Infants of the Spring

by Wallace Thurman

  “Jesus no, Steve, you know I’m not like that. I’m just indifferent to it all. Race to me … ”

  “Yes, race to you,” Stephen had interrupted impatiently, “means nothing. You stand on a peak alone, superior, nonchalant, unconcerned. I know all that. You’ve said it enough. Propagandists you despise. Illusions about Negroes you have none. Your only plea is that they accept themselves and be accepted by others as human beings. But what the hell does it all mean, after all? You claim to have no especial love for your race. You also claim not to despise them. The spectacle of your friends striving to be what they are not, and taking no note of their limitations, sickens you, nay revolts and angers you. Yet you, like the rest, sit about and do nothing. Are you as emancipated as you claim? Aren’t you, too, hindered by some racial complex?”

  “Nonsense, Steve. I know I’m a Negro and so does everyone else. I certainly cannot pass nor can I effect a change. Why worry about it? I rather love myself as I am, and am quite certain that I have as much chance to make good as anyone else, regardless of my color. In fact, I might even say that being black gives me a certain advantage which a white person of equal talent would be denied.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “You see what?”

  “Oh, nothing, let’s beat it downstairs.” And with this Stephen had terminated the conversation and the two of them had joined the crowd, gathered in Eustace’s studio.

  Raymond wondered about it now, and also about what Euphoria had said concerning the lack of creative work among Negro artists. Pelham and Eustace of course were not to be considered. They had nothing to contribute anyhow. But Paul and, he thought, himself, did have something to contribute once they made up their minds to do some actual work.

  There had been throughout the nation an announcement of a Negro renaissance. The American Negro, it seemed, was entering a new phase in his development. He was about to become an important factor in the artistic life of the United States. As the middle westerner and the southerner had found indigenous expression, so was the Negro developing his own literary spokesmen.

  Word had been flashed through the nation about this new phenomenon. Novels, plays, and poems by and about Negroes were being deliriously acclaimed and patronized. Blues shouters, tap dancers, high yaller chorus girls, and singers of Negro spirituals were reaping much publicity and no little money from the unexpected harvest. And yet the more discerning were becoming more and more aware that nothing, or at least very little, was being done to substantiate the current fad, to make it the foundation for something truly epochal. For the time being, the Negro was more in evidence in the high places than ever before in his American career, but unless, or so it seemed to Raymond, he, Paul and others of the group who had climbed aboard the bandwagon actually began to do something worth while, there would be little chance of their being permanently established. He wondered what accounted for the fact that most Negroes of talent were wont to make one splurge, then sink into oblivion. Was it all the result, as Stephen had intimated, of some deep-rooted complex? Or was it merely indicative of a lack of talent?

  Arriving home, Raymond decided to go to his studio before returning to the party in the basement. He could hear laughter and the clink of glasses as he climbed the stairs. On reaching his landing, he was surprised to see rays of light gleaming through the cracks in his studio door. He was certain he had turned out the lights before he had gone out with Euphoria. Perhaps Stephen was there. He hoped so. This would be a propitious time to thrash out certain problems which were tantalizing his mind.

  As he turned the knob, he heard a scream. Startled, he hurriedly opened the door, and entered the room. Aline lay on his daybed sobbing. Stephen and Bull, in the center of the room, were locked together, wrestling. Both were quite drunk. Both were swearing breathlessly Tears were streaming down Bull’s virile, scarred face.

  “What the hell?” Raymond shouted.

  “The bastard’s trying to kill me.” Stephen was red-faced and panting. Bull was weak with rage. Raymond had little trouble pushing them apart. Stephen collapsed into a nearby chair. Aline struggled to her feet and staggered toward Raymond.

  “He slapped me,” she screamed.

  “An’ by God, I’ll slap you again.” Bull started toward her. She backed away, collided with the daybed, and fell prostrate upon it. Raymond tried to push Bull from the room. Then he noticed that the doorway was filled with a staring mob, inane, drunken, and stupefied by the surprising scene which confronted them. The screams had penetrated to the floor beneath and mounted above the sounds of revelry there.

  As Raymond relaxed, Bull regained his strength, thrust Raymond aside, and with fists clenched, face wet and distorted, turned upon the frightened Aline:

  “Y’ hussy With a white man, eh? Yer own race ain’t good enough? You want a white man? You goddam bitch, I’ll kill you.”

  He made a rush for the figure lying on the daybed. Aline, seeing him come toward her, struggled to her feet, attempted to run, became entangled in the rug and fell heavily to the floor. Stephen snored in his chair. Raymond again threw himself into Bull’s way only to be sent crashing into the corner by the door. His head struck the wall and he was only dimly conscious of the sound of scuffling feet as the rest of the crowd surged into the room. A short struggle ensued. Raymond recovered his balance, and stumbled toward the prostrate Aline just as Bull was being forced down the stairs, hysterically raving, blasphemous.

  VI

  It was noon before Raymond awoke. Stephen was still asleep beside him. Paul lay stretched on the floor indolently smoking a cigarette. He smiled as Raymond sat up in the bed.

  “Good morning.”

  “How in the hell did you get here?”

  “I had to sleep somewhere.”

  Stephen awoke, turned over and blinked, then drew himself into a sitting posture.

  “You will seduce colored ladies, will you?” Paul drawled between puffs of smoke.

  “Say, was that guy nuts?”

  “Oh, no,” Paul assured him, “he’s just a good Negro.”

  “You mean he’s a damn fool,” Raymond interjected angrily

  “For trying to protect the chastity of his womenfolk?”

  “Go to hell, Paul.”

  “All right, Ray But you know I’m right. All niggers can’t be as civilized as you.”

  “Do you mean that guy actually got sore at me?”

  “Oh, no! He just felt playful.” Paul laughed. “Forget it, Steve. I’m going to see how near Pelham has breakfast ready.”

  When he had gone, Raymond turned to Stephen.

  “Damn awful mess you started.”

  “Aw what the hell! You’re as bad as Sam. Can’t a fellow rush a girl?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Then what’s the row about?”

  “It’s just that all Negroes aren’t alike. There are some who quite naturally object to seeing Negro women rushed by white men.”

  “Horse collar.”

  “I know it sounds silly to you, but it’s true, nevertheless.”

  “Baloney. Bull was just drunk. Haven’t I seen him rush white broads?”

  “Certainly. But that’s different.”

  “You’re nuts. Let’s eat.”

  He climbed out of the bed and began to dress. Sullenly, Raymond followed suit.

  The doorbell rang while they were still at the breakfast table. Pelham with his usual promptitude answered its summons. A moment later he meekly ushered Bull into the kitchen.

  “ ’Lo.”

  The return greetings were reserved. No one knew just what to say.

  “Wha’ d’ y’ say, Steve?” There was a jovial note in Bull’s voice as he slapped Stephen on the shoulder. “Weren’t we pie-eyed last night? Jeez, I was drunk.”

  Everyone laughed. There seemed to be nothing else to do. Stephen smiled triumphantly at Raymond. Conversation flourished throughout the rest of the meal and when breakfast was finished, Eustace procured a bottle of gin he had h
idden away the night before and led the way to Raymond’s studio. Only Pelham re-mained behind to wash the dishes.

  Raymond was intrigued by Bull’s attire as he followed him up the stairs. He was clad in a roughneck sweater and soiled corduroy trousers. On his head was a greasy cap which slithered over his left ear. He was every inch the tough, every inch the cinema conception of a gangster, with one exception. Instead of being fortified with a blackjack or a gun, his left arm was burdened with a mysterious packet of medium sized sheets of cardboard.

  Eustace mixed the highballs. Soon everyone was comfortably seated, drinking, smoking cigarettes, animated, talkative. Bull alone took little interest in the conversation. He seemed determined to become drunk again, gulping down glass after glass of straight gin, deliberately ignoring the highballs Eustace prepared. His reticence attracted attention. Conversation languished. No one knew what to expect next. Suddenly it came.

  “I’m a man, you know.”

  Only Paul had the temerity to laugh.

  “I’m a man. An’ I expect to be a man among men. Now maybe I was in the wrong last night. I’m so goddam bullheaded when I get drunk, but you see,” and here he looked directly at Stephen, “I ain’t used to seein’ no white man with no colored woman. The bastards lynch every nigger that has a white woman and I kinda thinks darkies ought to do the same. But you see, Steve,” a note of tenderness crept into his harsh voice, “I forgot you wasn’t no ordinary white man. An’ …” He paused to gulp down another glass of gin. “I’m sorry.”

  “ ’S all right, Bull.”

  Stephen could think of nothing else to say. Raymond and Paul exchanged amused glances. Eustace glided around the room, swishing his green dressing gown, refilling the empty glasses. Meanwhile Bull began orating on race relations. It was impossible for anyone else to get in a word. An uncle of his, it seemed, had been lynched on suspicion of having raped a white woman. Although a mere adolescent at the time, Bull had sworn to avenge his kinsman’s death by…

  “Havin’ ev’ry white woman I kin get, an’ by hurtin’ any white man I kin. I hates the bastards. I gets drunk so’s I can beat ’em up an’ I likes to make their women suffer. But if I ever catch one of the sons of bitches messin’ ’round one of my women, hell’s doors won’t open quick enuff to catch him.”

  So impassioned did he become that for the moment he once more forgot the alien presence of Stephen. Raymond felt that he should say something, should, perhaps, advance an argument to contravene Bull’s point of view. But a realization of how futile anything he might say would prove caused him to hesitate and remain silent. Suddenly Bull began again.

  “But, Steve, you’re nothin’ but a darky like the rest of us. You’re a man, see. I like you.”

  Stephen smiled his thanks. The others grinned mechanically, then busied themselves lighting cigarettes, draining their glasses, clearing their throats, and trying to think of something to say. Paul broke the silence by noticing Bull’s packet of cardboard.

  “Whatcha got there, Bull?”

  “Just some drawin’s of mine I brung along to show you.”

  “Drawings,” Paul gasped. Raymond became choked on the gin he was drinking. The others were equally aghast.

  “Yeah, I always did like to draw from a kid. Been takin’ a correspondence course in commercial art. Ain’t like you guys. I’m after money. I don’t wanna work for some white man all my life, an’ I’m too dumb to be a doctor or anything like that. But I’m apt at drawing.”

  Tenderly he undid his package, and proudly passed the various sheets of cardboard around the room. On each was a woman, pictured in some situation calculated to illustrate a descriptive pun printed at the bottom of the picture. Every pun included the slogan of some nationally known advertiser. The drawings were painstaking, vigorous and clean cut. Unlike those perpetrated by Pelham, there was some notion of perspective and a pleasing knowledge of human anatomy. But Bull’s women were not women at all. They were huge amazons with pugilistic biceps, prominent muscular bulges, and broad shoulders. The only thing feminine about them were the frilled red dresses in which all were attired.

  VII

  For a week or so after Bull’s explosion, things were fairly quiet in Niggeratti Manor. And Raymond had taken advantage of the lull in gin drinking to do some work on the first chapter of his proposed novel. While working on this, he suddenly remembered that it was about time he was getting in touch with Lucille. He telephoned her. She came to the house, but Raymond had a toothache and everyone else had a thirst for liquor. In order to be together alone, they finally made a dinner engagement.

  Raymond and Lucille had been pals almost since his first days in Harlem. Raymond had been attracted to her, because she personified what he was wont to call an intelligent woman. And there were few such women, in his opinion, to be found among the Negroes he knew. Their relationship had retained its platonic status only because Lucille had, from the beginning, scorned the suggestion that he should make love to her. At first, it had seemed only natural, in view of their mutual emancipated beliefs, that they should have an affair. Lucille had merely taunted Raymond with doing the conventional male action, once male and female became close friends. Her dissuasion had been subtle and effective, if not entirely sincere. Had Raymond not told her that he believed platonic friendships possible and sensible? He had, and except for infrequent vocal lapses, had seemed content to continue their friendship on that basis.

  Recently it seemed as if they were drifting apart. Until the advent of Stephen, Lucille had been Raymond’s most intimate companion. They had been constantly together, attending theaters, parties, musicales, and art exhibits. Rarely did two nights pass without their seeing one another, and always had they found it convenient to cancel engagements with other friends, merely to be with one another. There seemed to be no accounting for their present estrangement. Both were conscious of its existence, and both were eager to get together for the first time in over a month in order once more to revive their flagging friendship.

  Raymond met her at the subway kiosk at 135th Street and Lenox Avenue. She had come directly uptown from her work as secretary to the publicity manager of a well-known liberal organization. Her olive brown skin was flushed from the heat and jam of the subway. A stray black curl had escaped from beneath her cloche hat. Her dark, heavily lashed eyes danced merrily Raymond admired the delicate strength of her trimly clad figure.

  “ ’Lo, ’Cile.”

  “Hello, Ray. How’s the tooth?”

  “I’ve forgotten it.”

  “Didn’t you go back to the dentist?”

  “With the tooth not hurting? I should say not.”

  “Where do we eat?”

  “Anywhere but Craig’s. Samuel’s taking Steve there for dinner. Trying to influence him out of Harlem, I believe.”

  “Sam is a pill,” Lucille said.

  “Worse than that. He got all exercised with me last night because I wouldn’t attend a meeting of the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters. Accused me of being a self-centered egoist.”

  “You are.”

  “I know it, but I’ll be damned if I’ll join in any crusade to save the Negro masses. I’m only interested in individuals.”

  “Did you finish your first chapter?”

  “Yes, thank God. Some time this morning after the liquor was gone and I’d kicked Aline and Steve out of my bed.”

  “Aline and Steve?”

  “Umhuh. They’re quite gone on one another, despite Bull and Samuel.”

  “I don’t see what Steve sees in her.”

  “Cat.”

  “What I really meant, of course, is that I don’t see why she wants Steve.”

  “I thought you liked him.”

  “I do, Ray, tremendously. He’s the only one of your friends I do like without reservation. But I wouldn’t go to bed with him.”

  “He hasn’t asked you yet, ’Cile.”

  “It really wouldn’t do him any good if he did. I’d never
go to bed with any white man.”

  “I’m disappointed in you, ’Cile. You, of all people, to talk like that. It’s not what you said so much as the implications it carries. You spend ninety-nine percent of your time, in the office and out, with Nordics. You agree with me, ostensibly, that a human being is a human being regardless of color. And yet… ”

  “I wouldn’t go to bed with a white man, because I’d never be sure that I wasn’t doing it just because he was white.”

  “Do you think that about Aline?”

  “I’d bet my life on it, Ray. And what’s more, I’d be willing to bet that almost every other Negro woman Steve meets at your house will automatically assume a horizontal position if he makes the proper passes.”

  “Oh, shut up,’Cile.”

  They were now at 140th Street and Lenox Avenue. Tabb’s restaurant confronted them. They entered and descended to the basement grill. Dinner ordered, they settled down to talk.

  “How’s the job?” Raymond asked.