II

Since I have grown older I have often gone back and tried to analyze

the change that came into my life after that fateful day in school.

There did come a radical change, and, young as I was, I felt fully

conscious of it, though I did not fully comprehend it. Like my first

spanking, it is one of the few incidents in my life that I can

remember clearly. In the life of everyone there is a limited number of

unhappy experiences which are not written upon the memory, but stamped

there with a die; and in long years after, they can be called up

in detail, and every emotion that was stirred by them can be lived

through anew; these are the tragedies of life. We may grow to include

some of them among the trivial incidents of childhood--a broken toy,

a promise made to us which was not kept, a harsh, heart-piercing

word--but these, too, as well as the bitter experiences and

disappointments of mature years, are the tragedies of life.

And so I have often lived through that hour, that day, that week, in

which was wrought the miracle of my transition from one world into

another; for I did indeed pass into another world. From that time I

looked out through other eyes, my thoughts were colored, my words

dictated, my actions limited by one dominating, all-pervading idea

which constantly increased in force and weight until I finally

realized in it a great, tangible fact.

And this is the dwarfing, warping, distorting influence which operates

upon each and every colored man in the United States. He is forced to

take his outlook on all things, not from the viewpoint of a citizen,

or a man, or even a human being, but from the viewpoint of a _colored_

man. It is wonderful to me that the race has progressed so broadly as

it has, since most of its thought and all of its activity must run

through the narrow neck of this one funnel.

And it is this, too, which makes the colored people of this country,

in reality, a mystery to the whites. It is a difficult thing for

a white man to learn what a colored man really thinks; because,

generally, with the latter an additional and different light must

be brought to bear on what he thinks; and his thoughts are often

influenced by considerations so delicate and subtle that it would be

impossible for him to confess or explain them to one of the opposite

race. This gives to every colored man, in proportion to his

intellectuality, a sort of dual personality; there is one phase of him

which is disclosed only in the freemasonry of his own race. I have

often watched with interest and sometimes with amazement even ignorant

colored men under cover of broad grins and minstrel antics maintain

this dualism in the presence of white men.

I believe it to be a fact that the colored people of this country know

and understand the white people better than the white people know and

understand them.

I now think that this change which came into my life was at first more

subjective than objective. I do not think my friends at school changed

so much toward me as I did toward them. I grew reserved, I might say

suspicious. I grew constantly more and more afraid of laying myself

open to some injury to my feelings or my pride. I frequently saw or

fancied some slight where, I am sure, none was intended. On the other

hand, my friends and teachers were, if anything different, more

considerate of me; but I can remember that it was against this very

attitude in particular that my sensitiveness revolted. "Red" was the

only one who did not so wound me; up to this day I recall with a

swelling heart his clumsy efforts to make me understand that nothing

could change his love for me.

I am sure that at this time the majority of my white schoolmates

did not understand or appreciate any differences between me and

themselves; but there were a few who had evidently received

instructions at home on the matter, and more than once they displayed

their knowledge in word and action. As the years passed, I noticed

that the most innocent and ignorant among the others grew in wisdom.

I myself would not have so clearly understood this difference had it

not been for the presence of the other colored children at school; I

had learned what their status was, and now I learned that theirs was

mine. I had had no particular like or dislike for these black and

brown boys and girls; in fact, with the exception of "Shiny," they had

occupied very little of my thought; but I do know that when the blow

fell, I had a very strong aversion to being classed with them. So I

became something of a solitary. "Red" and I remained inseparable, and

there was between "Shiny" and me a sort of sympathetic bond, but my

intercourse with the others was never entirely free from a feeling of

constraint. I must add, however, that this feeling was confined almost

entirely to my intercourse with boys and girls of about my own age; I

did not experience it with my seniors. And when I grew to manhood, I

found myself freer with elderly white people than with those near my

own age.

I was now about eleven years old, but these emotions and impressions

which I have just described could not have been stronger or more

distinct at an older age. There were two immediate results of my

forced loneliness: I began to find company in books, and greater

pleasure in music. I made the former discovery through a big,

gilt-bound, illustrated copy of the Bible, which used to lie in

splendid neglect on the center table in our little parlor. On top of

the Bible lay a photograph album. I had often looked at the pictures

in the album, and one day, after taking the larger book down and

opening it on the floor, I was overjoyed to find that it contained

what seemed to be an inexhaustible supply of pictures. I looked at

these pictures many times; in fact, so often that I knew the story

of each one without having to read the subject, and then, somehow, I

picked up the thread of history on which are strung the trials and

tribulations of the Hebrew children; this I followed with feverish

interest and excitement. For a long time King David, with Samson a

close second, stood at the head of my list of heroes; he was not

displaced until I came to know Robert the Bruce. I read a good portion

of the Old Testament, all that part treating of wars and rumors of

wars, and then started in on the New. I became interested in the life

of Christ, but became impatient and disappointed when I found that,

notwithstanding the great power he possessed, he did not make use of

it when, in my judgment, he most needed to do so. And so my first

general impression of the Bible was what my later impression has been

of a number of modern books, that the authors put their best work in

the first part, and grew either exhausted or careless toward the end.

After reading the Bible, or those parts which held my attention,

I began to explore the glass-doored bookcase which I have already

mentioned. I found there _Pilgrim's Progress_, Peter Parley's _History

of the United States_, Grimm's _Household Stories, Tales of a

Grandfather_, a bound volume of an old English publication (I think it

was called _The Mirror_), a little volume called _Familiar Science_,

and somebody's _Natural Theology_, which last, of course, I could not

read, but which, nevertheless, I tackled, with the result of gaining a

permanent dislike for all kinds of theology. There were several other

books of no particular name or merit, such as agents sell to people

who know nothing of buying books. How my mother came by this little

library which, considering all things, was so well suited to me I

never sought to know. But she was far from being an ignorant woman and

had herself, very likely, read the majority of these books, though

I do not remember ever seeing her with a book in her hand, with the

exception of the Episcopal Prayer book. At any rate she encouraged in

me the habit of reading, and when I had about exhausted those books in

the little library which interested me, she began to buy books for me.

She also regularly gave me money to buy a weekly paper which was then

very popular for boys.

At this time I went in for music with an earnestness worthy of maturer

years; a change of teachers was largely responsible for this. I began

now to take lessons of the organist of the church which I attended

with my mother; he was a good teacher and quite a thorough musician.

He was so skillful in his instruction and filled me with such

enthusiasm that my progress--these are his words--was marvelous. I

remember that when I was barely twelve years old I appeared on a

program with a number of adults at an entertainment given for some

charitable purpose, and carried off the honors. I did more, I brought

upon myself through the local newspapers the handicapping title of

"infant prodigy."

I can believe that I did astonish my audience, for I never played

the piano like a child; that is, in the "one-two-three" style with

accelerated motion. Neither did I depend upon mere brilliancy of

technique, a trick by which children often surprise their listeners;

but I always tried to interpret a piece of music; I always played with

feeling. Very early I acquired that knack of using the pedals, which

makes the piano a sympathetic, singing instrument, quite a different

thing from the source of hard or blurred sounds it so generally is. I

think this was due not entirely to natural artistic temperament,

but largely to the fact that I did not begin to learn the piano by

counting out exercises, but by trying to reproduce the quaint songs

which my mother used to sing, with all their pathetic turns and

cadences.

Even at a tender age, in playing I helped to express what I felt

by some of the mannerisms which I afterwards observed in great

performers; I had not copied them. I have often heard people speak of

the mannerisms of musicians as affectations adopted for mere effect;

in some cases they may be so; but a true artist can no more play upon

the piano or violin without putting his whole body in accord with the

emotions he is striving to express than a swallow can fly without

being graceful. Often when playing I could not keep the tears which

formed in my eyes from rolling down my cheeks. Sometimes at the end

or even in the midst of a composition, as big a boy as I was, I would

jump from the piano, and throw myself sobbing into my mother's arms.

She, by her caresses and often her tears, only encouraged these fits

of sentimental hysteria. Of course, to counteract this tendency to

temperamental excesses I should have been out playing ball or in

swimming with other boys of my age; but my mother didn't know that.

There was only once when she was really firm with me, making me do

what she considered was best; I did not want to return to school after

the unpleasant episode which I have related, and she was inflexible.

I began my third term, and the days ran along as I have already

indicated. I had been promoted twice, and had managed each time to

pull "Red" along with me. I think the teachers came to consider me

the only hope of his ever getting through school, and I believe they

secretly conspired with me to bring about the desired end. At any

rate, I know it became easier in each succeeding examination for me

not only to assist "Red," but absolutely to do his work. It is

strange how in some things honest people can be dishonest without the

slightest compunction. I knew boys at school who were too honorable

to tell a fib even when one would have been just the right thing, but

could not resist the temptation to assist or receive assistance in an

examination. I have long considered it the highest proof of honesty in

a man to hand his street-car fare to the conductor who had overlooked

it.

One afternoon after school, during my third term, I rushed home in a

great hurry to get my dinner and go to my music teacher's. I was never

reluctant about going there, but on this particular afternoon I

was impetuous. The reason of this was I had been asked to play the

accompaniment for a young lady who was to play a violin solo at a

concert given by the young people of the church, and on this

afternoon we were to have our first rehearsal. At that time playing

accompaniments was the only thing in music I did not enjoy; later this

feeling grew into positive dislike. I have never been a really good

accompanist because my ideas of interpretation were always too

strongly individual. I constantly forced my _accelerandos_ and

_rubatos_ upon the soloist, often throwing the duet entirely out of

gear.

Perhaps the reader has already guessed why I was so willing and

anxious to play the accompaniment to this violin solo; if not--the

violinist was a girl of seventeen or eighteen whom I had first heard

play a short time before on a Sunday afternoon at a special service

of some kind, and who had moved me to a degree which now I can hardly

think of as possible. At present I do not think it was due to her

wonderful playing, though I judge she must have been a very fair

performer, but there was just the proper setting to produce the effect

upon a boy such as I was; the half-dim church, the air of devotion on

the part of the listeners, the heaving tremor of the organ under

the clear wail of the violin, and she, her eyes almost closing, the

escaping strands of her dark hair wildly framing her pale face, and

her slender body swaying to the tones she called forth, all combined

to fire my imagination and my heart with a passion, though boyish, yet

strong and, somehow, lasting. I have tried to describe the scene; if I

have succeeded, it is only half success, for words can only partially

express what I wish to convey. Always in recalling that Sunday

afternoon I am sub-conscious of a faint but distinct fragrance which,

like some old memory-awakening perfume, rises and suffuses my whole

imagination, inducing a state of reverie so airy as just to evade the

powers of expression.

She was my first love, and I loved her as only a boy loves. I dreamed

of her, I built air castles for her, she was the incarnation of each

beautiful heroine I knew; when I played the piano, it was to her, not

even music furnished an adequate outlet for my passion; I bought a new

note-book and, to sing her praises, made my first and last attempts

at poetry. I remember one day at school, after we had given in our

notebooks to have some exercises corrected, the teacher called me to

her desk and said: "I couldn't correct your exercises because I found

nothing in your book but a rhapsody on somebody's brown eyes." I had

passed in the wrong note-book. I don't think I have felt greater

embarrassment in my whole life than I did at that moment. I was

ashamed not only that my teacher should see this nakedness of my

heart, but that she should find out that I had any knowledge of such

affairs. It did not then occur to me to be ashamed of the kind of

poetry I had written.

Of course, the reader must know that all of this adoration was in

secret; next to my great love for this young lady was the dread that

in some way she would find it out. I did not know what some men never

find out, that the woman who cannot discern when she is loved has

never lived. It makes me laugh to think how successful I was in

concealing it all; within a short time after our duet all of

the friends of my dear one were referring to me as her "little

sweetheart," or her "little beau," and she laughingly encouraged it.

This did not entirely satisfy me; I wanted to be taken seriously. I

had definitely made up my mind that I should never love another woman,

and that if she deceived me I should do something desperate--the great

difficulty was to think of something sufficiently desperate--and the

heartless jade, how she led me on!

So I hurried home that afternoon, humming snatches of the violin part

of the duet, my heart beating with pleasurable excitement over the

fact that I was going to be near her, to have her attention placed

directly upon me; that I was going to be of service to her, and in a

way in which I could show myself to advantage--this last consideration

has much to do with cheerful service----. The anticipation produced in

me a sensation somewhat between bliss and fear. I rushed through the

gate, took the three steps to the house at one bound, threw open the

door, and was about to hang my cap on its accustomed peg of the hall

rack when I noticed that that particular peg was occupied by a black

derby hat. I stopped suddenly and gazed at this hat as though I had

never seen an object of its description. I was still looking at it in

open-eyed wonder when my mother, coming out of the parlor into the

hallway, called me and said there was someone inside who wanted to see

me. Feeling that I was being made a party to some kind of mystery,

I went in with her, and there I saw a man standing leaning with one

elbow on the mantel, his back partly turned toward the door. As I

entered, he turned and I saw a tall, handsome, well-dressed gentleman

of perhaps thirty-five; he advanced a step toward me with a smile on

his face. I stopped and looked at him with the same feelings with

which I had looked at the derby hat, except that they were greatly

magnified. I looked at him from head to foot, but he was an absolute

blank to me until my eyes rested on his slender, elegant polished

shoes; then it seemed that indistinct and partly obliterated films

of memory began, at first slowly, then rapidly, to unroll, forming a

vague panorama of my childhood days in Georgia.

My mother broke the spell by calling me by name and saying: "This is

your father."

"Father, father," that was the word which had been to me a source of

doubt and perplexity ever since the interview with my mother on the

subject. How often I had wondered about my father, who he was, what

he was like, whether alive or dead, and, above all, why she would not

tell me about him. More than once I had been on the point of recalling

to her the promise she had made me, but I instinctively felt that she

was happier for not telling me and that I was happier for not being

told; yet I had not the slightest idea what the real truth was.

And here he stood before me, just the kind of looking father I had

wishfully pictured him to be; but I made no advance toward him; I

stood there feeling embarrassed and foolish, not knowing what to say

or do. I am not sure but that he felt pretty much the same. My mother

stood at my side with one hand on my shoulder, almost pushing

me forward, but I did not move. I can well remember the look of

disappointment, even pain, on her face; and I can now understand that

she could expect nothing else but that at the name "father" I should

throw myself into his arms. But I could not rise to this dramatic,

or, better, melodramatic, climax. Somehow I could not arouse any

considerable feeling of need for a father. He broke the awkward

tableau by saying: "Well, boy, aren't you glad to see me?" He

evidently meant the words kindly enough, but I don't know what he

could have said that would have had a worse effect; however, my good

breeding came to my rescue, and I answered: "Yes, sir," and went to

him and offered him my hand. He took my hand into one of his, and,

with the other, stroked my head, saying that I had grown into a fine

youngster. He asked me how old I was; which, of course, he must have

done merely to say something more, or perhaps he did so as a test of

my intelligence. I replied: "Twelve, sir." He then made the trite

observation about the flight of time, and we lapsed into another

awkward pause.

My mother was all in smiles; I believe that was one of the happiest

moments of her life. Either to put me more at ease or to show me off,

she asked me to play something for my father. There is only one

thing in the world that can make music, at all times and under all

circumstances, up to its general standard; that is a hand-organ, or

one of its variations. I went to the piano and played something in

a listless, half-hearted way. I simply was not in the mood. I was

wondering, while playing, when my mother would dismiss me and let me

go; but my father was so enthusiastic in his praise that he touched my

vanity--which was great--and more than that; he displayed that sincere

appreciation which always arouses an artist to his best effort, and,

too, in an unexplainable manner, makes him feel like shedding tears.

I showed my gratitude by playing for him a Chopin waltz with all the

feeling that was in me. When I had finished, my mother's eyes were

glistening with tears; my father stepped across the room, seized me in

his arms, and squeezed me to his breast. I am certain that for that

moment he was proud to be my father. He sat and held me standing

between his knees while he talked to my mother. I, in the mean

time, examined him with more curiosity, perhaps, than politeness. I

interrupted the conversation by asking: "Mother, is he going to stay

with us now?" I found it impossible to frame the word "father"; it

was too new to me; so I asked the question through my mother. Without

waiting for her to speak, my father answered: "I've got to go back to

New York this afternoon, but I'm coming to see you again." I turned

abruptly and went over to my mother, and almost in a whisper reminded

her that I had an appointment which I should not miss; to my pleasant

surprise she said that she would give me something to eat at once so

that I might go. She went out of the room and I began to gather from

off the piano the music I needed. When I had finished, my father, who

had been watching me, asked: "Are you going?" I replied: "Yes, sir,

I've got to go to practice for a concert." He spoke some words of

advice to me about being a good boy and taking care of my mother when

I grew up, and added that he was going to send me something nice from

New York. My mother called, and I said good-bye to him and went out. I

saw him only once after that.

I quickly swallowed down what my mother had put on the table for me,

seized my cap and music, and hurried off to my teacher's house. On the

way I could think of nothing but this new father, where he came from,

where he had been, why he was here, and why he would not stay. In my

mind I ran over the whole list of fathers I had become acquainted with

in my reading, but I could not classify him. The thought did not cross

my mind that he was different from me, and even if it had, the mystery

would not thereby have been explained; for, notwithstanding my changed

relations with most of my schoolmates, I had only a faint knowledge of

prejudice and no idea at all how it ramified and affected our entire

social organism. I felt, however, that there was something about the

whole affair which had to be hid.

When I arrived, I found that she of the brown eyes had been rehearsing

with my teacher and was on the point of leaving. My teacher, with some

expressions of surprise, asked why I was late, and I stammered out the

first deliberate lie of which I have any recollection. I told him that

when I reached home from school, I found my mother quite sick, and

that I had stayed with her awhile before coming. Then unnecessarily

and gratuitously--to give my words force of conviction, I suppose--I

added: "I don't think she'll be with us very long." In speaking these

words I must have been comical; for I noticed that my teacher, instead

of showing signs of anxiety or sorrow, half hid a smile. But how

little did I know that in that lie I was speaking a prophecy!

She of the brown eyes unpacked her violin, and we went through the

duet several times. I was soon lost to all other thoughts in

the delights of music and love. I saw delights of love without

reservation; for at no time of life is love so pure, so delicious, so

poetic, so romantic, as it is in boyhood. A great deal has been said

about the heart of a girl when she' stands "where the brook and river

meet," but what she feels is negative; more interesting is the heart

of a boy when just at the budding dawn of manhood he stands looking

wide-eyed into the long vistas opening before him; when he first

becomes conscious of the awakening and quickening of strange desires

and unknown powers; when what he sees and feels is still shadowy and

mystical enough to be intangible, and, so, more beautiful; when his

imagination is unsullied, and his faith new and whole--then it is that

love wears a halo. The man who has not loved before he was fourteen

has missed a foretaste of Elysium.

When I reached home, it was quite dark and I found my mother without

a light, sitting rocking in a chair, as she so often used to do in my

childhood days, looking into the fire and singing softly to herself. I

nestled close to her, and, with her arms round me, she haltingly told

me who my father was--a great man, a fine gentleman--he loved me and

loved her very much; he was going to make a great man of me: All she

said was so limited by reserve and so colored by her feelings that it

was but half truth; and so I did not yet fully understand.