Infants of the Spring

by Wallace Thurman

  “What about me?”

  “Don’t play dumb. You know. You can’t help but be aware of the eager subservience they proffer you, both men and women.”

  “Aren’t you generalizing?”

  “I said a little while ago . . . ninety-nine and ninety-nine hundredths per cent.”

  “And that remaining one hundredths per cent?”

  “You know as well as I do who it is in this crowd. Lucille, myself, and sometimes Paul. And you also know that we are the only ones around here with whom you can feel natural. The rest force a certain psychological reaction.”

  “But Bull …”

  “Is so afraid of the white man,” Raymond snapped angrily, “that his only recourse is to floor one at every opportunity and on any pretext. Should one suddenly turn the tables and smash him back he’d run away like a cowed dog.”

  Stephen laughed. “What’s to be done about it?”

  ”What’s to be done about anything? Nothing. Negroes are a slave race and a slave race they’ll remain until assimilated. Individuals will arise and escape on the ascending ladder of their own individuality. The others will remain what they are. Their superficial progress means nothing. Instinctively they are still the servile progeny of servile ancestors.”

  “God, but you love your race this morning. You haven’t been so eloquent in weeks.”

  “Oh, I know they can’t help it. I don’t condemn. Why should I? They have no free will … no choice but to be what their environment and nature has made them. Fifty per cent of them never think about it. They go about their business, happy in their menial jobs, enjoying themselves while and as they may. The rest.. . the educated minority and middle class have that memorable American urge to keep up with the Joneses. Well, let them. But why not face reality and admit what they are? Why invest themselves with possibilities beyond their reach? No intelligent person subscribes to the doctrine of Nordic superiority, but everyone can realize that now the white man has both the power and the money. His star is almost at the zenith of its ascendancy. There are signs of an impending eclipse, but meanwhile he holds the whip. The rest of the races have to dance and imitate. And we all know that this whip is not held by the white masses although the world has been made safe for democracy. The white masses and the black masses must all cater to the masters who hold the money bags. The white masses seemingly have the edge only because of their closer kinship to those in power.”

  “I don’t follow you altogether, Ray. You seem confused. Is this Communism you’re preaching?”

  “Hell, no. I preach nothing. I don’t give a good god damn what becomes of any mass. Communism can no more change their status than democracy, although for the moment we might have the pleasure of seeing our enshrined bourgeoisie lose their valued heads.”

  “And if that should happen?”

  ”I’d stand by enjoying the carnage, then pessimistically await the emergence of a similar bunch of dolts to take the places of the deceased.”

  Stephen finished putting on his clothes.

  “You’ve learned your lessons well.”

  “What?”

  “I say, you’ve learned your lessons well. Good schoolmasters you’ve had, too, n’est-ce pas?”

  He smiled benignly and left the room, before Raymond’s confused mind could digest his words or formulate a fitting retort.

  XIV

  Raymond spent most of the afternoon idly wandering about Central Park, stopping at haphazard intervals to rest on a park bench. He had decided that it was time he was taking stock of himself, time he was casting an appraising and critical eye over his past and present, and perhaps in the muddle find a guide post for the future. He was disturbed and moody. His experiences of the night before and his talk with Stephen this same morning had caused his spirits to become curdled and his mind to become confused. He was going … he knew not where. Always he had protested that the average Negro intellectual and artist had no goal, no standards, no elasticity, no pregnant germ plasm. And now he was beginning to doubt even himself.

  He wanted to write, but he had made little progress. He wanted to become a Prometheus, to break the chains which held him to a racial rack and carry a blazing beacon to the top of Mount Olympus so that those possessed of Alpine stocks could follow in his wake. He wanted to do something memorable in literature, something that could stay afloat on the contemporary sea of weighted ballast, something which could transcend and survive the transitional age in which he was living. He wanted to accomplish these things, but he was becoming less and less confident that he was possessed of the necessary genius. He did not doubt that he had a modicum of talent, but talent was not a sufficient spring board to guarantee his being catapulted into the literary halls of Valhalla; talent was not a sufficient prerequisite for immortality. He needed genius and there was no assurance that he had it, no assurance that he had done anything more “than learned his lessons well.”

  Stephen’s phrase irritated him, impinged itself upon his consciousness and bored in relentlessly. He was uncertain whether it had been meant to be an aphoristic jest or a sarcastic jibe. Was it a meaty phrase carrying the sting of an adder? Or was it a listless phrase coined to discourage further boring conversation? He did not know, and he had no insight into the machinery which had produced it. But he could not aerate it from his mind. Insistently it flashed across his brain, formed itself into flaming letters before his eyes, and dinned its searing way into his ears.

  He soon came to the conclusion that he was cutting a ridiculous figure. On three distinct occasions now, twice with Stephen and once with Lucille, this unwelcome characterization had seemed apt in the light of what they had said on those occasions. He was a self-deluded posturer. A consummate jackass

  Walking through Central Park. Mind chaotic and deranged. Mind tortured, a seething melting pot into which too much unfiltered metal had been poured. Coherence was lacking. Ideas toppled over one another, ideas the result of wide reading and too hasty assimilation. His was an adolescent brain. It had not matured sufficiently to exercise caution and restraint. It had seized upon attractive brilliants, fed upon predigested cereals, and made no use of cauterizing gastric fluids. Yet there was something fundamental there striving for expression and relief, something which protested against unprincipled inundation and unprincipled expression— something which cautioned him to take inventory, and invite maturity.

  Despite his superiority complex he was different from most people he knew, precociously different. The difficulty being that he was wont to pervert rather than to train and cultivate this difference. It was something to be paraded rather than something to be carefully nurtured. It was something to release half cocked in order to shock rather than something to utilize essentially. There had been no catharsis, no intellectual metabolism. In pretending to be a dispenser of pearls to swine he had only proved that he, too, sometimes wallowed in the mire.

  The struggle to free himself from race consciousness had been hailed before actually accomplished. The effort to formulate a new attitude toward life had become a seeking for a red badge of courage. That which might have emerged normally, if given time, had been forcibly and prematurely exposed to the light. It now seemed as if the Caesarian operation was going to prove fatal both to the parent and to the child.

  Futile introspection, desperate flagellations of self which still left him in darkness and despair.

  On his way home Raymond tried hard to recall all the various items with which he had concerned himself. He had a confused recollection of having thought about innumerable subjects, innumerable people, but the thoughts were now nebulous and fast fading into obscurity, and there was no key to the dark labyrinth to which they had fled. He had no definite memories, no dominant conclusions. His day of solitude, his day of stock taking, had all been in vain.

  Arriving home, he wearily climbed the exterior stone stairs and fumbled in his pocket for his door key. But before he could make use of it, the door was flung open and Paul, obviously
excited, grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him into the hallway.

  “Come upstairs quick.”

  Into the studio Paul rushed him. The door was eased shut. Aline and Stephen were sitting on the couch. Their faces were livid. Their eyes sparkled with excitement. They abruptly left their seats and rushed toward him.

  ”Pelham’s been arrested.”

  “Been arrested?” Raymond echoed Aline’s dramatic announcement. “For what?”

  “We don’t know,” Paul spoke hurriedly before the others. “I just came in. Steve and Aline told me.”

  Raymond relaxed: “Nonsense.”

  “No foolin’,” Stephen spoke for the first time. “They’ve taken him to jail.”

  “For what?” Raymond reiterated impatiently, his eyes beseeching Stephen for a satisfactory answer.

  “Crimminy, we don’t know. Aline and I were in his room. He was doing our portrait again. The door bell rang. He rushed downstairs and a moment later ushered two burly whites into the room. One of them asked if he was George Jones. He smiled blandly and said yes. The burly one flashed a star and said they had a warrant for his arrest. I was dumbfounded. Pelham gasped helplessly, completely inarticulate. They ordered him to put on his coat and hat. He had on his smock and beret. Then they turned to Aline and me. Such belligerence. ’Are you white?’ one of them roared. I answered yes. ’What aya doin’ here?’ he shouted again. As calmly as possible I said: ’Just visiting friends.’ ’Is she white?’ he roared again, pointing at Aline. I had presence of mind enough to say yes. I knew they could not tell the difference. Then they searched the room, looked under the bed, in all the drawers, and in Pelham’s trunk. Their search finished, they led the stupefied Pelham from the room still attired in his smock and beret. That’s all.”

  “But …” Raymond floundered. “What did you do? Did you call Euphoria?”

  “She wasn’t home, nor in her office. I’ve tried several times.”

  Raymond did not know what to do or say next. The whole affair was incomprehensible. There must be some mistake. He tried to review Pelham’s recent activities. They were all innocent enough. He seldom left the house except to shop for groceries or accompany someone to the movies. There was nothing which Raymond could construe as criminal. It must all be a gross error.

  ”Hell,” he ejaculated at last. “I’m going to the police station.”

  There was a precinct station only three blocks away. Raymond practically ran the entire distance, brushing people out of his way, recklessly rushing in front of speeding taxis. Finally he was standing breathless before an indifferent desk sergeant.

  He gasped for sufficient breath to speak.

  “Ha … have you got a Pelham Gaylord here?”

  The sergeant’s index finger searched the record book.

  “No.”

  “Oh … I mean … George Jones.”

  The index finger was active again.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s he in for?” eagerly.

  “Rape.”

  “Rape?” The echo was a shrill shout.

  “Umhum.”

  There was a pause while Raymond sought to regain his poise and voice.

  “Can I see him?”

  “Naw. They’ll arraign him in Washington Heights court tomorrow morning. You can see him after that.”

  The desk telephone rang. Raymond was dismissed. Completely puzzled and nonplussed he returned home.

  The house was ablaze with lights. As he opened the door he heard a woman crying hysterically. He was too dazed by the sudden and incredulous turn of events to be more than mildly startled by this fresh development. Again Paul met him.

  “Old Bernhardt’s having hysterics.” Bernhardt was their nickname for the actress lady who lived on the top floor. Raymond shrugged his shoulders and started up the stairs. He could not concern himself with the world’s madness. From the third floor came the meaningless whines and screams of a temporarily deranged woman. Euphoria briskly descended the stairs and beckoned for Raymond to follow her into Pelham’s studio. She shut the door when he had entered, leaving Paul on the outside.

  ”This is a hell of a mess.”

  “What?” Raymond queried inanely.

  “Didn’t you go to the jail?”

  “Sure. But what’s it all about?”

  “Pelham raped Gladys.” Gladys was the older of the actress lady’s two daughters.

  “Nonsense.” He couldn’t believe it.

  “Read this.” Euphoria pulled a piece of paper from her purse and handed it to him. It was a poem addressed “To Gladys.” Still incredulous, he plunged into the meticulously penned lines:

  Oh you who I adore

  And do anything for

  Remember the song

  Entitled let’s do it

  The bees and the birds

  All do it

  So why not you and me?

  Raymond sank into a nearby chair. His laughter was prolonged and contagious. Inquisitive Paul opened the door and stealthily slipped in. And in the room above, the distrait mother alternately shrieked, moaned, and paced the floor, then stopped abruptly to ascertain if there was any sign of an audience.

  XV

  At ten o’clock the next morning Raymond, Paul, Stephen, and Eustace met Euphoria at the Washington Heights court. The room was already crowded and they were unable to find seats near the front. Making themselves satisfied with what they found, they impatiently awaited the calling of Pelham’s case.

  The courtroom was compact and dreary. The electric lights on the sides of the wall and those depending from the ceiling did little to dispel the room’s depressive gloom. Seedy proletarians of all races occupied the benches and chairs. A towering policeman with a flaming red face guarded the entrance door, professionally scrutinizing all who passed him. Near the rear of the room was a railed in enclosure for the press and for lawyers. The judge’s bench loomed in front of this, separated by a passageway, which led to a prisoners’ pen on the left and consultation rooms on the right

  A court stenographer and two clerks were seated at a table in front of the judge’s throne. Three immaculate policemen stood at attention at spaced intervals along the passageway. The magistrate was at his post, strabismic, formidable. There was a deal of noise and chattering. Bail runners cluttered up the doorway leading to the prisoners’ pen. A prisoner stood near the stenographer’s table, flanked by a policeman, what appeared to be his lawyer, and three other men in civilian clothes. No one could distinguish what was being said. For five minutes there was a droning interchange, then the policemen led the prisoner back to the pen. The others sought one of the consultation rooms.

  Five Negroes were led in next. A policeman read from a sheet of lined foolscap. Only an occasional word mounted the noise sufficiently to be heard. The complaining policeman then stepped forward and with many angry gestures stated his case. The judge said something to the men. Only one of them replied. The rest blasphemed the complaining officer with their eyes and facial expressions. The spokesman finished. The judge rapped his gavel and said “dismissed” in a loud voice, then directed a grumbling monologue at the crestfallen complaining officer. The Negroes were ushered past the lawyer’s pew. They shuffled gleefully down the aisle and were soon out of the room. They were free.

  The pageant continued. A wizened little Jew was the next culprit. There was a great hubbub as his case was called. Numerous Negro women, most of whom were accompanied by small children, left their seats and advanced before the judge’s dais. Euphoria opined that he was a landlord up for some infraction of the rent law or for failure to provide heat and hot water. The case was bitter and intense. There were times when more than six people were all shouting at the judge at the same time. He had great difficulty keeping order. It could be seen that he was becoming impatient, irascible. Finally he silenced all and delivered a scathing lecture. Everyone concerned was abashed and quiet when he had finished. The case proceeded with some semblance of order.


  No matter how hard they tried, Pelham’s friends were unable to hear more than an occasional word or phrase. There was much chattering among those around them. And through the open windows came the insistent roar of an air drill as it bored through the stubborn granite cliffs in the subway excavation below the surface of the street.

  After an hour of ceaseless activity and droning of voices, the group was finally aroused from its lethargy by seeing Pelham being led in by a policeman. He was still attired in his green smock. He carried his beret in his hand. He appeared to be frightened and dejected. His eyes darted about nervously. His black face glistened. He was indeed a pitiable, yet comic, figure, incongruously attired in studio clothes, timidly standing before the awesome spectacle of the judge, while a police clerk read from the inevitable foolscap. When this was finished, the judge was seen to speak. One of the policemen detached himself from the crowd and went to one of the consultation rooms on the right. Opening the door he beckoned to someone inside. Almost immediately a woman juvenile officer emerged, followed by the actress lady and her allegedly defiled daughter.

  The procession arranged itself in front of the judge’s bench. The actress lady was weeping. The girl stood by, an awkward adolescent, bewildered and frightened. There was much interchange of talk, then the judge looked out over the lawyer’s pew and made an announcement. A saffron young elegant answered this summons, advanced to the front, and halted beside the quaking Pelham. There was much more talk, and many hysterical outbursts on the part of the actress lady who held the spotlight and starred throughout the entire proceedings. Finally it was over. Pelham was led to the prisoners’ pen, furtively wiping his eyes and cheeks with his black beret. The policewoman led the silent girl and her weeping mother back into the consultation room. The saffron elegant and the lineup of police and detectives dissolved in the crowd. A new group appeared. The pageant was continuing.