Longfellow, or even Eddie Guest himself.

They mull over best sellers and can call authors’ names by the
scores. Literature for them is measured by its mystic qualities or
its pornographical settings; music by its aberrations from generally
accepted forms; art by its illusiveness.

Anything that is plain or clear or clean comes under the suspicion of
these folk if not actually beneath their contempt. They who themselves
do almost nothing by way of contributing to the nation’s artistic
development set themselves up as the struggling workman’s severest
critics. Ofttimes they are actually proud of their non-accomplishment:
it shows their artistic temperament, they boast. Good God deliver us
from their art!

One can admire truly intellectual types like Sinclair Lewis, Dreiser,
H.L.M., and Shaw, men who are in every respect creative critics and
thinkers. What one cannot swallow is this carrion prostrated at the
altar of Liberalism when as a matter of fact their lying hearts are as
faint as they are insipid. Their pelts are as mangy as Main Streeters’
and their sentiments as hypocritical as those of the most pious Kluxer
in the Bible Belt. They are by far more to be despised than the
“morons” whom they single out with such avidity; for the latter do at
least make an attempt to earn their salt, and to express themselves
honestly, while the Intelligentsia steal all they can get away with and
never do anything unless it be in the attitude of a dethroned prince
who suddenly has to go to work.

These folk have no more right to become associated with true
artistic spirits than Knights of Columbus have to drink the Grand
Kleagle’s health. They simply give art and artists a black eye with
their snobbery and stupidity; and their false interpretations and
hypocritical evaluations do more to heighten suspicion against the
real artist on the part of the ordinary citizen than perhaps any other
single factor in the clash of art and provincialism.

Certainly there is more excuse for innocent idiocy and moronesia than
there is for the sophisticated bigotry of these fair folk who, in the
secret recesses of their inner consciousness, lay claim to membership
in the Intelligentsia.

                                           ARTHUR HUFF FAUSET.

[Illustration]




Fire Burns

_A Department of Comment_


_Some time ago_, while reviewing Carl Van Vechten’s lava laned Nigger
Heaven I made the prophecy that Harlem Negroes, once their aversion
to the “nigger” in the title was forgotten, would erect a statue on
the corner of 135th Street and Seventh Avenue, and dedicate it to this
ultra-sophisticated Iowa New Yorker.

So far my prophecy has failed to pan out, and superficially it
seems as if it never will, for instead of being enshrined for his
pseudo-sophisticated, semi-serious, semi-ludicrous effusion about
Harlem, Mr. Van Vechten is about to be lynched, at least in effigy.

Yet I am loathe to retract or to temper my first prophecy. Human nature
is too perverse and prophecies do not necessarily have to be fulfilled
within a generation. Rather, they can either be fulfilled or else
belied with startling two-facedness throughout a series of generations,
which, of course, creates the possibility that the fulfillments may
outnumber the beliements and thus gain credence for the prophecy with
posterity. Witness the Bible.

However, in defending my prophecy I do not wish to endow Mr. Van
Vechten’s novel (?) with immortality, but there is no real reason why
Nigger Heaven should not eventually be as stupidly acclaimed as it is
now being stupidly damned by the majority of Harlem’s dark inhabitants.
Thus I defiantly reiterate that a few years hence Mr. Van Vechten will
be spoken of as a kindly gent rather than as a moral leper exploiting
people who had believed him to be a sincere friend.

[Illustration]

I for one, and strange as it may sound, there are others, who believe
that Carl Van Vechten was rendered sincere during his explorations
and observations of Negro life in Harlem, even if he remained
characteristically superficial. Superficiality does not necessarily
denote a lack of sincerity, and even superficiality may occasionally
delve into deep pots of raw life. What matter if they be flesh pots?

In writing Nigger Heaven the author wavered between sentimentality and
sophistication. That the sentimentality won out is his funeral. That
the sophistication stung certain Negroes to the quick is their funeral.

The odds are about even. Harlem cabarets have received another public
boost and are wearing out cash register keys, and entertainers’ throats
and orchestra instruments. The so-called intelligentsia of Harlem has
exposed its inherent stupidity. And Nigger Heaven is a best seller.

[Illustration]

Group criticism of current writings, morals, life, politics, or
religion is always ridiculous, but what could be more ridiculous than
the wholesale condemnation of a book which only one-tenth of the
condemnators have or will read. And even if the book was as vile, as
degrading, and as defamatory to the character of the Harlem Negro as
the Harlem Negro now declares, his criticisms would not be considered
valid by an intelligent person as long as the critic had had no reading
contact with the book.

The objectors to Nigger Heaven claim that the author came to Harlem,
ingratiated himself with Harlem folk, and then with a supercilious grin
and a salacious smirk, lolled at his desk downtown and dashed off a
pornographic document about uptown in which all of the Negro characters
are pictured as being debased, lecherous creatures not at all
characteristic or true to type, and that, moreover, the author provokes
the impression that all of Harlem’s inhabitants are cabaret hounds and
thirsty neurotics. He did not tell, say his critics, of our well bred,
well behaved church-going majorities, nor of our night schools filled
with eager elders, nor of our brilliant college youth being trained
in the approved contemporary manner, nor of our quiet, home loving
thousands who hardly know what the word cabaret connotes. He told only
of lurid night life and of uninhibited sybarites. Therefore, since
he has done these things and neglected to do these others the white
people who read the book will believe that all Harlem Negroes are like
the Byrons, the Lascas, the Pettijohns, the Rubys, the Creepers, the
Bonifaces, and the other lewd hussies and whoremongers in the book.

It is obvious that these excited folk do not realize that any white
person who would believe such poppy-cock probably believes it anyway,
without any additional aid from Mr. Van Vechten, and should such a
person read a tale anent our non-cabareting, church-going Negroes,
presented in all their virtue and glory and with their human traits,
their human hypocrisy and their human perversities glossed over,
written, say, by Jessie Fauset, said person would laugh derisively and
allege that Miss Fauset had not told the truth, the same as Harlem
Negroes are alleging that Carl Van Vechten has not told the truth. It
really makes no difference to the race’s welfare what such ignoramuses
think, and it would seem that any author preparing to write about
Negroes in Harlem or anywhere else (for I hear that DuBose Heyward
has been roundly denounced by Charlestonian Negroes for his beautiful
Porgy) should take whatever phases of their life that seem the most
interesting to him, and develop them as he pleases. Why Negroes imagine
that any writer is going to write what Negroes think he ought to write
about them is too ridiculous to merit consideration. It would seem that
they would shy away from being pigeon-holed so long have they been the
rather lamentable victims of such a typically American practice, yet
Negroes would have all Negroes appearing in contemporary literature
made as ridiculous and as false to type as the older school of
pseudo-humorous, sentimental white writers made their Uncle Toms, they
Topsys, and their Mammies, or as the Octavius Roy Cohen school now make
their more modern “cullud” folk.

One young lady, prominent in Harlem collegiate circles, spoke forth in
a public forum (oh yes, they even have public forums where they spend
their time announcing that they have not read the book, and that the
author is a moral leper who also commits literary sins), that there
was only one character in Nigger Heaven who was true to type. This
character, the unwitting damsel went on, was Mary Love. It seems as if
all the younger Negro women in Harlem are prototypes of this Mary Love,
and it is pure, poor, virtuous, vapid Mary, to whom they point as a
typical life model.

Again there has been no realization that Mary Love is the least
life-like character in the book, or that it is she who suffers most
from her creator’s newly acquired seriousness and sentimentality, she
who suffers most of the whole ensemble because her creator discovered,
in his talented trippings around Manhattan, drama at which he could not
chuckle the while his cavalier pen sped cleverly on in the same old way
yet did not--could not spank.

But--had all the other characters in Nigger Heaven approximated Mary’s
standard, the statue to Carl Van Vechten would be an actualized
instead of a deferred possibility, and my prophecy would be gloriously
fulfilled instead of being ignominiously belied.

                                           WALLACE THURMAN.

[Illustration]


PRINTED BY JOSEPH LEVENTHAL, NEW YORK CITY




OPPORTUNITY

_Journal of Negro Life_


“On behalf of my publishers, I ask your formal permission to
reprint the following story in _The Best Short Stories of 1926_:
‘Symphonesque,’ by Arthur Huff Fauset. OPPORTUNITY, June 1926.”

  EDWARD J. O’BRIEN, London, England
  Editor, _Best Short Stories_

[Illustration]

“The brilliant Negro journal, OPPORTUNITY.”

  DU BOSE HEYWARD, _Author of Porgy_

[Illustration]

“This latest number of OPPORTUNITY is fine. Don’t forget me on those
back numbers.”

  CARL SANDBURG, Poet,
  Author, _Chicago Poems_, _Smoke and Steel_,
  and _Abraham Lincoln_

[Illustration]

“You are now giving us the best magazine we have.”

  BENJAMIN BRAWLEY

[Illustration]

“We have decided to give to last year’s class a subscription to some
good Negro Magazine. The class voted unanimously for the OPPORTUNITY
Magazine.”

  C. H. HARPER, Dean,
  Tennessee Agricultural and Industrial
  State College, Nashville, Tenn.

[Illustration]


OPPORTUNITY

Is Published By

  =The National Urban League=
  127 East 23rd St.,    New York City

  ERIC WALROND         CHARLES S. JOHNSON        COUNTEE P. CULLEN
  _Business Manager_       _Editor_              _Assistant Editor_

[Illustration]

       *       *       *       *       *




Transcriber’s note

Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. Spelling
has been retained as published.

In the play, _Color Struck_, the surname for the character of Emma has
been spelled three different ways. These have also been retained.

The following printer errors have been changed.


  =CHANGED= =FROM=                          =TO=

  Page 7:  “They are exits”               “There are exits”
  Page 7:  “shreiks, strumming of”        “shrieks, strumming of”
  Page 7:  “twdry best of 1900”           “tawdry best of 1900”
  Page 7:  “litle friendly pushing”       “little friendly pushing”
  Page 7:  “With head insite”             “With head inside”
  Page 8:  “accordian, the other”         “accordion, the other”
  Page 9:  “I don’t want to be”           “I don’t want you to be”
  Page 9:  “stretched and a”              “stretched on a”
  Page 9:  “by twos and three”            “by twos and threes”
  Page 10: “A guitar, accordian”          “A guitar, accordion”
  Page 11: “You won’t go it”              “You won’t go in”
  Page 11: “mandolin, banjo, accordian”   “mandolin, banjo, accordion”
  Page 12: “did you say John”             “Did you say John”
  Page 16: “Countée Cullen”               “Countee Cullen”
  Page 25: “on his seige against”         “on his siege against”
  Page 27: “wont of most bridgegrooms”    “wont of most bridegrooms”
  Page 33: “things he remebered”          “things he remembered”
  Page 34: “psuedo grandeur”              “pseudo grandeur”
  Page 36: “sound of castenets”           “sound of castanets”
  Page 36: “heels clicking rythmically”   “heels clicking rhythmically”
  Page 37: “black poppes and red”         “black poppies and red”
  Page 37: “a lilly ... a red lilly”      “a lily ... a red lily”
  Page 37: “exhultant ... and in his”     “exultant ... and in his”
  Page 42: “Dey thows ’em away”           “Dey throws ’em away”
  Page 42: “done got to biggety”          “done got too biggety”
  Page 42: “two botles uh strawberry”     “two bottles uh strawberry”
  Page 43: “At hates yuh lak”             “Ah hates yuh lak”
  Page 44: “kin run thew whut”            “kin run threw whut”
  Page 44: “he spring back toward”        “she spring back toward”
  Page 45: “and is one open eye”          “and his one open eye”
  Page 45: “ZONA NEALE HURSTON.”          “ZORA NEALE HURSTON.”
  Page 48: “their time anouncing”         “their time announcing”
  Page 48: “life-life character in”       “life-like character in”

  All other inconsistencies are as in the original.