at the Corthwaites’ house ... kind of a funny way to treat your guest
of honour, though, to leave him alone.... But then they knew that an
artist had to have time to himself.... Sure, that was it. Levering
dropped his paper and lay back comfortably. He closed his eyes and
savoured his triumph. He was the Kid himself, and running with all
these swells.... Funny kind of a place, though. No dog, no swank ...
kind of shabby. Not a patch on lots of places.... And come to think of
it, the people ain’t such classy dressers.... Not much jewellery on
the dames.... That English duke’s dinner jacket didn’t fit so damn
good.... Slow kind of crowd; he didn’t get ’em at all.... Now when
he’d sung that nifty song it didn’t go so big ... that Corthwaite
dame had acted kinda queer, seemed like she’d almost sneered.... But,
foolishness ... she liked him fine, and she liked his stuff, too....
He moved petulantly in his chair.
He wished they’d come back ... this was a bore ... no kind of way to
spend Sunday....
He picked up another sheet of the paper, but his attention wandered,
and it fluttered from his hand. “What the hell’s the matter with me?”
It was very still out there. Levering had never felt such stillness.
It pressed on his eardrums. He could fairly hear the silence. There
was no way to escape from one’s self in such quiet. He was acutely
uncomfortable. This was nothing like the Lowensteins’ place! Why,
Sunday morning at this hour there would be a crowd of good fellows
drinking highballs and singing and telling jokes, and the marble pool
would be full of people, and like as not someone would climb up one of
those Italian statues of old Lowenstein’s and stick a bathing cap on
its head. Sure, there’d be things doing all right.
But this stillness that screamed at you, and this funny little garden,
and no footman in livery, and no marble statues--hell! This wasn’t such
a place, and yet----
The stillness gives you funny ideas!
Now, old Lowenstein, he can’t be all wrong--but Constance Corthwaite’s
place can’t be wrong at all. This place is right--for her brand of
people. And the house--now, the house must be right, too. It wasn’t
what he liked himself, but it was right. It was bound to be right. It
wasn’t as if she didn’t always get the best. She could have anything in
the world, and she knew what was right--and she had this. And if this
was right, the Club Levering was wrong. He turned a little cold at the
thought. The club was his creation, it was his dream, it was, in fact,
himself, and it was wrong!
He stooped and picked up a sheet of the newspaper and folded it gently
and exactly.
Corthwaite--she knows. She’s the kind that don’t make mistakes about
houses.
He was not soothed and comforted in the sunlight now. He was acutely
and miserably fighting with doubt and distrust. For if the Club
Levering was wrong, then he was wrong. He had missed. He was cheated.
He was being shown a land that he could never enter, and desolately,
and suddenly now, he thought it was the only land worth entering.
Oh, the terrible, silent scorn of this house, in its rightness, scorn
for him and his land and his dream! Hal Levering was a poet. It seemed
to him now that the house behind him had drawn together and was
straining to get away from him, just as the people in it strained away
from him and left him alone and outside. He tried to reassure himself.
There were all kinds of people in the world, and this was America, and
he was as good as anybody.
“It ain’t so; I’m as good as any of ’em. What’d they ask me here for
if I ain’t? You big clown you, they asked you here to sing your jazz
songs, and so’s they could get a good laugh outa you. That’s what it
was for, you big dummy. Didn’t you see that Corthwaite girl sneering?
Sure you did. But you wouldn’t admit it! These people are right, and
you’re wrong, Hal Levering. You’re a Jew. No, that ain’t it either.
It’s because you ain’t a Jew--that’s it--because you’re pretending you
ain’t. Because you ain’t real. That’s it. They got their own names and
their own people and the things they’ve always had, but you--you’re
what they call a dirty Jew....
“That’s what it is about them that’s different--it ain’t just that
they got different styles in architecture--but they ain’t pretending
nothing. They don’t have to.”
He remembered the smile that had curled Constance Corthwaite’s lips the
night before. It grew, it spread, the image of curving lips blotted out
all the warm world, and he was alone before them, his heart sick with
the humiliation of the degraded artist.
Hal Levering rose from his chair, trembling a little, very white, just
as the riding party came strolling through the box hedge.
He looked down at them from the steps of the porch. They came toward
him like sublime creatures oblivious of his presence and of his pain,
ignoring him as they would always ignore him.
They were talking about someone named Coperbesby. He heard Constance
Corthwaite’s clear voice say:
“He has the most intense sense of race. A fierce and proud belief in
the Jew, and if you don’t understand that he is a Jew, that everything
he does is racial and unsullied, you can’t understand his music at all.”
Levering turned and, blundering against the door, went slowly out of
the sun, through the big quiet hall and upstairs. His room had been put
in order, and he hated to disarrange it, but he had to hurry, hurry
so that he could go quickly, and when you pack in a hurry things get
mussed up in spite of you.
* * * * *
The first thing his cronies at the club asked him was if he had had a
good time at the Corthwaite place.
Bennie Bernstein, the orchestra leader, Mimi Deland, the specialty
dancer, and her lean effeminate partner, surrounded him as soon as he
appeared that Monday night.
“Did you have a good time?” they asked him.
“Sure, fine, fine.”
Mimi Deland looked at him curiously. “Well, you don’t look it.”
He turned on her furiously. “What do you mean, I don’t look it? What do
you want me to do? Sing a song about it?”
She shrugged. “No,” simply. “But don’t chew my ear off.”
“Say, don’t get the week-end habit,” said Bennie jovially. “That bird
you had here last night doing your stuff was awful. We wouldn’t keep
open a week with him around.”
“Pretty bad, huh?” pleased.
“Lousy!”
It was time for his first song. As he stepped to the door that led him
to the spotlights and the applause, he said over his shoulder, “Don’t
worry about me getting the week-end habit; I won’t.”
“Gee,” remarked Deland as he slammed the door on them, “I wonder what
they did to him. He’s back early, too.”
He finished his song, and Bennie dipped his violin to his orchestra,
and they began the opening bars of “Abie’s an Irisher Now.”
At the sound of the first notes, Levering stiffened as though he had
been stung; then, turning on his heel, he called harshly, “Don’t play
that song to-night--or ever again.” After which he walked stiffly off
the floor, refusing his encore, while the music stopped in the middle
of a bar, jarred to a silence that held until Bennie shattered it with
his music again.
* * * * *
It was several weeks before Constance Corthwaite came again to the Club
Levering. She was quite sure, of course, when Hal Levering fled from
her house without a word to any of them, that he had somehow realized
his position; but that was not what had kept her from the club. She had
been away. Now, to-night, she was in town again and a little bored,
and as Hal Levering had once amused her she came to his place in the
hope that he might again. He was a hired performer; if she had hurt his
feelings, well--she was sorry, but she had no intention of staying away
as long as he could give her a moment’s entertainment.
The club had not been doing well for the last few weeks. Even Bennie
Bernstein’s saucy music did not hold the crowds. The reason, of course,
was that another man was in Hal Levering’s place.
Constance Corthwaite listened to one of his colourless offerings, and
then called him to her table.
“Where,” she asked, “is Hal Levering? Isn’t he going to be here
to-night?”
“Nope, he’s left for good.”
“Really, how disappointing! Where has he gone?”
“Say, lady, you’ll never believe me when I tell you; it’s the funniest
thing you ever heard! You know the money he was getting here--fifteen
hundred a week and a rake-off, and he part owner at that----”
“Really?”
“Sure. Well, he came in here one day, nobody expecting it at all, and
told ’em he was through--just like that. Through. Told ’em he was going
back and be a real Jew, going to give his talent to his people. Can you
beat it? They thought he had gone crazy, of course. Fifteen hundred a
week and a rake-off--and do you know what he’s done?” The objectionable
young man paused dramatically. “Say, he’s studying to be a cantor in a
synagogue--can you beat that?--can you?”
* * * * *
It was a year and more before the Club Levering saw its part owner
again. A variety of rumours had floated along Broadway--Levering had
gone abroad to study, he had taken a position in a synagogue, he was
composing highbrow music--but soon the rumours died away, and all that
was left of Levering at his old stamping ground was the flashing red
and green sign of the club. Business had fallen off; new places had
each in turn engaged the fickle attentions of the city’s night-lovers,
and the Club Levering was patronized by only a few stragglers. And then
the management decided to make one more bid for popular favour with a
new revue.
Bennie Bernstein laboured at his piano just as he had the afternoon of
Levering’s greatest triumph a year before, but the other performers
were new. No one now tried to fill Hal’s shoes; they had to depend on
a speeding chorus to cover up a palpable lack. And as Bennie sweated
to get the rehearsal into full swing, the service door opened and a
familiar voice sang out: “Hel-lo, Bennie, how’ve you been? Making the
grade O. K., huh?” It was Hal Levering.
“My--God--Hal!” and Bennie leaped from his stool and seized Levering by
the shoulders. The other performers gathered around, and to Hal again
was given the once so sweet chorus of praise.
“Cut it out--cut it out. Let’s get to work here. We gotta give ’em
something to knock ’em off their chairs!”
Bennie looked at Levering in astonishment. Was he really coming back?
It was too good to be true, but here he was, and Bennie ran over to
the piano joyfully. His nimble fingers flew up and down the keyboard,
and then, triumphantly, he hammered out the first bars of “Abie’s an
Irisher Now.” Levering, who had been chatting with the chef, who had
come running from the kitchen, whirled about with a white face.
“Bennie!” His voice stopped the music with the player’s hands suspended
in the air, such was its savage earnestness. “Never again that number,
Bennie. Levering’s a Jewisher now. Don’t forget that, hey?” Hal patted
his friend on the shoulder. “S’all right, Bennie, but there’s been some
changes made.”
The rehearsal went on under Levering’s direction, and when he was
satisfied with it he turned to the piano and handed Bernstein several
sheets of manuscript.
“Here’s some new numbers that I’m going to try,” he said.
“Hot dog!” Bernie murmured, as he bent his expert gaze on the neatly
written sheets. Then an expression of bewilderment spread over his
face. What was this stuff Hal was pulling? He glanced sideways at
Levering, who was standing at the edge of the platform, his back
turned. With a shake of his head, Bennie played a few bars; then
Levering joined in, a new softness, a thrilling timbre, in his rich
voice. Again the few in the room stopped their chatter and listened
with puzzled expressions, which changed into real wonder and reluctant
admiration as Hal sang:
“Set me as a seal upon thine heart,
As a seal upon thine arm,
For love is strong as death,
Jealousy is cruel as the grave.
Stir not up nor awake my love
Until he please.”
When he had finished, a silence hung over the place. Hal turned to
Bennie. “Try the next one,” he said quietly.
And again he sang a verse from the Song of Solomon, set to a wailing
accompaniment, that died away to a whisper, rose, swelled, and died
away again. It was thrilling, strange, but “Can even Hal Levering get
away with that stuff in a night club?” wondered Bennie.
One or two jazz numbers followed, and Hal called off rehearsal. The
word spread that Levering was back, and that night, when the lights
were dimmed and the chorus twinkled through the opening number, the
place was crowded beyond seating capacity.
There was no sight of Levering until after Buck and Wing, those
whirling cloggers, had done their turn. Then he appeared, and a burst
of applause, punctuated by the staccato click of the little wooden
hammers on the tables, showed that he still had a loyal following.
Bennie, at the piano, nervously settled himself, waiting for the noise
to cease. Then Hal broke into one of his new songs, those songs that
are as famous now as “Eli, Eli.” The reaction of the crowd was amazing.
Some wept, some applauded, others sat silent, wondering. It was so
unexpected, so sudden, that before they realized it Hal had bowed
quietly and left the room.
Later he sang several jazz songs, but after the applause he did not
join his patrons at their tables; he left the room in spite of
clamorous shouts of “C’mere, Hal,” “Have a lil one with us, Hal?” “Draw
up a chair, Hal.”
Sitting at one of the tables were Lord and Lady Greville, Nancy
Bromley, and John Taylor. If Levering had noticed the presence of these
companions of his week-end at Constance Corthwaite’s, he gave no sign.
“I told Constance he’d be back at it within a year,” remarked Nancy
Bromley, when Levering had left the floor and the lights had again been
brightened. “A taste of good fortune to a man like that always goes to
the head.... Cantor! It is to laugh.”
The others were silent; then Taylor spoke: “That’s not the man we knew,
though. Don’t you get the difference? Those first songs were superb.
The man who wrote that music is a genius.”
“Changed, nothing! That’s the same old Levering. I’ll prove it to you.”
Nancy called a waiter and told him to ask Mr. Levering if he would
speak to Miss Bromley.
“What are you going to do?” asked Greville.
“Never mind; you’ll see when he comes,” answered Nancy.
In a few moments Levering appeared and walked through the aisles of
tables to where the party was sitting. He did not cross the floor
in his old swaggering manner, receiving homage as he went; but with
dignity he walked and, reaching the table, bowed quietly to the four
people.
“Pull up a chair and have a drink,” invited Taylor.
“No, thank you, just the same. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“I am having some people down over the week-end of the twenty-third,
Mr. Levering,” said Nancy. “I should like very much to have you come.”
“That is very kind of you, Miss Bromley,” replied Levering quietly;
“I should be very glad to come on Saturday evening and entertain your
guests. My charge for such an affair is one thousand dollars. I presume
you will not want me after eleven-thirty. I must be back in town early,
for I sing in a concert Sunday afternoon.”
Nancy’s face was crimson as she answered, “That will be all right, Mr.
Levering.” Hal bowed and, turning, walked away.
John Taylor looked with amusement at the discomfited Nancy and then
at the proud set of the head of the Jew who was now a Jew, a Prince of
Israel, and a verse that he had learned as a child came to him: “For
thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him
with glory and honour.”
BULLDOG
BY ROGER DANIELS
From _Saturday Evening Post_
“Next case!” Judge Barringer was brisk. Word had come to him that the
railbirds were plentiful down in the marshes of the Big Swamp and he
was going hunting. It was Monday morning, and the police-court docket
was an unusually large one even for Monday morning.
Out of the group of Negroes waiting in the prisoners’ pen, a group so
large this morning that it overflowed on to the sunny porch beyond,
edged a giant Negro in answer to the turnkey’s signal. Rather, he could
have been said to plough his way through, for the men and women ranged
before him separated as does soft loam under the impelling blade of
the ploughshare. Once free of the crowd, the man stepped forward with
an easy but awkward shuffle until he stood directly in front of the
judge’s desk. At that moment Judge Barringer was intently scanning the
docket slip and figuring how soon he would be able to get away.
The prisoner’s massive head might have been chiselled with an ax from
a block of black marble, and not too finely chiselled, at that. It had
the sheen of black marble, and was square and formidable, that head,
viewed from any angle. The jaw was square and protruding, the forehead
was square and receding, the nose was broad and flat. Just now the
mouth was spread wide across the shining ebony face.
“Mawnin’, Jedge,” the big Negro said with a sheepish grin. “Heah Ah is!”
Judge Barringer’s head jerked up instantly. He was not accustomed to
mawkish familiarity from his charges, nor did he fail to administer
stinging rebukes, when such were attempted, in the amount of sentence
given as well as in verbal reproof to any and all who might presume
to take such liberties. But as he took cognizance of the figure that
loomed before him, his expression changed. The frown that had furrowed
his forehead did not linger. It could not be said that he smiled, but
a look of real recognition, kindly and forbearing, came into his eyes.
One hardly frowns at an old acquaintance.
“Well, Bulldog,” Judge Barringer said, calling the big Negro by the
only name he had, “I haven’t seen you for the longest time. Where have
you been hiding?”
Bulldog grinned, even a broader grin than before, so that his white
teeth showed in a semicircle. “Same place wheah Ah usually is, Jedge
Barringer, Yo’ Honour. Down on the Fahm wiv Cap’n Jim.” The Farm was
the chain-gang camp.
“It’s too bad, Bulldog,” the judge said, shaking his head; “you’re big
enough to keep out of trouble and mind your own business.”
“Yas-suh, Jedge Barringer, tha’s jes’ what Ah was a-doin’, mindin’ mah
business, an’ Ah jes’ gits me into trouble jes’ the same. Seems lak me
an’ trouble sticks together lak a pair ob dice.” He grinned again. The
grin became infectious and Judge Barringer took it up. Even the stolid
fat Sam Perks, the turnkey, grinned. Then came a general titter, to be
brought to a sudden halt by the judge’s staccato gavel.
Judge Barringer had suddenly remembered the railbirds and the Big
Swamp. He was off for a three-day hunt, and there were several things
he must attend to personally before turning over the affairs of court
_pro tem._ to the clerk. With still more than half a heavy Monday
docket to be heard from, there was no time for amusement this morning.
“Well, where’s the witness against Bulldog? Is the Court to be kept
waiting? What has he to say for himself and why isn’t he here?”
The patrolman who had arrested the big Negro stepped forward.
“The witness is still in the hospital, judge,” he said. “Pretty badly
done up and they don’t know when he will be out. I guess the case will
have to be continued until he can appear.”
“Waste of time,” Judge Barringer said crisply. “I know Bulldog.” He
turned abruptly to the big Negro. “Well, what happened this time? Tell
us your side of the story.”
Bulldog shuffled from one foot to the other. “It was thisaway, Jedge,
Yo’ Honour. The las’ six months what you give me, they ain’t up till
to-morrow. Cap’n Jim, he startin’ the big ’Geechee Canal to-morrow.
Come las’ Friday, Cap’n Jim, he say, ‘Bulldog, yo’ bin a mighty good
nigger this trip. Ah’m lettin’ yo’ out a couple ob days ahaid ob time.
Mebby you-all be back so’s we kin staht wif the new ‘Geechee Canal
together.’ Ah reckon dat Cap’n Jim be right, Jedge, Yo’ Honour, cause
heah Ah is!”
As Bulldog broke into another of those infectious grins, it was
necessary for Judge Barringer to rap for order, although he was forced
to cough to hide his own mirth. Any other morning Bulldog might have
been highly amusing entertainment, but the railbirds were calling from
the Big Swamp.
“So much for that,” Judge Barringer said. “Tell us what happened. Why
is this man in the hospital?”
“It was thisaway, Jedge, Yo’ Honour,” Bulldog repeated the formula: “Ah
gits me home an’ Ah finds that a yaller Washin’ton nigger been shinin’
up to my Sally while Ah bin down on de Fahm. Yassuh, Jedge, Yo’ Honour,
he’s shinin’ when I gits home. I comes in de front do’ an’ he goes out
de back. All Ah done, Jedge, was jes’ flicked dat nigger, ’cause he
don’ move fas’ enough.”
“You just flicked him. What with?” Judge Barringer asked, as the term
was a new one to him.
“Wif the back ob mah han’, Jedge, thisaway.” Bulldog made a snapping
gesture with one hand; “jes’ lak yo’d flick on a fly, Jedge. Dat’s all
Ah done to dat measly little nigger. He wasn’t big enough to hit.”
“So you just flicked him like you’d flick off a fly?” Judge Barringer
questioned.
“Yas-suh, dat’s all, Jedge, Yo’ Honour,” Bulldog answered.
“And now this man is in the hospital and they don’t know when he will
be able to appear. It seems to me that the last time you were here you
said you had just made a pass at a man and when they got him to the
hospital he was cut in ten different places.” Judge Barringer leaned
back with an air of resignation. “Bulldog, you’re hopeless. I’m going
to send you back to Captain Jim for another six months. For the general
safety of the community at large, you’d better do your flicking on the
new Ogeechee Canal.”
“Yas-suh, Jedge, Yo’ Honour,” Bulldog answered.
Such a remark coming from any other prisoner would have been
impertinence and would have been swiftly treated as such. But between
old friends there are no impertinences. Bulldog turned away with a grin
and ploughed his way through the crowd in the prisoners’ pen to the
bench in the rear. Two Negroes got up hastily to make room for him.
The business of the court moved along swiftly. The railbirds were
calling to the judge’s bench from the Big Swamp. Bulldog, on the
prisoners’ bench, was thinking of the convict captain. He liked Captain
Jim. “Ah guess he knowed Ah’d be back in time all right,” he mused to
himself. “Well, Cap’n Jim, Ah’m comin’.”
Later that afternoon there was a meeting between the two. “Been waitin’
all mawnin’ for you, Bulldog,” was the convict captain’s greeting.
“Just you run along and get your work clothes and then you can go over
and clean up my quarters.”
The regular routine of the check-in was usually dispensed with in
Bulldog’s case, as it was to-day. Once safe in the convict camp, he
caused no trouble. He did the work of seven ordinary men and had withal
the stolid patience of a work horse. Only when he was at liberty was
Bulldog dangerous, like a colt turned out to grass which suddenly
remembers that he can kick. Captain Jim had been busy for several
minutes with the other prisoners before he realized that Bulldog still
stood back of him, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. He recalled
that the same thing had happened on one other occasion and grinned
inwardly.
He half turned. “Bulldog, you go over and tell old Henry,” Cap’n Jim
said, “to give you something to eat.”
“Yas-suh, Cap’n Jim,” Bulldog said with alacrity, his eyes brightening
and his lower lip hanging expectantly at the thought of food. “Dat’s
what Ah was hopin’ yo’ was goin’ to say, Cap’n Jim. Ah ain’t eat since
las’ night.” The sheepish grin spread over his face. “Seems lak Ah
cain’t relish de bacon and grits what dey gives up to dat city jail.
Dey don’t know how to feed a nigger lak yo’ does, Cap’n Jim.”
“So that’s why you came back so soon, is it?” the convict captain said
with a laugh.
“No, suh,” Bulldog answered soberly, his brows knit and his lips
protruding. “Ah didn’ come back fer no perticular reason, Cap’n Jim.
Now Ah stops and figgers it out, Ah guess it jus’ happen.” His face lit
up with an idea as he asked with all the wonder of a small boy, “Cap’n
Jim, you-all didn’ put no sign on me to make me come back?”
“If you don’t get out of here quick I’ll put a sign on you you won’t
forget,” the captain exploded.
“Yas-suh,” Bulldog called back to him over his shoulder, being already
half a dozen paces on his way.
Ten minutes later, garbed in his chain-gang work clothes, with a chain
dangling from his waist, Bulldog poked his head through the open window
of the cook shanty.
“Ev’nin’, Uncle Henry,” he said in a mellifluous tone to a gray-haired
Negro in cap and apron who was ladling the contents of a huge pot set
at the back of the big square stove.
Uncle Henry looked up, his face crinkled with smiles that seemed to
close his eyes until they were shiny, laughing dots.
“Dat you-all, Bulldog? Sho’ nuff I jes’ dis minute ’cided you done
dis’point Cap’n Jim an’ slumped a fresh ham bone an’ two pounds ob meat
on it into dat soup. But, Bulldog, boy, for you I fishes it out.”
“Yas-suh, Uncle Henry, Ah knowed yo’ ain’t goin’ to see Bulldog starve.
Mebbe yo’ has a handful ob dem yaller sweet yams.” Bulldog’s mouth
fairly dripped.