Infants of the Spring

by Wallace Thurman

  It came to be a matter of routine that he should clean their studios, prepare the communal meals, wash the dishes, and act as a servant when they had company. Raymond, Eustace and Paul accepted this service, politely encouraged him in his art, and kept a straight face when without warning he would burst in upon them, black face wreathed in smiles, proudly to exhibit a new picture or a new poem. Dutifully did they sit for him to do their portraits. The extent of his ineptitude was abysmal. Quietly they suggested that he attend an art school, then immediately knew they had said the wrong thing, for Pelham had native talent, which he himself was going to develop. Artists were not made in schools. A phrase of their own was flung at them triumphantly. Paul told him he was a Dadaist. Eustace, Raymond and Euphoria acquiesced. Only Stephen scoffed, and his scoffing was discounted by Pelham, because Stephen was white, and white people would naturally resent a black genius.

  By the time all had finished eating, Pelham had finally finished his poem. Triumphantly he threw his fountain pen into his plate of untouched food, and waved his piece of paper before them. No one encouraged him to read what he had written and he remained impervious to the covert conversation of mischievous eyes. He accepted their silence as a request for an immediate rendition. Gleefully, he read:

  “I paint on canvas

  And on paper

  Charms of girlhood

  Youthful bloom,

  Beauteous maidens

  All a-flutter

  On life’s threshold.

  “You who charm the artist’s brush

  You who guide his fountain pen

  You who bring the spirit solace

  With your trusting innocence.

  “Beauteous maidens, gracious mother,

  E’en the sun don’t always shine.

  Life is real, and fate is earnest.

  God will guide you to his shrine

  Of eternal happiness.”

  He finished and beamed at his audience. They sheepishly avoided his gaze and earnestly tried to think of something appropriate to say. No one laughed. No one even felt the urge to snicker. It was impossible to ridicule when his voice was so tender, his eyes so bright, his smile so pleased and ingratiating. There was complete silence. The eyes no longer conversed. Pelham’s black face shone with satisfaction. His audience had been stirred, moved, affected by the pathos and beauty of his poem. But he was not concerned with them. He must rush to those for whom it was intended. Still beaming, he pushed his chair back from the table, and hastened from the kitchen. They could hear him noisily running up the stairs.

  Everyone was saddened. Even Paul was pensive. Conversation was desultory and lagged. Stephen was surly. Eustace hurried to his studio and could soon be heard softly singing Water Boy. Raymond struck a match to light a cigarette, and burned his lip before he realized that the cigarette was still lying on the table, where he had placed it while he found the matches. But even this performance elicited no comment, realized no audience. Stephen muttered something about the damn dishes and went out of the room. A moment later the front door slammed. Paul and Raymond stacked the dishes in the sink, conversing meanwhile in subdued tones about the multiplying cockroaches. Their task finished they both went out into the street. Paul to roam the avenue. Raymond to meet Lucille. And on the top floor, in the little coffin shaped studio, Pelham read and reread his poem to an appreciative audience.

  XII

  When Raymond arrived at the subway kiosk where they had planned to meet, Lucille was already there. She rushed forward to meet him, a trim tailored figure with a mischievous gleam in her sparkling eyes.

  “Gee, Ray. I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age.”

  “Your fault, my dear.”

  “Not so sure. Where do we go … to your house?”

  “Not yet. Let’s have a drink.”

  After a short walk, they were soon seated in the rear room of their favorite speakeasy, which stood on the corner, one half block removed from Niggeratti Manor. They ordered gin rickies. Lucille noted Ray’s depression.

  “What are you in the dumps about?”

  “Nothing, I suppose, yet everything. I guess that damn house is getting on my nerves.”

  “Too much whoopee?”

  “No, not particularly. Too much everything, and particularly too much Pelham. I can’t laugh at him any more and it hurts.”

  “Why don’t you be frank with him?” Then as Raymond sipped his drink she answered her own question. “No … you couldn’t be. He wouldn’t believe you anyhow.”

  “People like him should be exterminated.”

  “He’s happier than you.”

  “I wonder. That’s what Tony says … to be dumb is to be happy, but to be that dumbëëëëë”

  They both laughed.

  “That’s probably not the kind of dumbness Tony meant; after all there is a difference between being dumb and being stupid.”

  “Right you are and there is also a difference in being … Oh, hellë let’s forget it.”

  Raymond drained his glass and rang for the bartender.

  “Let’s have another.”

  “Sure.”

  The bartender acknowledged their signal.

  “What have you been doing, ’Cile?”

  “Falling in love.”

  She giggled as she said it.

  “Good God,” Raymond shouted. “If another woman tells me that, I’m gonna commit murder.”

  Lucille remained silent as she drained her glass.

  “And who, if I may ask, is your beloved?”

  “Bull.”

  “Bullë ë”

  “Yes, Bull.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “I knew you’d be surprised.”

  He stared at her unbelievingly, assured that she was joking. He hunted for a gleam of mischief in her eye. There was none.

  “When did this begin?”

  “Well, I met him at your house a couple of times. He took me home one night when you couldn’t be pried away from Barbara.”

  “Is this retaliation?”

  “Not at all. Why should it be?”

  “So that’s why Bull’s been so irrepressible lately.”

  ”Me too.”

  “But Bull,” he advanced weakly, then rang for another rickey. “It’s preposterous.” For the first time he laughed. “Come on, let’s drink.” They gulped down their rickies. The bartender was summoned again.

  “Now, quit kidding.”

  “I mean it, Ray. I’m mad about him.”

  “As Stephen would say, ’Horse collar.’ ”

  “I admit it’s surprising, but after all I have to have my fling sometime or other. I always knew I’d fall for a man of that type.”

  “Attraction of opposites, I suppose.”

  “Maybe so, and maybe not, but Bull does represent something I have needed in my life. Damn it all, Ray, there’s something in me which revolts against the even, stodgy, prim life I have to lead. I’m sick of being constantly surrounded by sterile white people, and of having to associate with Negroes who are also sterile and pseudo-white. I suppose I find the same thing in Bull that white women claim to find in a man like Jack Johnson. That’s the price I pay, evidently, for becoming civilized.”

  “I think you’re as full of hooey as a backyard telephone booth. Jesus, does one ever know one’s friends? Must we be treated to these constant surprises? There’s Janet gettin’ hysterical ’cause she can’t have a crack at Stephen an’ ’cause her chum beat her to the first white man she ever wanted. An’ here’s you falling for an ignorant braggart ’cause he’s virile. Are you the girl who told me sex meant little to you? Are you still frigid?”

  The bartender brought them another pair of rickies. It was his treat.

  “Don’t be nasty, Ray.”

  “Maybe I’m jealous.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Why is it nonsense? I ain’t human, I guess.”

  “Sure, you’re human, plenty much. And maybe you’re je
alous, but not from the accepted causes.”

  “Oh, no-oo?”

  ”No. You’ re too much in love with yourself ever to love anyone. You’re jealous only because so much has happened without your knowledge. Had I made you believe you engineered the thing you’d be happy.”

  “Didn’t you tell me not to be nasty?” Raymond forced a smile. Lucille had touched a vulnerable spot. “Nevertheless, you can’t blame me for being upset. Prim Yankee maiden falls for Harlem bruiser. Educated girl gives self to burly roustabout.” He began to laugh. “Jesus, this is good.”

  Lucille was still self-possessed.

  “Bull may be ignorant, a roustabout, and a bruiser, but at least he’s a man, and knows how to get what he wants.”

  The bartender stood over their table. Lucille ordered another pair of rickies. There was an incisive, angry gleam in Raymond’s eyes.

  “What do you mean by that?” he asked when they were alone again.

  “Forget it. Let’s go to the house.”

  “I ain’t goin’ nowhere till you ’splain.”

  “An’ I ain’t gonna ’splain.”

  “Dammit all, ’Cile …” The bartender returned before he could finish. Lucille handed him a five dollar bill, then swiftly downing her drink, got up from the table and crossed the room to a mirror, adjusted her hat, powdered her face, received her change, and started from the room. Raymond staggered slightly as he rose to follow her.

  A few minutes later they stumbled noisily into Raymond’s studio. Paul was there, indolently coloring a series of voluptuous geometric designs which he characterized as spirit portraits. Stephen and Aline were curled up on a corner of the daybed, heads together, intimately whispering. Barbara was on the floor beside Paul, watching and admiring his deft and easy brush manipulations. Samuel was sitting as usual, bolt upright in one of the wicker chairs, solemn of countenance, frowning at the couple on the bed. Eustace and Janet were sharing the other wicker chair, reading from Fine Clothes to the few, Langston Hughes’ latest book of poems. Behind their chair was Bull, his bulky shadow darkening the book’s pages. Pelham was in the kitchenette, mixing drinks.

  “Hi, everybody,” Lucille and Raymond shouted in unison. “We’re high as kites.”

  Bull frowned as Lucille swayed toward him. He took her in his arms and guided her way to the couch. They sat down in the corner opposite from the one occupied by Aline and Stephen. Raymond watched them jealously.

  “Why in the hell don’t someone make some noise? Start the victrola, Samuel.”

  “Pipe down, son,” Bull growled. Lucille’s head slumped to his shoulder.

  “I want music, I tell you,” Raymond continued shrilly. “I must have music. The world’s crazy. I want jazz, crazy as the world.”

  He stood in the center of the room, dishevelled, gesticulating, shouting:

  “Drink gin, drink gin.

  Drink gin with me goddam.

  I don’t give a damn

  For no damn man

  Who won’t drink gin with me, goddam.

  Go to hell.

  Sonofabitch—Oh——”

  Barbara got up from the floor and started toward him. He pushed her away, staggered into the alcove, gulped down one of the drinks Pelham had prepared, then lurched back into the room and flopped himself down beside Paul. Barbara joined him. Pelham passed the drinks. Raymond giggled:

  “Paul’s gone phallic again. Hey, Sam, seen this?”

  Barbara drew his head into her lap. Paul’s brush continued its swift strokes. Lucille had gone to sleep on Bull’s shoulder. The others drained their glasses.

  ”Read out loud, Eustace,” Barbara commanded. Eustace arched his eyebrows and in his best theatrical manner intoned Langston Hughes’ poem:

  “I am your son, white manë

  Georgia dusk

  And the turpentine woods,

  One of the pillars of the temple fell.

  You are my sonë

  Like hellë

  “The moon over the turpentine woods

  The southern night

  Full of stars

  Great big yellow stars.

  “Juicy bodies

  of nigger wenches

  Blue black

  Against black fences

  O, you little bastard boy

  What’s a body but a toy?

  “The scent of pine wood in the evening air

  “A nigger night,

  A nigger joy,

  A little yellow

  Bastard boy.”

  “Marvelous,” Barbara exclaimed.

  “Disgusting,” Samuel shot through compressed lips.

  Raymond was aroused. “How d’ y’ figure disgusting?”

  “It’s an insult to any self respecting Negro.”

  “How come?” Raymond’s head abruptly left Barbara’s lap. He sat on his haunches as if ready to spring, glaring directly into Samuel’s face. “How come, I say?”

  “It’s vulgar. Moreover why should one of your poets prate publicly about your yellow bastard boys? You ought to be ashamed of them.”

  “How come?” Raymond reiterated defiantly.

  “Shut up, both of you.” Stephen knew that Raymond was drunk. “Fix us another drink, Pelham.”

  “Ain’t gonna shut up. Gonna make Samuel tell me what he means. I’m sick of his ex ’thedra ’nouncements ’bout the race. I don’t think he knows a damn thing ’bout it.”

  “All right, we agree,” Stephen interpolated.

  Raymond continued stubbornly. “Yeah. He’s a misfit white tryin’ to become a latter day ab’lishionist. He’s makin’ a career of Negroes. He comes here to direct and patronize. He knows so much more ’bout what we ought to do an’ feel cause he’s white an’ he’s read soshology.”

  “Hush, sweet,” Barbara pleaded and placed her hands on his shoulders.

  “Ain’t gonna hush. Gonna tell him what I think. Gonna say what I think ’bout all these meddlin’ whites. They oughta stay outa Harlem.”

  “Are you becoming a race purist?” Stephen sought to draw Raymond’s attention to him.

  “Hell, no. But that’s what Samuel thinks I oughta be. He frowns at you an’ Aline. He scowls at me an’ Barbara. He tells me privately Barbara ain’t nothin’ but a common hussy. Then he gets her an’ lectures ’bout her losin’ self respect bein’ intimate with Negroes.”

  Samuel flushed more deeply than before.

  “You’re drunk and damn insulting.”

  “I ain’t drunk. An’ I’m jesteilin’ you the truth. You can’t stand to see a Negro and a white woman friends, can you? You believe in social equality. Oh, yes. You’d even marry a colored girl if one’d have a nincompoop like you. But white women are sacred. You’re a pukin’ hypocrite. If you can’t stand the gaff you oughta get out for good.”

  Samuel leaped to his feet. His face was brick red. His eyes cold and angry. His lips quivered.

  ”That’s what I say about you Negroes. You don’t know a friend when you have one. You don’t know how to treat decent white people who mean you good. You’d rather lick the boots of trash.”

  “You want me to lick your boots, don’t you? You goddamned sonofabitch.” Raymond dashed the contents of his half empty glass into Samuel’s face. Samuel’s foot shot into the air and kicked Raymond on the side of his head. The room was in an uproar. Bull pushed Lucille’s head from his shoulder and started for Samuel. Stephen attempted to hold him back. Lucille slumped unconscious to the couch. Aline and Janet screamed. Eustace sat perched on the edge of his chair, twiddling the book he held, murmuring: “Mercy, mercy,” over and over again. Pelham stood transfixed against the door, a tray of empty glasses in his hand. Paul made a desperate, futile effort to rescue his drawings as Samuel was floored by Bull’s fist.

  “Kick ’im, will ya?” Bull was raving mad. “You lousy white trash, I’ll stomp your dirty guts out.”

  Only Stephen’s tackle of his legs prevented Bull from carrying out this ghastly threat.

 
; XIII

  “You made rather an ass out of yourself last night.”

  “To the contrary, I would say I made asses out of the rest of you.” Raymond was irritable and mordant. Stephen sat on the side of the bed examining red bruises on his arms and legs. “I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t ask the rest of you to fight.”

  “That’s why you threw your liquor in Samuel’s face. Just a friendly gesture, eh?”

  “He deserved it. Damn it all, my patience with him is fretted out. I was probably woozily illogical last night, but, as I remember, I gave him a much deserved tongue lashing. Don’t you realize what a pest he and his type are? Zora Hurston has named them Negrotarians, which when analyzed is most apt. They are as bad as those eloquent, oleaginous Negro crusaders and men of God, who sit in mahogany office chairs or else stand behind pulpits and thunder invective to Negroes against whites. The Negrotarians have a formula, too. They have regimented their sympathies and fawn around Negroes with a cry in their heart and a superiority bug in their head. It’s a new way to get a thrill, a new way to merit distinction in the community . . . this cultivating Negroes. It’s a sure way to bolster up their own weak ego and cut a figure. Negroes being what they are make this sort of person possible.”

  “Which means?”

  Raymond replied sharply: “That ninety-nine and ninety-nine hundredths per cent of the Negro race is patiently possessed and motivated by an inferiority complex. Being a slave race actuated by slave morality, what else could you expect? Within themselves and by their every action they subscribe to the doctrine of Nordic superiority and the louder they cry against it the more they mark themselves inferiors. Of course they are flattered by whites like Samuel, flattered to be verbally accepted as equals by someone who mayhap mentally is their inferior. But as long as he has a white skin it’s all right. In the white world what is Samuel? A nonentity who doesn’t count. Among Negroes … my God, he’s a king, looked up to, pursued. And look at Barbara, absolutely down and out until she chanced to come to Harlem. Now every male in the respectable Negro middle class she has invaded longs to possess her. And yourself …”