Infants of the Spring

by Wallace Thurman

  “ ‘So I lie who find no peace

  Night or day, no slight release

  From the unremittant beat

  Made by cruel padded feet

  Walking through my body’s street.

  Up and down they go, and back,

  Treading out a jungle track.’

  “We’re all like that. Negroes are the only people in America not standardized. The feel of the African jungle is in their blood. Its rhythms surge through their bodies. Look how Negroes laugh and dance and sing, all spontaneous and individual.”

  “Exactly.” Dr. Parkes and DeWitt nodded assent.

  “I have yet to see an intelligent or middle class American Negro laugh and sing and dance spontaneously. That’s an illusion, a pretty sentimental fiction. Moreover your songs and dances are not individual. Your spirituals are mediocre folk songs, ignorantly culled from Methodist hymn books. There are white men who can sing them just as well as Negroes, if not better, should they happen to be untrained vocalists like Robeson, rather than highly trained technicians like Hayes. And as for dancing spontaneously and feeling the rhythms of the jungle … humphë”

  Sweetie May jumped into the breach.

  “I can do the Charleston better than any white person.”

  “I particularly stressed … intelligent people. The lower orders of any race have more vim and vitality than the illuminated tenth.”

  Sweetie May leaped to her feet.

  “Why, you West Indian …”

  “Sweetie, Sweetie,” Dr. Parkes was shocked by her polysyllabic expletive.

  Pandemonium reigned. The master of ceremonies could not cope with the situation. Cedric called Sweetie an illiterate southern hussy. She called him all types of profane West Indian monkey chasers. DeWitt and David were shocked and showed it. The literary doctor, the Communist and Fenderson moved uneasily around the room. Annette and Paul giggled. The two child prodigies from Boston looked on wide-eyed, utterly bewildered and dismayed. Raymond leaned back in his chair, puffing on a cigarette, detached and amused. Austin, the portrait painter, audibly repeated over and over to himself: “Just like niggers … just like niggers.” Carl Denny interposed himself between Cedric and Sweetie May. Dr. Parkes clucked for civilized behavior, which came only when Cedric stalked angrily out of the room.

  After the alien had been routed and peace restored, Raymond passed a soothing cocktail. Meanwhile Austin and Carl had begun arguing about painting. Carl did not possess a facile tongue. He always had difficulty formulating in words the multitude of ideas which seethed in his mind. Austin, to quote Raymond, was an illiterate cad. Having examined one of Carl’s pictures on Raymond’s wall, he had disparaged it. Raymond listened attentively to their argument. He despised Austin mainly because he spent most of his time imploring noted white people to give him a break by posing for a portrait. Having the gift of making himself pitiable, and having a glib tongue when it came to expatiating on the trials and tribulations of being a Negro, he found many sitters, all of whom thought they were encouraging a handicapped Negro genius. After one glimpse at the completed portrait, they invariably changed their minds.

  “I tell you,” he shouted, “your pictures are distorted and grotesque. Art is art, I say. And art holds a mirror up to nature. No mirror would reflect a man composed of angles. God did not make man that way. Look at Sargent’s portraits. He was an artist.”

  “But he wasn’t,” Carl expostulated. “We … we of this age … we must look at Matisse, Gauguin, Picasso and Renoir for guidance. They get the feel of the age …. They …”

  “Are all crazy and so are you,” Austin countered before Carl could proceed.

  Paul rushed to Carl’s rescue. He quoted Wilde in rebuttal: Nature imitates art, then went on to blaspheme Sargent. Carl, having found some words to express a new idea fermenting in his brain, forgot the argument at hand, went off on a tangent and began telling the dazed Dr. Parkes about the Negroid quality in his drawings. DeWitt yawned and consulted his watch. Raymond mused that he probably resented having missed the prayer meeting which he attended every Thursday night. In another corner of the room the Communist and Fenderson had locked horns over the ultimate solution of the Negro problem. In loud voices each contended for his own particular solution. Karl Marx and Lenin were pitted against Du Bois and his disciples. The writing doctor, bored to death, slipped quietly from the room without announcing his departure or even saying good night. Being more intelligent than most of the others, he had wisely kept silent. Tony and Sweetie May had taken adjoining chairs, and were soon engaged in comparing their versions of original verses to the St. James Infirmary, which Tony contended was soon to become as epical as the St. Louis Blues. Annette and Howard began gossiping about various outside personalities. The child prodigies looked from one to the other, silent, perplexed, uncomfortable, not knowing what to do or say. Dr. Parkes visibly recoiled from Carl’s incoherent expository barrage, and wilted in his chair, willing but unable to effect a courteous exit. Raymond sauntered around the room, dispensing cocktails, chuckling to himself.

  Such was the first and last salon.

  XXII

  Raymond had been to Pelham’s trial and it had left a decidedly bad taste in his mouth. The machinery of justice was a depressing contraption, and the spectacle of the moronic Pelham helpless in its impersonal maw was certainly not an edifying performance. According to the laws of the state, Pelham most certainly deserved the penalty which had been meted out to him, although the indeterminate sentence of from one to three years seemed excessive. But that is what the statute books decreed for an adult who was found guilty of being sexually intimate with a minor under the age of consent. And Pelham had been found guilty.

  On the witness stand he had tearfully admitted to such a misdemeanor. It was by no means a case of rape. The girl, despite her youth, was no virgin. She had known what she was about. She had even admitted, under pressure, similar experiences with at least three youngsters with whom she had gone to school.

  On the other hand, Pelham had testified that he had remained chaste until his experiences with Gladys. He had, it seemed, never kept company with any girl. While his grandmother lived, he had been kept too busy waiting on her white folk to form outside contacts. And until he had moved into Niggeratti Manor, he had never before met any women who might, perchance have willing dispositions.

  Raymond remembered now with a tinge of regret how he and Paul had once questioned Pelham about his sex life, and twitted him unmercifully when he had declared himself to be an uninitiate.

  “You are repressed,” they had cried. “A man of your age with no sexual experience is liable to develop all sorts of neuroses and complexes. You’re inhibited and should let yourself go.” He had let himself go. And, as a result of their advice, had become, in the unintelligent eyes of the law and the public at large, a vile creature deserving little consideration. A sad denouement for so helpless and naïve a creature, a sad interlude in the life of one who had been seduced by the elusive spectre of future artistic success. He was now a convict, and in Pelham’s simple mind, nothing could be more disastrous and degrading.

  So the trial had left a bad taste in Raymond’s mouth. Courts of Justice were such sadistic organizations. They seemed to gloat and thrive over the writhings of their victims. The more meager the offense, the more simple the individual, the less pity and leniency he merited. Pelham had been branded a moral leper. The seductive and knowing girl had been whitewashed as a defiled adolescent.

  And yet the trial had had its amusing moments. There had been for instance the girl’s mother, who, being histrionically inclined, had striven to play the star rôle throughout the depressing proceedings. She had cried for justice. Her cheeild had been in a state of innocence until she had been tutored by this lecherous monster, adverse testimony to the contrary notwithstanding. The mother was a lone woman, deserted by an unworthy husband, left alone to steer two young girls through the dangerous period of adolescent life. Surely the l
aw would not leave her and her kind exposed to such perils as Pelham personified. Surely the judge, in his mercy, could do naught but severely punish this menace to young girls. And being sympathetic and merciful, the judge had done his bit to the full extent of the law.

  The surprise of the day had come when the Pig Woman had appeared as the chief witness for the prosecution. Raymond had practically forgotten her existence, and on hearing her called to the witness stand, and noting the malicious glee with which she hurried forward to testify, had immediately opined that Pelham would not escape punishment.

  Her testimony had been decisive and damning. In an exultant whiny voice, she had eagerly told, how, peering through a crack in her door, she had seen Pelham chasing Gladys up and down stairs and around the hallways “with no good look in his eye,” drawing her lustfully into his arms, and showering her lips with passionate kisses. Ah, yes, she had known what he had been about. She had made it her business to keep tab of every inning in his vile game. She had even made notations of the dates and hours which marked his unholy and lustful quest. She did not explain why she had not informed the girl’s mother.

  Raymond had never considered the Pig Woman positively before. Ofttimes he and his friends had made fun of her and speculated fantastically about her life, but at no time had they considered her as being anything more than a harmless old woman. But now, it seemed, she was an instrument of God, and she praised His Holy Name for punishing one of a group of sinners. Perhaps now the others would realize the extent of His power and change their sinful way of living before it was too late. Pelham’s downfall was to be taken as a warning to his equally sinful friends, who defiled the house in which she had quietly lived for so long a time.

  And thus it went. The Pig Woman was an instrument of God. The actress lady was the personification of martyred motherhood. The allegedly defiled girl was the symbol of injured chastity. The judge was a merciful instrument of justice. And Pelham was a communal menace, for whom three years in jail was not sufficient punishment for his crime against society.

  Euphoria was still optimistic, however. Having failed to effect Pelham’s release before imprisonment, she was now going to concentrate on having him paroled at the earliest possible moment. “A little coin. A little coin,” she had said, “a few words with certain undercover men I know and Pelham will serve only a scant portion of his term.” Raymond rather admired her materialistic confidence.

  Lucille had arranged to have dinner with Raymond on the day of the trial. She was anxious to know its outcome, and she had also told Raymond over the telephone that she must have a talk with him. There was something most important which she must tell him. She could give him no hint of its nature until they were face to face, but it was most urgent and necessary that she see him at the earliest possible moment. Being engrossed in the trial and with his reactions to it, he had not speculated about the mysterious matter. In fact he had completely forgotten it by the time he and Lucille met in Tabbs for dinner. He told her about the trial.

  “It’s too bad he got the works, but there’s nothing to be done, is there?”

  “No, I suppose not. It seems a pity. Why didn’t they lock Paul and me up, too? We are as guilty as he. And as for the girl, she deserves much more punishment than Pelham.”

  “What are they going to do with her?”

  “Parole her in the custody of her mother so that she can continue her schooling.”

  “It is a mess, but we might as well forget it, and anyway I have something else more important to talk about.”

  “Yeah? What is it?”

  “I told you over the ’phone I had something to tell you.”

  “That’s right. I had forgotten. What is it?”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Raymond’s eyes bulged. His mouth opened. His water glass was overturned. A waiter rushed over to repair the damage. When he had gone Raymond recovered his power of speech.

  “You’re pregnantë”

  “Yes, and you needn’t shout it all over the place.”

  Her coolness amazed him. It also served to reduce his own temperature.

  “Bull, I suppose,” he finally growled.

  “Yes.”

  “Well … does he know it?”

  “Certainly. I told him last night. He went into a rage. Accused me first of ignorance, then of conniving to get a husband, socked me in the jaw, and stalked away.”

  “Are you being serious?”

  “I assure you it’s no joking matter.”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do? Give my name to Bull’s child?”

  “It won’t be necessary for it to have a name.” Her calmness angered him.

  “Then what the hell is this confab about?”

  “Just this. I want you to help me find a doctor.”

  “A doctor? For what?”

  “To perform an abortion.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “Rather simple request, no?”

  “Too damn simple. I sincerely hope that you . . .” he stopped short.

  “That I what?”

  “Have your fill of virile men. I wasn’t good enough for you, was I? Around me you were always the frigid woman whom I had to keep distance from, and now …” he finished weakly, unable to give expression to the emotional anger which surged within him, “look at you.”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic, Ray. I thought you hated scenes. This is the time for you to utilize your much vaunted reason. The brain must rule, you know, or at least that is what you always say. I’m making a very simple request. And I know that I can depend on you to help me.” Then as her companion said nothing, she added, “Let’s eschew dessert and hasten to a speakeasy. I have already composed a toast in honor of my abortion. I’m sure you’ll appreciate it. Come on, let’s barge.”

  She signaled to the waiter, asked for the check, slipped Raymond the necessary money, and led the way out into the street.

  —

  For the next few days, Raymond and Lucille spent most of their time obtaining information about physicians who specialized in illegal operations. Discreet inquiries netted them many addresses. There seemed to be no dearth of competent specialists. The only problem was to find one who would do the job cheaply.

  From place to place they tramped, following every clue, seeking for a bargain like astute budget followers. The most expensive place was a luxurious establishment on Vanderbilt Avenue, near the Grand Central Station. The location foretold the prohibitive fee, but the two adventurers visited the place anyway, as a matter of record.

  They entered the reception room of a large and sumptuously furnished suite of offices. A uniformed nurse greeted them pleasantly and escorted them into a cheerily furnished ante-room. Within a few moments they were confronted by a dignified, soft voiced physician. Raymond was the spokesman. They were, he perorated—adhering to a previously rehearsed procedure—a free love pair, both engaged in creative work. A baby at this time would be decidedly unwelcome and an economic disaster. The doctor was business like and matter of fact. Raymond liked his terse explanation of method. He oozed efficiency. But his price was two hundred and fifty dollars.

  Their list was practically exhausted when they finally found a physician who charged only fifty dollars. And they had about decided on him when Euphoria came forward with the information that she knew an Italian midwife in Greenwich Village who would do the job for twenty-five. There was no more hesitation. Raymond faded into the background. Euphoria, as was her wont, took the matter into her own hands. Lucille was introduced to the lady, arrangements were completed, and in almost no time, and with little ill-effect, her body had been rid of Bull’s seed once and for all.

  “Well, old dear, I’m a free woman.”

  ”Permanently, I hope?”

  “The gods willing.” They both laughed.

  “And no more virile men?”

  “At least not for the purpose of procreation. I never want to bring a child into this world. I agr
ee with you, although I doubt your sincerity, that race suicide would be the quickest way to cure human beings of their ills. Why should we go on bringing others into the world?”

  “For no reason at all, as far as I can see. It would be a grand day when the entire human race would be rendered sterile … a grand joke on the cantankerous old creator of our universe. I would chuckle with glee if one by one the inhabitants of this foolish old world would drop dead with no newly born replicas to don their shoes. That, in my opinion, is true anarchism.”

  “Please don’t get philosophical. Is there anything to drink here?”

  “Nary a drop.”

  “Where’s Eustace and Paul?”

  “Eustace has gone downtown for his audition. God alone knows where Paul is.”

  “Is he still doing nothing?”

  “Always has,* always will. I’m afraid it’s his destiny.”

  “Has he had any new adventures recently?”

  “Paul always has adventures. He can’t walk down the street without returning to tell us about some thrilling new experience. It’s too bad his real world is not as romantic as the world of his imagination. I envy him that, though.”

  “No you don’t, Ray, for some day he is going to face reality and the shock perhaps will be too great for him to weather.”

  “Perhaps so … but …” he hesitated a moment ….

  “Don’t you hear music?”

  “I thought so. Perhaps Eustace is back. Let’s go down and see how he came out.”

  “O. K.”

  They left the room and descended the stairs. Raymond was startled by the discordant banging which assailed their ears.

  ”What could be wrong? Eustace never bangs a piano like that.”

  As they reached the door leading to his room, the aimless banging ceased. They hesitated before knocking. Listening, they heard the sound of tearing paper. Eustace seemed to be in a frenzy. Hurriedly Raymond opened the door. He and Lucille entered. Their presence was unnoted. Attired in his green dressing gown, Eustace was frantically destroying every sheet of music atop his piano.