Infants of the Spring

by Wallace Thurman

  “What on earth is the matter?”

  He turned on them angrily. His seamed face was more drawn than ever. Tears streamed down the wrinkles, forming little rivulets. His hair was awry, exposing his usually hidden bald spot.

  “Get out. Get out and take your spirituals with you. Get out, I say.” There was a flurry of torn paper.

  “But Eustace …”

  “Get out. Don’t you hear? Spirituals, spirituals, yeah, Til sing spirituals.”

  “But what happened?” Raymond was certain he knew the answer to his question.

  “I hope you’re all happy. You urged me to sing spirituals. It was the only way I could gain a hearing. Well, I sang them and they …” his voice broke into a sob, “they said I wasn’t good enough. That competition was too great … and … I didn’t get a chance to sing Schubert.”

  He dropped to the piano bench. His head and arms slumped to the keys. A jumbled melange of discords drowned out his sobs.

  XXIII

  “Well, Ray, how’s every little thing?”

  “Pretty fair, Aline. Where’ve you been so long?”

  “Where’ve I been? I’ve been here almost every night. You wouldn’t see me.”

  “I’ve been busy. Where’s Janet?”

  “I don’t know. We’re not friends any more.”

  “Not friends?” Raymond exclaimed. “Well, that is news. What caused the grand bustup this time?”

  “Jealousy.”

  “Still fighting over some man?”

  “Not exactly. You see, Ray … I’m gonna pass for white.”

  “What man inspired this?”

  “Oh, he’s a swell fellow, Ray. Big jeweler downtown with oodles of money. He’s gonna get me an apartment n’ everything, but I’m supposed to be white, see? I offered Janet the chance to be my maid, so she could stay with me, but she got all hincty and laid me low.”

  “Can’t blame her, can you? After all she’s been your best friend, and stuck by you through thick and thin. Doesn’t it seem crass for you to want her to be your servant now that you’ve had a windfall?”

  “Stuck by me?” she exclaimed angrily, seemingly unconscious that Raymond had said anything else. “You mean I’ve stuck by her. Didn’t I get my mother to take her in when she had nowhere to go in New York? Ain’t I always been the one to hustle up money for us to live on? Stuck by me is goodë”

  “Calm down, sister. It’s all oke by me. Have a drink?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  Raymond went into the alcove. A moment later he returned with two glasses, filled with cognac.

  “Here’s to your new life, old dear. May it prove profitable, and may all your children escape the tarbrush.”

  They sipped from their glasses.

  “Think I’m doing right, Ray?”

  “Why not? Doesn’t it mean money? What else should you worry about?”

  “Well, there’s my family.”

  “Family? That is good. Pardon me while I laugh. Didn’t your mother chase you out? Did she ever consider you when she passed for white?”

  “I guess you’re right, but …”

  “But what? Tell me what’s on your mind. It certainly isn’t your family.”

  For a moment she stared into her glass. Raymond said nothing more. He sensed that something was preying on her mind, something about which she found it difficult to speak. He drained his glass and lit a cigarette. Finally she spoke.

  “Well, Ray, I’ll tell you. I’m afraid someone’s gònna tell on me. This bloke doesn’t know I’m colored, see? You know what happened to Mom. I can’t have that happen to me. When I go white, I wanta stay white and never hear of being colored again.”

  “Which is just the proper attitude to have in order to be found out. Can’t you people who cross the line understand that your own fears precipitate disclosure? The minute you leave the colored world, you live in unholy fear that Negroes you once knew might meet you somewhere and recognize you publicly. What if they do? Nine times out of ten that Negro is glad to see your change of staus You antagonize him only by ignoring him. Surely you’ve associated with enough white people around New York to know that most of them who happen to have colored friends make no effort to hide the fact. Why should you? Greet them as you would anyone else. Fail to do so and some of them are bound to talk, long and loud. Merely knowing a Negro does not necessarily stigmatize you.”

  “I s’pose you’re right.… Nevertheless, I kinda wish I was going to another town. I might get homesick for Harlem and come back.”

  “My dear, you’ve been reading novels. Thousands of Negroes in real life cross the line every year and I assure you that few, if any, ever feel that fictional urge to rejoin their own kind. That sort of nostalgia is confined to novels. Negroes who can and do pass are so glad to get away they probably join the K. K. K. to uphold white supremacy.”

  “Well … I’m gonna do it anyhow. Just think, Ray … an apartment in the Fifties, a maid, fine parties, theaters and swell cafés. Ain’t it gonna be grand?”

  Raymond was not overly enthusiastic.

  “I suppose it will. I’m sorry, Aline, but I’ve got to go out for a little while. Want another drink before you go?”

  “Sure.”

  Raymond went into the alcove to pour out the drinks. While he was doing this Euphoria entered, followed by Paul. They both greeted Aline.

  “Hello.” She seemed uncomfortable, and the minute they went into the alcove to speak to Raymond, she quickly donned her hat and coat. As they emerged, she prepared to leave.

  “Never mind the drink, Ray. I gotta go. See you.” She was gone.

  “What’s the matter with her?” Paul asked.

  “A little nervous, I guess. She came to tell me she was crossing the line.”

  “Doing what?” Euphoria exclaimed.

  “Going to pass for white.”

  “Bully for her,” Paul approved.

  ”Why, the little hussy,” Euphoria advanced indignantly. “Passing for white, eh? Just like her no account mother.”

  “Well … why not? I’m gonna quit being a nigger myself”

  “What are you going to do, Paul, be born again?”

  “No, Ray. I don’t have to be born again. I can pass for Spanish. I have. Why, didn’t I ever tell you about my trip to South America and how I was received at the Spanish Legation in Washington when I returned to this country?”

  “Yes, Paul. I’ve heard that tale a million times. Can it. Take this drink. Here’s one for you, too, Euphoria.”

  “No thanks. I don’t want one.”

  “All the more for me. Here goes, Paul.” They drained their glasses in one gulp.

  “Won’t you even sit down, landlady mia?”

  “No. I only have a minute and I’ve got something I must say to you. Where’s Eustace?”

  “Downstairs … isn’t he, Paul?”

  “Yes. Shall I call him?”

  “Please.”

  Raymond and Paul exchanged quizzical glances. Something was most certainly amiss. Raymond shrugged his shoulders. Paul went to the head of the stairs and called Eustace. Euphoria lit a cigarette and paced the room, her eyes concentrated on the floor.

  Paul returned to the room and poured himself another drink. Raymond seated himself in one of the wicker chairs, determined to be comfortable at all costs. Finally Eustace entered. He was much changed. True, he still retained in some measure his aristocratic bearing, but he was by no means as jaunty as he had been in the past. He seemed to be shriveling up, to be the victim of some inner dessication, which had left his exterior self without color or vitality. He still swathed himself in his green dressing gown, but the robin’s egg ruby no longer adorned his index finger. It, too, had been sacrificed to alleviate economic stress, and now reposed in a pawnbroker’s vault along with his other family heirlooms, which, according to Eustace, had originated in Africa.

  ”You want to see me?” he inquired of no one in particular.

  “Yes,�
� Euphoria answered briskly, “I’ve got to have a talk with you all.”

  She stopped her pacing and leaned against the window casing. Eustace sank wearily to the daybed. Paul squatted on the floor in the center of the room and rested his back against the gateleg table.

  “Pelham’s going to be paroled within six months.” She announced this startling bit of news with the air of a person ridding herself of some inconsequential trifle before settling down to the main event.

  “Great,” Raymond enthused. “I know he’ll be glad.”

  “And he’s finally come to his senses and decided to take up a respectable trade.”

  “Pray tell, what would that be?”

  “He’s going in for calcimining and painting, having had experience redecorating cell walls.”

  Raymond and Paul exploded, but were soon hushed by Euphoria’s brisk continuance.

  “That isn’t, however, what I want to talk to you about. I’m going to change my policy about this house. You’ll all have to move by the end of the month. That gives you three weeks.”

  “Move?” Paul repeated unbelievably. “What’s the idea?”

  Eustace continued to stare fixedly at the floor as if to say that one more bit of misfortune could not appreciably add to his discomfort. Raymond was too startled and nonplussed to speak.

  “Yes. I mean it. I’m disappointed with this house. When I turned it into studios for you people, I thought I was filling a real need in the community. White artists downtown have hotels and houses where they live in a group, and I thought Negroes in Harlem should have the same type of place. I expected great things to come out of it. I expected it to contribute something to me and my talent, too. I was wrong. It’s caused me nothing but worry, and given rise to nothing but slanderous gossip, which is detrimental to me as a business woman. I won’t have people accusing me of running a misce-genated bawdy house any longer.”

  ”Miscegenated bawdy house,” Paul repeated merrily. “That is good.” He began to laugh. “Ain’t that a grand phrase, Ray?”

  Raymond ignored him. It sickened him somewhat that Euphoria, the intensely vocal liberal, should allow local gossip to disturb her. And yet he realized that it was that and nothing more which had driven her to her present decision.

  “Very good, Euphoria, I’ll be glad to get out. I understand your position thoroughly.” He spoke lightly, and hoped his tone had been sufficiently nonchalant, for he had no idea of letting her know how tragic the matter might really turn out to be. Where else in Harlem could he live comfortably, and as uninhibited, rent or no rent? To reside shabbily and conventionally in the usual Harlem rooming house, after these gloriously hectic months in Niggeratti Manor would be as detrimental to his well being and work as would a penitentiary sentence.

  Euphoria seemed pleased that her task was proving easy. She smiled at Raymond.

  “I thought you’d understand,” she said gratefully “It’s a matter of business, see? I must make money. That’s all a Negro can do. Money means freedom. There’s nothing to this art stuff. I’ve given up the idea of writing stories. I only want to make money.”

  “But what are you going to do with the house?” It was Paul who spoke. Eustace still stared into space, as if completely impervious to all that had been said.

  “I’m gonna turn this house into a dormitory for Negro working girls between the ages of eighteen and thirty.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Raymond was unable to suppress this.

  Paul began laughing again. “You win the fur lined bathtub, old dear. Dormitory for working girls.” He subsided into a fit of merriment.

  “It isn’t funny.” Euphoria turned toward Paul and tried to quiet him with a steady glower. “It’s something that has long been needed, a very serious enterprise. Where is there a place that’s decent for young girls, young bachelor women rather, to stay? The Y. W. C. A. is a joke. Restrictions and whitewashed walls. No chance for girls to express their own personality. And these common ordinary rooming houses are not fit for decent girls to consider.”

  She looked around the room defiantly, silently daring anyone to contradict her. Paul continued to snicker. Even Raymond was beginning to be amused. Eustace alone remained oblivious to it all. Euphoria lit another cigarette, then began speaking again.

  “Suppose Aline and Janet had had a nice congenial dormitory to move to when Aline’s no good mother turned them out? Suppose Lucille had had such a place to live before she made her fatal misstep?”

  She was prepared to say more, but was silenced by Paul’s boisterous guffaws and Raymond’s broad smile. She had, it seemed, said too much already. The saturation point had been reached. “Lucille’s fatal misstep” was more than Raymond or Paul could bear. And they made no effort to restrain their mirth. Euphoria became indignant.

  “I might have known you idiots would have no appreciation for a fine humanitarian enterprise. Should I open a gin mill now or encourage you to continue this …”

  “Miscegenated bawdy house,” Paul added mischievously.

  She glared at him for a moment before continuing. “That’s all I’ve got to say. You have three weeks to make other arrangements.”

  “What’s gonna happen to the Pig Woman?” Paul inquired.

  “She’s going to stay and keep house.”

  “ ’Ray for her,” Paul waved his arms in the air. “And you, I suppose,” he added maliciously, “are going to play Queen Sappho to this new Isle of Lesbos? I haven’t been so thrilled since I first learned that Unconditional Surrender’ Grant had a passion for horses.”

  Raymond could never clearly describe what happened during the next five minutes. He only knew that Paul, seated on the floor as he was, had been an astonished target for Euphoria’s feet, and that his residence in Niggeratti Manor had ended then and there, despite the three weeks’ notice.

  XXIV

  Raymond felt very much alone. It was amazing how in such a short time his group of friends had become separate entities, wrenched apart, scattered. Stephen up in Westchester County, tutoring the dunderheaded sons of a traction millionaire. Pelham in jail, dedicated to the proposition of finding an artistic outlet, calcimining cell corridors. Paul migrated to Greenwich Village after having been expelled from Niggeratti Manor for obscene lèse majesté, and so immured in the idiocies of another lunatic fringe that he had no time for subway trips to Harlem. Of Bull there had been no word at all. He had not been seen by anyone since his last interview with Lucille. Aline had crossed the line, and done it so successfully that there was no clue to where she had gone or what she was doing. Janet, too, had retreated to provinces unknown. It was rumored that she had become hostess in a cabaret in Newark, which catered to white trade only. Raymond had planned to investigate this report, but indolence had won. The trip from Harlem to Newark was tiring, even to contemplate. Janet remained unfound.

  As for Eustace. Well, Eustace did not exist any longer. Even the shell had begun to shrivel to a mere shadow of its former self. He had no spirit left, no vitality, no part of life. Nothing at all, except his love for afternoon tea and his persistency in singing Schubert’s songs in a quavering, tired voice. He lived mechanically, animated only by a frugal stream of blood which his weary heart worked manfully to keep in action. Raymond had become so alarmed at his physical and mental apathy that he had called in a physician. As a result of this, Eustace had been forcibly carried to the city hospital, forcibly because he had no desire to live, and resented any artificial attempts to delay the end.

  His unsuccessful audition had certainly been a stunning blow, one from which he would never recover. All of his life, the number of years were still a mystery, he had planned and studied, determined to become a figure on the American concert stage. The encouragement and acclaim he had earned from his uncritical Negro audiences had urged him on, given him confidence and an exaggerated conceit of his talent. Raymond had never been able to find out all that had happened at the audition. Eustace could not be persuaded to disc
uss the matter, and Samuel had not been near the house since Raymond had asked him to stay away.

  And as for Barbara. It had been bruited about that the Negro doctor who was keeping her had forbid her coming to Harlem except to be with him. He had no desire to lose his treasure. So Barbara, too, was out of the picture. Raymond remained in Niggeratti Manor alone, he and the Pig Woman (the actress lady and her two daughters had moved shortly after Pelham’s arraignment) and his loneliness was dissipated only by Lucille’s too infrequent visits.

  Once more Lucille had become, next to the novel on which he was now working, the most vital element in his life. Once more she had become his only companion, as had been the case when he had first met her soon after his arrival in New York. Aware of his depression, and also aware of the tremendous amount of energy he was pouring into his novel, she planned various theatrical dates, and arranged other diversions to provide him with intermittent hours of pleasure. She seemed to be privy to his every mood, and yet she never made herself a pest. Without her, Raymond, who so prided himself on being self-sufficient, admitted that he would surely have been lost.

  On one particular night, when he had been unusually tired and moody, Lucille had called for him at dinner time, then produced tickets for a breezy musical comedy. And, after the theater, they had gone to their favorite Italian speakeasy where they had gorged themselves on spaghetti and Muscatel. Raymond, under the warming influence of the wine, had talked incessantly about his work. Lucille had been the perfect listener, subtly urging him to continue talking, feigning great interest in all he had to say, no matter how superficial and sophomoric it might sound to her. Finally, after having added two gin rickies to the wine, Raymond had suddenly become vocally cognizant of all she meant to him.

  “ ’Cile, we ought to get married.”

  “Do you want another drink?”

  “No, really, I’m serious.”