The Complete Fiction of Nella Larsen

by Nella Larsen

  Helga Crane didn’t, however, think often of America, except in unfavorable contrast to Denmark. For she had resolved never to return to the existence of ignominy which the New World of opportunity and promise forced upon Negroes. How stupid she had been ever to have thought that she could marry and perhaps have children in a land where every dark child was handicapped at the start by the shroud of color! She saw, suddenly, the giving birth to little, helpless, unprotesting Negro children as a sin, an unforgivable outrage. More black folk to suffer indignities. More dark bodies for mobs to lynch. No, Helga Crane didn’t think often of America. It was too humiliating, too disturbing. And she wanted to be left to the peace which had come to her. Her mental difficulties and questionings had become simplified. She now believed sincerely that there was a law of compensation, and that sometimes it worked. For all those early desolate years she now felt recompensed. She recalled a line that had impressed her in her lonely schooldays: “The far-off interest of tears.”

  To her, Helga Crane, it had come at last, and she meant to cling to it So she turned her back on painful America, resolutely shutting out the griefs, the humiliations, the frustrations, which she had endured there.

  Her mind was occupied with other and nearer things.

  The charm of the old city itself, with its odd architectural mixture of medievalism and modernity, and the general air of well-being which pervaded it impressed her. Even in the so-called poor sections there was none of that untidiness and squalor which she remembered as the accompaniment of poverty in Chicago, New York, and the Southern cities of America. Here the doorsteps were always white from constant scrubbings, the women neat, and the children washed and provided with whole clothing. Here were no tatters and rags, no beggars. But, then, begging, she learned, was an offense punishable by law. Indeed, it was unnecessary in a country where everyone considered it a duty somehow to support himself and his family by honest work; or, if misfortune and illness came upon one, everyone else, including the state, felt bound to give assistance, a lift on the road to the regaining of independence.

  After the initial shyness and consternation at the sensation caused by her strange presence had worn off, Helga spent hours driving or walking about the city, at first in the protecting company of Uncle Poul or Aunt Katrina or both, or sometimes Axel Olsen. But later, when she had become a little familiar with the city, and its inhabitants a little used to her, and when she had learned to cross the streets in safety, dodging successfully the innumerable bicycles like a true Copenhagener, she went often alone, loitering on the long bridge which spanned the placid lakes, or watching the pageant of the blue-clad, sprucely tailored soldiers in the daily parade at Amalienborg Palace, or in the historic vicinity of the long, low-lying Exchange, a picturesque structure in picturesque surroundings, skirting as it did the great canal, which always was alive with many small boats, flying broad white sails and pressing close on the huge ruined pile of the palace of Christiansborg. There was also the Gammelstrand, the congregating place of the vendors of fish, where daily was enacted a spirited and interesting scene between sellers and buyers, and where Helga’s appearance always roused lively and audible, but friendly, interest, long after she became in other parts of the city an accepted curiosity. Here it was that one day an old countrywoman asked her to what manner of mankind she belonged and at Helga’s replying: “I’m a Negro,” had become indignant, retorting angrily that, just because she was old and a countrywoman she could not be so easily fooled, for she knew as well as everyone else that Negroes were black and had woolly hair.

  Against all this walking the Dahls had at first uttered mild protest. “But, Aunt dear, I have to walk, or I’ll get fat,” Helga asserted. “I’ve never, never in all my life, eaten so much.” For the accepted style of entertainment in Copenhagen seemed to be a round of dinner parties, at which it was customary for the hostess to tax the full capacity not only of her dining room but of her guests as well. Helga enjoyed these dinner parties, as they were usually spirited affairs, the conversation brilliant and witty, often in several languages. And always she came in for a goodly measure of flattering attention and admiration.

  There were, too, those popular afternoon gatherings for the express purpose of drinking coffee together, where between much talk, interesting talk, one sipped the strong and steaming beverage from exquisite cups fashioned of Royal Danish porcelain and partook of an infinite variety of rich cakes and smørrebrød. This smørrebrød, dainty sandwiches of an endless and tempting array, was distinctly a Danish institution. Often Helga wondered just how many of these delicious sandwiches she had consumed since setting foot on Denmark’s soil. Always, wherever food was served, appeared the inevitable smørrebrød, in the home of the Dahls, in every other home that she visited, in hotels, in restaurants.

  At first she had missed, a little, dancing, for, though excellent dancers, the Danes seemed not to care a great deal for that pastime, which so delightfully combines exercise and pleasure. But in the winter there was skating, solitary or in gay groups. Helga liked this sport, though she was not very good at it. There were, however, always plenty of efficient and willing men to instruct and to guide her over the glittering ice. One could, too, wear such attractive skating things.

  But mostly it was with Axel Olsen that her thoughts were occupied. Brilliant, bored, elegant, urbane, cynical, worldly, he was a type entirely new to Helga Crane, familiar only, and that but little, with the restricted society of American Negroes. She was aware, too, that this amusing if conceited man was interested in her. They were, because he was painting her, much together. Helga spent long mornings in the eccentric studio opposite the Folkemuseum, and Olsen came often to the Dahl home, where, as Helga and the man himself knew, he was something more than welcome. But in spite of his expressed interest and even delight in her exotic appearance, in spite of his constant attendance upon her, he gave no sign of the more personal kind of concern which—encouraged by Aunt Katrina’s mild insinuations and Uncle Poul’s subtle questionings—she had tried to secure. Was it, she wondered, race that kept him silent, held him back? Helga Crane frowned on this thought, putting it furiously from her, because it disturbed her sense of security and permanence in her new life, pricked her self-assurance.

  Nevertheless she was startled when on a pleasant afternoon while drinking coffee in the Hotel Vivili, Aunt Katrina mentioned, almost casually, the desirability of Helga’s making a good marriage.

  “Marriage, Aunt dear!”

  “Marriage,” firmly repeated her aunt, helping herself to another anchovy and olive sandwich. “You are,” she pointed out, “twenty-five.”

  “Oh, Aunt, I couldn’t! I mean, there’s nobody here for me to marry.” In spite of herself and her desire not to be, Helga was shocked.

  “Nobody?” There was, Fru Dahl asserted, Captain Frederick Skaargaard—and very handsome he was, too—and he would have money. And there was Herr Hans Tietgen, not so handsome, of course, but clever and a good businessman; he too would be rich, very rich, someday. And there was Herr Karl Pedersen, who had a good berth with the Landmands-bank and considerable shares in a prosperous cement factory at Aalborg. There was, too, Christian Lende, the young owner of the new Odin Theater. Any of these Helga might marry, was Aunt Katrina’s opinion. “And,” she added, “others.” Or maybe Helga herself had some ideas.

  Helga had. She didn’t, she responded, believe in mixed marriages, “between races, you know.” They brought only trouble—to the children—as she herself knew but too well from bitter experience.

  Fru Dahl thoughtfully lit a cigarette. Eventually, after a satisfactory glow had manifested itself, she announced: “Because your mother was a fool. Yes, she was! If she’d come home after she married, or after you were born, or even after your father—er—went off like that, it would have been different. If even she’d left you when she was here. But why in the world she should have married again, and a person like that, I can’t see. She wanted to keep you, she insisted on it, e
ven over his protest, I think. She loved you so much, she said…. And so she made you unhappy. Mothers, I suppose, are like that. Selfish. And Karen was always stupid. If you’ve got any brains at all they came from your father.”

  Into this Helga would not enter. Because of its obvious partial truths she felt the need for disguising caution. With a detachment that amazed herself she asked if Aunt Katrina didn’t think, really, that miscegenation was wrong, in fact as well as principle.

  “Don’t,” was her aunt’s reply, “be a fool too, Helga. We don’t think of those things here. Not in connection with individuals, at least.” And almost immediately she inquired: “Did you give Herr Olsen my message about dinner tonight?”

  “Yes, Aunt.” Helga was cross, and trying not to show it.

  “He’s coming?”

  “Yes, Aunt,” with precise politeness.

  “What about him?”

  “I don’t know. What about him?”

  “He likes you?”

  “I don’t know. How can I tell that?” Helga asked with irritating reserve, her concentrated attention on the selection of a sandwich. She had a feeling of nakedness. Outrage.

  Now Fru Dahl was annoyed and showed it. “What nonsense! Of course you know. Any girl does,” and her satin-covered foot tapped, a little impatiently, the old tiled floor.

  “Really, I don’t know, Aunt,” Helga responded in a strange voice, a strange manner, coldly formal, levelly courteous. Then suddenly contrite, she added: “Honestly, I don’t. I can’t tell a thing about him,” and fell into a little silence. “Not a thing,” she repeated. But the phrase, though audible, was addressed to no one. To herself.

  She looked out into the amazing orderliness of the street. Instinctively she wanted to combat this searching into the one thing which, here, surrounded by all other things which for so long she had so positively wanted, made her a little afraid. Started vague premonitions.

  Fru Dahl regarded her intently. It would be, she remarked with a return of her outward casualness, by far the best of all possibilities. Particularly desirable. She touched Helga’s hand with her fingers in a little affectionate gesture. Very lightly.

  Helga Crane didn’t immediately reply. There was, she knew, so much reason—from one viewpoint—in her aunt’s statement. She could only acknowledge it. “I know that,” she told her finally. Inwardly she was admiring the cool, easy way in which Aunt Katrina had brushed aside the momentary acid note of the conversation and resumed her customary pitch. It took, Helga thought, a great deal of security. Balance.

  “Yes,” she was saying, while leisurely lighting another of those long, thin, brown cigarettes which Helga knew from distressing experience to be incredibly nasty tasting, “it would be the ideal thing for you, Helga.” She gazed penetratingly into the masked face of her niece and nodded, as though satisfied with what she saw there. “And you of course realize that you are a very charming and beautiful girl. Intelligent too. If you put your mind to it, there’s no reason in the world why you shouldn’t—” Abruptly she stopped, leaving her implication at once suspended and clear. Behind her there were footsteps. A small gloved hand appeared on her shoulder. In the short moment before turning to greet Fru Fischer she said quietly, meaningly: “Or else stop wasting your time, Helga.”

  Helga Crane said: “Ah, Fru Fischer. It’s good to see you.” She meant it. Her whole body was tense with suppressed indignation. Burning inside like the confined fire of a hot furnace. She was so harassed that she smiled in self-protection. And suddenly she was oddly cold. An intimation of things distant, but nonetheless disturbing, oppressed her with a faintly sick feeling. Like a heavy weight, a stone weight, just where, she knew, was her stomach.

  Fru Fischer was late. As usual. She apologized profusely. Also as usual. And, yes, she would have some coffee. And some smørrebrød. Though she must say that the coffee here at the Vivili was atrocious. Simply atrocious. “I don’t see how you stand it.” And the place was getting so common, always so many Bolsheviks and Japs and things. And she didn’t—“begging your pardon, Helga”—like that hideous American music they were forever playing, even if it was considered very smart. “Give me,” she said, “the good old-fashioned Danish melodies of Gade and Heise. Which reminds me, Herr Olsen says that Nielsen’s Helios is being performed with great success just now in England. But I suppose you know all about it, Helga. He’s already told you. What?” This last was accompanied with an arch and insinuating smile.

  A shrug moved Helga Crane’s shoulders. Strange she’d never before noticed what a positively disagreeable woman Fru Fischer was. Stupid, too.

  Fifteen

  Well into Helga’s second year in Denmark came an indefinite discontent. Not clear, but vague, like a storm gathering far on the horizon. It was long before she would admit that she was less happy than she had been during her first year in Copenhagen, but she knew that it was so. And this subconscious knowledge added to her growing restlessness and little mental insecurity. She desired ardently to combat this wearing down of her satisfaction with her life, with herself. But she didn’t know how.

  Frankly the question came to this: what was the matter with her? Was there, without her knowing it, some peculiar lack in her? Absurd. But she began to have a feeling of discouragement and hopelessness. Why couldn’t she be happy, content, somewhere? Other people managed, somehow, to be. To put it plainly, didn’t she know how? Was she incapable of it?

  And then on a warm spring day came Anne’s letter telling of her coming marriage to Anderson, who retained still his shadowy place in Helga Crane’s memory. It added, somehow, to her discontent, and to her growing dissatisfaction with her peacock’s life. This, too, annoyed her.

  What, she asked herself, was there about that man which had the power always to upset her? She began to think back to her first encounter with him. Perhaps if she hadn’t come away—She laughed. Derisively. “Yes, if I hadn’t come away, I’d be stuck in Harlem. Working every day of my life. Chattering about the race problem.”

  Anne, it seemed, wanted her to come back for the wedding. This, Helga had no intention of doing. True, she had liked and admired Anne better than anyone she had ever known, but even for her she wouldn’t cross the ocean.

  Go back to America, where they hated Negroes! To America, where Negroes were not people. To America, where Negroes were allowed to be beggars only, of life, of happiness, of security. To America, where everything had been taken from those dark ones, liberty, respect, even the labor of their hands. To America, where, if one had Negro blood, one mustn’t expect money, education, or, sometimes, even work whereby one might earn bread. Perhaps she was wrong to bother about it now that she was so far away. Helga couldn’t, however, help it. Never could she recall the shames and often the absolute horrors of the black man’s existence in America without the quickening of her heart’s beating and a sensation of disturbing nausea. It was too awful. The sense of dread of it was almost a tangible thing in her throat.

  And certainly she wouldn’t go back for any such idiotic reason as Anne’s getting married to that offensive Robert Anderson. Anne was really too amusing. Just why, she wondered, and how had it come about that he was being married to Anne? And why did Anne, who had so much more than so many others—more than enough—want Anderson too? Why couldn’t she—“I think,” she told herself, “I’d better stop. It’s none of my business. I don’t care in the least. Besides,” she added irrelevantly, “I hate such nonsensical soul searching.”

  One night not long after the arrival of Anne’s letter with its curious news, Helga went with Olsen and some other young folk to the great Circus, a vaudeville house, in search of amusement on a rare off night. After sitting through several numbers they reluctantly arrived at the conclusion that the whole entertainment was dull, unutterably dull, and apparently without alleviation, and so not to be borne. They were reaching for their wraps when out upon the stage pranced two black men, American Negroes undoubtedly, for as they danced and ca
vorted they sang in the English of America an old ragtime song that Helga remembered hearing as a child, “Everybody Gives Me Good Advice.” At its conclusion the audience applauded with delight. Only Helga Crane was silent, motionless.

  More songs, old, all of them old, but new and strange to that audience. And how the singers danced, pounding their thighs, slapping their hands together, twisting their legs, waving their abnormally long arms, throwing their bodies about with a loose ease! And how the enchanted spectators clapped and howled and shouted for more!

  Helga Crane was not amused. Instead she was filled with a fierce hatred for the cavorting Negroes on the stage. She felt shamed, betrayed, as if these pale pink and white people among whom she lived had suddenly been invited to look upon something in her which she had hidden away and wanted to forget. And she was shocked at the avidity with which Olsen beside her drank it in.

  But later, when she was alone, it became quite clear to her that all along they had divined its presence, had known that in her was something, some characteristic, different from any that they themselves possessed. Else why had they decked her out as they had? Why subtly indicated that she was different? And they hadn’t despised it. No, they had admired it, rated it as a precious thing, a thing to be enhanced, preserved. Why? She, Helga Crane, didn’t admire it. She suspected that no Negroes, no Americans, did. Else why their constant slavish imitation of traits not their own? Why their constant begging to be considered as exact copies of other people? Even the enlightened, the intelligent ones demanded nothing more. They were all beggars like the motley crowd in the old nursery rhyme:

  Hark! Hark!

  The dogs do bark.

  The beggars are coming to town.

  Some in rags,

  Some in tags,