“Monotonous as ever. I’m damn tired of liberal organizations. I’d like to work for a Babbitt for a change, but Babbitts no like brown-skin secretaries.”
“Why not try a brownskin Babbitt?”
“I like salary for my work for one thing, and I don’t like to do bed duty after hours. Let’s don’t talk about it. My idea of heaven would be some place where there were no typewriters, adding machines, or sentimental persons prating of creating goodwill between whites and blacks.”
“Incidentally. Where is that chap, Miller, who used to work in your office?”
“Gone somewhere to study theology. Came to the conclusion that the only Negroes who could make money and remain independent were ministers of the gospel. He’ll do well, too. He’s a dog with the ladies.”
“Did he try to make you?”
“I didn’t give him the chance.”
Raymond looked into her eyes for a moment, then asked abruptly:
“Say, ’Cile, have you ever been in love?”
“Damned tootin’. All my life.”
“Can’t you ever be serious?”
“About love? Not at dinner time. Let’s eat.”
The waiter had placed their food in front of them. For a moment they both were too busily engaged eating to talk. Raymond broke the silence.
“How do you like Niggeratti Manor?”
“It’s a grand bawdy house. I hope you don’t always have a mob like you did the last time I was there. Is Steve going to stay permanently?”
“I hope so.”
“Is Aline a part of your plan to keep him there?”
“Don’t be silly,” Raymond replied indignantly. “It’s all their own doing.”
“All right, innocence. But I know you. Half of your life is spent maneuvering your friends.”
“Poppycock.”
“You’re a liar. Why, you’d even make a pawn of me if I’d let you.”
“Is that the reason you won’t have an affair with me?”
“Affair with you?” Lucille laughed. “Don’t be silly.”
“I’m not being silly. I’m being quite serious.”
“Ray, I’ve told you dozens of times that you needn’t make love to me.”
“All right then, let’s forget it.”
“As you will.”
Raymond returned to his food. And he did not notice the contraction of Lucille’s eyes, nor the expression of disappointment which flitted across her face, as she realized he had taken her persiflage seriously.
VIII
It was after midnight. Lucille had spent the evening with Raymond, and had just gone home. Everyone else was still congregated in his studio. It had been an evening of sobriety, an evening of serious conversation. And now, with voice low, eyes sullen, Euphoria Blake was telling the story of her life. For a moment she paused, cleared her throat, then clenched her fist and held it against her breast. Her audience was respectful, quiet.
“I went off to school, then. To a little state normal school in the backwoods of Georgia. I had never been away from home before. And my childhood, you know, had been rather lonely. I had never had any friends, never had any comrades but my mother, the dirty little brats she taught, and my father, whom I saw very seldom, because he spent most of his time roaming the highways of Georgia, carrying a guitar, a knapsack and a Bible, preaching to stray groups of peasant Negroes.
“I hadn’t wanted to leave home. I did not know how to mix with people, and I was afraid of being called a back number. But I hope you know my mother took no notice of my fear. No siree, she packed me off and I had to seem glad to go.
“Well, I arrived in Huntsville, scared to death. There was to be a bus at the station. I got off the train and looked for it, but couldn’t see nothing that looked like a school bus. There didn’t seem to be anyone around the station, either. It was so quiet that it was death-like. I stood there right where I had got off the train, looking silly as hell for a minute, then decided to pass the little shanty which was the station and look around. Maybe the bus was late and would be coming down the road. Well, I looked around. And for looking: Right there on the side of the road near the shanty was a telegraph pole. And dangling from that telegraph pole was the body of a Negro man. He had been lynched.
“I ain’t sure what happened after that. I only know I tore lickety split down the road, getting away from that horror just as fast as I could. I ran and ran. Finally some old colored woman hailed me, and from her I found out the way to the school. They hadn’t sent the bus, because of the lynching, and everyone was scared to go out.
“Well, I started to school, mechanically going to classes, and having no interest in anything that went on. I stayed to myself as much as possible. I couldn’t get the picture of that lynched man out of my mind. It haunted me day and night. I used to have nightmares and holler out loud enough to wake up everybody in the dormitory. The girls used to shun me. The matrons were mean. They said I was kinda queer. I guess I was. My only recreation was to go off in the woods and read. The solitude there sorta pacified me. It was just about this time that I begin to notice copies of The Crisis in the school library. From them I learned about the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. And I also got a crush on Joan of Arc.”
She stopped once more. There was fire in her eyes now, and the clenched fist dropped to her lap. A wan smile spread over her face as she continued.
“I was just plain silly, I guess. I don’t blame the folks in the school for thinking me crazy. I went to that school for three years and was left absolutely alone. It was only in the woods that I was happy. I went there constantly. They wasn’t far from the campus. And no one ever bothered me. By that time I was determined to be a black Joan of Arc, pledged to do something big for my race. I uster make up fiery speeches and shout them out loud to the pine trees. And in my dreams I saw myself on a white charger, leading a black army to victory against white people. The vision sorta got under my skin, and became a sort of motor force, driving me on to do something. I knew no peace. I was impatient for the great day, impatient to become active.
“Negroes had suffered too long. What they needed were leaders who would fight, and fight out in the open. I was to be that leader. I, a mere girl, would show them the way, lead my race over the top. School could hold me no longer. I was going to revolt. I wouldn’t be no schoolteacher like my mother, and rot away in some small Southern hole. I wanted to influence a lot of folks.”
She paused again. Her tongue coursed slowly over her lips, moistening them. Her eyes no longer flashed fire. The clenched fist once more sought her breast.
“And then,” Raymond intoned. He was seated on the floor beside her chair. His eyes hungrily searched her face.
“And then,” she repeated before continuing, “I came to New York. I don’t know why now. Something just seemed to pull me. I couldn’t resist it. There was that vision of Joan of Arc on a white charger. And I had some voices too. Voices which cried: Your race needs you. Well, I came to New York. Poor little fool that I was, with no money, no friends, nothing but a bunch of silly dreams, and that terrible urge to fight for my race.”
“You were dumb,” Paul interjected.
“How do you mean dumb?” Samuel shot back, eager as ever to engage Paul in an argument.
“To be like that… to want to fight.”
“But man, don’t you see she had her race at heart? Haven’t you felt a similar urge? I, a white man, have, and all the Negroes I know have, too.”
“You haven’t known many Negroes, have you Sam?” Paul asked sarcastically.
Samuel was outraged.
“Haven’t you any race pride?”
“Fortunately, no,” Paul replied coolly. “I don’t happen to give a good goddam about any nigger except myself.”
Samuel was too flabbergasted to say more. It was incredible that any Negro should make such a statement. Paul was just an unregenerate liar.
“Go on, Euphoria,” Raymond urge
d eagerly. He had no interest in the silly argument between Paul and Samuel. But he did have a vital interest in the tale Euphoria had been telling. Already he saw himself heightening and distilling her story for his own literary use.
Euphoria began speaking again. Her voice was huskier now, and her eyes were not so sullen.
“The moment I got in town, I went to the offices of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. It was their pamphlets, you know, and their magazines and speakers which had first aroused me. I knew the whole history of their organization. And I thought they were inspired by the spirit of John Brown. I felt that I had to join them. And that when they heard me talk, saw how eager I was, that they would welcome me with open arms as just the type of woman they had been looking for.
“When I got to their office, I stuttered out to a stenographer the name of the man I wished to see. I had no appointment of course. She suggested that I make one. Then my courage returned. Here, I had come all the way from Georgia, had run off from school, and from my mother. I had tried to make her understand what I wanted to do, and made no impression whatsoever. Never will I forget my last afternoon at home. I had gone to her schoolroom to tell her good-by. She wouldn’t speak to me, but just seemed like she was part of the cold portable blackboard on which she was writing. I had to do something to justify myself, and do it quick.
“Anyhow I got into the inner office. I faced my hero. He was polite but cold. I guess he was tired of dumb darkies busting in on him. His manner froze my courage and left a lump in my throat. I couldn’t remember my fiery speeches. My tongue was just like a piece of lead. I could only utter a few silly words. I could only say that I wanted to work. He referred me to the YWCA and politely ushered me out. There really wasn’t anything else for him to do, I guess.”
“And then … “ Raymond intoned again, fearful of her pause.
“I was lost. I didn’t know what to do. I found the YWCA all right. They gave me a room and found me a job doing housework. Me doing housework when I had come up here to be a race leader. It was both kinda funny and kinda tragic. I couldn’t go back home and admit defeat, so I just bided my time, working hard every day, and crying myself to sleep every night. I had lost my forest, my dreams, and my voices. I had nothing left”
She hesitated a moment, asked Raymond for a cigarette, remained immobile while he lit it, then inhaled deeply before she began to talk again.
“I continued to work, and then I started going to Columbia University. … ”
“What did you study?” Raymond interrupted, eager for every detail.
“Economics, Poli Sci, and short story writing. In the day time I worked in first one kitchen then another. There seemed no escape. Then I met Jane Gray. I was her cook. She was a radical. I was just a cook, until she found me reading Marx. Immediately, I became a new person in her eyes. A being with some intelligence and promise. She talked to me a lot. I told her everything. Gone was the Negro cook. I was a potential radical. Jane Gray then showed me off to all her friends. They made an awful fuss over me … a Negro kitchen mechanic who read Marx. I was taken to the Village, and signed into the Socialist Party. Next thing I knew they had me working as an organizer among the foreign women in the needle trades.”
She stopped for breath, for she was talking faster now, and her voice was pitched higher.
“At last my dreams had come true. I was not helping just one downtrodden race, but I was helping the entire downtrodden race of working men and working women. It wasn’t race prejudice I was fighting now, but capitalism, which I had come to believe was the cause of all prejudice.”
“Oh, no,” Samuel interrupted hurriedly, eager for another argument. Stephen forestalled him by growling:
“Shut your trap.”
Euphoria continued, outwardly oblivious to the trivial interruption.
“See, I was working with women, and through the women I was going to reach the men, and then I was going to help emancipate my men and women by making them all join hands … that is, all the workers. It was immense. I was thrilled to death. My old fire returned. Instead of a forest, I now shouted speeches in big, barnlike halls. Instead of birds, I now stilled groups of chattering women, and hushed them with my logic. I lived then. I was happy. In the mornings, I would have conferences with my associates, and draw up campaign plans. In the afternoons, I would tramp from one sweat shop to another. And in the evenings, I would take part in mass meetings and committee caucuses. Then late at night, there would be talk and drink and revelry in cellar cafés down in the Village or in somebody’s fire-lit studio. Life became a grand picnic. I soon lost all sight of color and race, so few Negroes did I see. The Masses was my Bible. Max Eastman, Floyd Dell, Eugene Debs, and Randolph Bourne were my gods of the day. And then … “ Her voice became low and steady, “the war came to America. Just like that,” she snapped her fingers, “my world went to smash. All my friends who had cursed the capitalist war either joined the army, or else preached patriotism, or allowed themselves to be conscripted. Only a few stood pat and risked going to jail. It seemed as if only my lover and I… ”
“Your what?” Paul shouted, finally aroused from his lethargy.
“My lover,” Euphoria repeated calmly. “I believed in free love, too. You see,” she added, almost apologetically, “it was all in the game.”
“Was he an o’fay?” Paul queried, glancing significantly at Samuel.
“Yes,” she answered quickly, then immediately began talking again as if to ward off further questioning.
“It seemed that change was all around me, but I had no intentions of changing. I kept yelling for peace. I kept on reviling Wilson. I said he had allied himself with the invisible government he had once denounced. I paraded down the sidewalk carrying a plea for peace sign, while soldiers marched down the streets with eyes on the American flag. I hooted while crowds cheered. And once more I felt so all alone. For a while I remained unmolested. You see,” she explained laconically, “everybody thought I was a demented Negro and not to be taken seriously. Had I been white, they would have mobbed me and thrown me in jail long before they did. But my day came too. I was hauled into court and charged with sedition. They had me examined for sanity. They couldn’t imagine a Negro being radical. I was found sane of course, but they were lenient with me. They locked me up in the Tombs for three months, and put me to scrubbing floors. My lover brought me food. It was all in the game, and I didn’t mind at all.”
She stopped again, and relit the cigarette Raymond had given her some time before. During the interval, while she was silently puffing and blowing rings, Paul squirmed closer to her chair, itching to inquire further about the lover. It was the only part of her story in which he was sincerely interested. Raymond was busily preoccupied recapitulating all she had said, making mental notes. Stephen’s eyes were fixed on Euphoria’s face, and there was admiration in his gaze. Samuel was incredulous and showed it. He was prepared to check up on her story. He couldn’t believe that she could have had such a career as a radical when he had tried so hard to do likewise, and ended up a mere handy man. Furthermore, there was no precedent in his knowledge of Negroes for a woman like Euphoria. Frankly, he didn’t believe ninety per cent of what she had said.
Suddenly Euphoria dropped her cigarette into an ash tray and began speaking again.
“When they let me out of jail, I quickly returned to my old haunts eager to carry on. I found nothing but strangers. The witch hunters had dissipated the ranks of the reds. All of them who hadn’t become patriots were hiding in attics or basements, and muttering their speeches of dissension among themselves. Cowardice and conformatism ruled. I was disgusted as hell. I came back to Harlem. I didn’t care any longer about movements of any kind. I became hard and cold like my mother. I had finally lost the troubadour spirit of my father. I opened an employment agency. I began to exploit the people I had once planned to help. I didn’t care any longer. I wanted money and nothing else. Harlem offered it. Niggers
were coming in by the thousands. They needed homes, and jobs, and there were people who had these homes and jobs to pass around. I began to play with both sides, getting money from all of them, those who needed, and those who had, the employer and the job seeker, the landlord and the tenant. They all came to me and they all paid.
“Occasionally I wandered back to the Village. My friends were all out in the open now, but they were hopelessly divided and utterly changed. I couldn’t become interested in any of their programs. I had lost the spark. It has never returned. I only wanted money, because it seemed to me, and still does, that only with money can Negroes ever purchase complete freedom. With money and with art. That’s the reason I started this house. And when I get enough money to retire then I’m going to give my time to writing and show the world that I can master the only things in life worth mastering.”
The clenched fist relaxed. Her hands clasped in her lap. A smile illuminated her round, butterscotch face as she looked from one to the other of her audience. She was very pleased with herself, and with her story, her story which she had told many times, and which she had embellished with gestures and rhetorical ornamentation. Her eyes were afire. A twisted lace handkerchief unfurled in her lap.
“And your lover?” Paul had finally seized an opportune moment.
“Damn the lover,” Stephen interjected. “Here’s two dollars. Go get some gin.”
IX
Raymond was in his room alone, trying to write a book review, which was already three days overdue. He had purposely delayed beginning the review until he should be in a particularly uncongenial mood. The book was by a Negro and about Negroes. Its author was a woman who, had she been white and unknown, would never have been able to get her book published. It was a silly tale, sophomoric and uninspired. Raymond was pleased with the sarcastic jibes he had summoned to include in the review. He was tired of Negro writers who had nothing to say, and who only wrote because they were literate and felt they should apprise white humanity of the better classes among Negro humanity.
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