III

Perhaps I ought not pass on in this narrative without mentioning that

the duet was a great success, so great that we were obliged to respond

with two encores. It seemed to me that life could hold no greater joy

than it contained when I took her hand and we stepped down to the

front of the stage bowing to our enthusiastic audience. When we

reached the little dressing-room, where the other performers were

applauding as wildly as the audience, she impulsively threw both her

arms round me and kissed me, while I struggled to get away.

One day a couple of weeks after my father had been to see us, a wagon

drove up to our cottage loaded with a big box. I was about to tell the

men on the wagon that they had made a mistake, when my mother, acting

darkly wise, told them to bring their load in; she had them unpack the

box, and quickly there was evolved from the boards, paper, and other

packing material a beautiful, brand-new, upright piano. Then she

informed me that it was a present to me from my father. I at once sat

down and ran my fingers over the keys; the full, mellow tone of the

instrument was ravishing. I thought, almost remorsefully, of how I

had left my father; but, even so, there momentarily crossed my mind

a feeling of disappointment that the piano was not a grand. The new

instrument greatly increased the pleasure of my hours of study and

practice at home.

Shortly after this I was made a member of the boys' choir, it being

found that I possessed a clear, strong soprano voice. I enjoyed the

singing very much. About a year later I began the study of the pipe

organ and the theory of music; and before I finished the grammar

school, I had written out several simple preludes for organ which won

the admiration of my teacher, and which he did me the honor to play at

services.

The older I grew, the more thought I gave to the question of my

mother's and my position, and what was our exact relation to the world

in general. My idea of the whole matter was rather hazy. My study of

United States history had been confined to those periods which were

designated in my book as "Discovery," "Colonial," "Revolutionary," and

"Constitutional." I now began to study about the Civil War, but the

story was told in such a condensed and skipping style that I gained

from it very little real information. It is a marvel how children ever

learn any history out of books of that sort. And, too, I began now to

read the newspapers; I often saw articles which aroused my curiosity,

but did not enlighten me. But one day I drew from the circulating

library a book that cleared the whole mystery, a book that I read

with the same feverish intensity with which I had read the old Bible

stories, a book that gave me my first perspective of the life I was

entering; that book was _Uncle Tom's Cabin_.

This work of Harriet Beecher Stowe has been the object of much

unfavorable criticism. It has been assailed, not only as fiction of

the most imaginative sort, but as being a direct misrepresentation.

Several successful attempts have lately been made to displace the book

from Northern school libraries. Its critics would brush it aside with

the remark that there never was a Negro as good as Uncle Tom, nor a

slave-holder as bad as Legree. For my part, I was never an admirer of

Uncle Tom, nor of his type of goodness; but I believe that there were

lots of old Negroes as foolishly good as he; the proof of which is

that they knowingly stayed and worked the plantations that furnished

sinews for the army which was fighting to keep them enslaved. But in

these later years several cases have come to my personal knowledge in

which old Negroes have died and left what was a considerable fortune

to the descendants of their former masters. I do not think it takes

any great stretch of the imagination to believe there was a fairly

large class of slave-holders typified in Legree. And we must also

remember that the author depicted a number of worthless if not vicious

Negroes, and a slave-holder who was as much of a Christian and a

gentleman as it was possible for one in his position to be; that she

pictured the happy, singing, shuffling "darky" as well as the mother

wailing for her child sold "down river."

I do not think it is claiming too much to say that _Uncle Tom's Cabin_

was a fair and truthful panorama of slavery; however that may be, it

opened my eyes as to who and what I was and what my country considered

me; in fact, it gave me my bearing. But there was no shock; I took

the whole revelation in a kind of stoical way. One of the greatest

benefits I derived from reading the book was that I could afterwards

talk frankly with my mother on all the questions which had been

vaguely troubling my mind. As a result, she was entirely freed from

reserve, and often herself brought up the subject, talking of things

directly touching her life and mine and of things which had come down

to her through the "old folks." What she told me interested and even

fascinated me, and, what may seem strange, kindled in me a strong

desire to see the South. She spoke to me quite frankly about herself,

my father, and myself: she, the sewing girl of my father's mother;

he, an impetuous young man home from college; I, the child of this

unsanctioned love. She told me even the principal reason for our

coming north. My father was about to be married to a young lady of

another great Southern family; She did not neglect to add that another

reason for our being in Connecticut was that he intended to give me

an education and make a man of me. In none of her talks did she ever

utter one word of complaint against my father. She always endeavored

to impress upon me how good he had been and still was, and that he was

all to us that custom and the law would allow. She loved him; more,

she worshiped him, and she died firmly believing that he loved her

more than any other woman in the world. Perhaps she was right. Who

knows?

All of these newly awakened ideas and thoughts took the form of a

definite aspiration on the day I graduated from the grammar school.

And what a day that was! The girls in white dresses, with fresh

ribbons in their hair; the boys in new suits and creaky shoes; the

great crowd of parents and friends; the flowers, the prizes and

congratulations, made the day seem to me one of the greatest

importance. I was on the program, and played a piano solo which was

received by the audience with that amount of applause which I had come

to look upon as being only the just due of my talent.

But the real enthusiasm was aroused by "Shiny." He was the principal

speaker of the day, and well did he measure up to the honor. He made a

striking picture, that thin little black boy standing on the platform,

dressed in clothes that did not fit him any too well, his eyes burning

with excitement, his shrill, musical voice vibrating in tones of

appealing defiance, and his black face alight with such great

intelligence and earnestness as to be positively handsome. What were

his thoughts when he stepped forward and looked into that crowd of

faces, all white with the exception of a score or so that were lost to

view? I do not know, but I fancy he felt his loneliness. I think there

must have rushed over him a feeling akin to that of a gladiator tossed

into the arena and bade to fight for his life. I think that solitary

little black figure standing there felt that for the particular time

and place he bore the weight and responsibility of his race; that for

him to fail meant general defeat; but he won, and nobly. His oration

was Wendell Phillips's "Toussaint L'Ouverture," a speech which may now

be classed as rhetorical--even, perhaps, bombastic; but as the words

fell from "Shiny's" lips their effect was magical. How so young an

orator could stir so great enthusiasm was to be wondered at. When, in

the famous peroration, his voice, trembling with suppressed emotion,

rose higher and higher and then rested on the name "Toussaint

L'Ouverture," it was like touching an electric button which loosed the

pent-up feelings of his listeners. They actually rose to him.

I have since known of colored men who have been chosen as class

orators in our leading universities, of others who have played on the

varsity football and baseball teams, of colored speakers who have

addressed great white audiences. In each of these instances I believe

the men were stirred by the same emotions which actuated "Shiny" on

the day of his graduation; and, too, in each case where the efforts

have reached any high standard of excellence they have been followed

by the same phenomenon of enthusiasm. I think the explanation of the

latter lies in what is a basic, though often dormant, principle of the

Anglo-Saxon heart, love of fair play. "Shiny," it is true, was what is

so common in his race, a natural orator; but I doubt that any white

boy of equal talent could have wrought the same effect. The sight of

that boy gallantly waging with puny, black arms so unequal a battle

touched the deep springs in the hearts of his audience, and they were

swept by a wave of sympathy and admiration.

But the effect upon me of "Shiny's" speech was double; I not only

shared the enthusiasm of his audience, but he imparted to me some of

his own enthusiasm. I felt leap within me pride that I was colored;

and I began to form wild dreams of bringing glory and honor to the

Negro race. For days I could talk of nothing else with my mother

except my ambitions to be a great man, a great colored man, to reflect

credit on the race and gain fame for myself. It was not until years

after that I formulated a definite and feasible plan for realizing my

dreams.

I entered the high school with my class, and still continued my study

of the piano, the pipe organ, and the theory of music. I had to

drop out of the boys' choir on account of a changing voice; this

I regretted very much. As I grew older, my love for reading grew

stronger. I read with studious interest everything I could find

relating to colored men who had gained prominence. My heroes had

been King David, then Robert the Bruce; now Frederick Douglass was

enshrined in the place of honor. When I learned that Alexandre Dumas

was a colored man, I re-read _Monte Cristo_ and _The Three Guardsmen_

with magnified pleasure. I lived between my music and books, on the

whole a rather unwholesome life for a boy to lead. I dwelt in a world

of imagination, of dreams and air castles--the kind of atmosphere

that sometimes nourishes a genius, more often men unfitted for the

practical struggles of life. I never played a game of ball, never went

fishing or learned to swim; in fact, the only outdoor exercise in

which I took any interest was skating. Nevertheless, though slender,

I grew well formed and in perfect health. After I entered the high

school, I began to notice the change in my mother's health, which I

suppose had been going on for some years. She began to complain a

little and to cough a great deal; she tried several remedies, and

finally went to see a doctor; but though she was failing in health,

she kept her spirits up. She still did a great deal of sewing, and

in the busy seasons hired two women to help her. The purpose she had

formed of having me go through college without financial worries kept

her at work when she was not fit for it. I was so fortunate as to be

able to organize a class of eight or ten beginners on the piano,

and so start a separate little fund of my own. As the time for my

graduation from the high school grew nearer, the plans for my college

career became the chief subject of our talks. I sent for catalogues

of all the prominent schools in the East and eagerly gathered all the

information I could concerning them from different sources. My mother

told me that my father wanted me to go to Harvard or Yale; she herself

had a half desire for me to go to Atlanta University, and even had me

write for a catalogue of that school. There were two reasons, however,

that inclined her to my father's choice; the first, that at Harvard or

Yale I should be near her; the second, that my father had promised to

pay for a part of my college education.

Both "Shiny" and "Red" came to my house quite often of evenings, and

we used to talk over our plans and prospects for the future. Sometimes

I would play for them, and they seemed to enjoy the music very much.

My mother often prepared sundry Southern dishes for them, which I am

not sure but that they enjoyed more. "Shiny" had an uncle in Amherst,

Mass., and he expected to live with him and work his way through

Amherst College. "Red" declared that he had enough of school and that

after he got his high school diploma, he would get a position in a

bank. It was his ambition to become a banker and he felt sure of

getting the opportunity through certain members of his family.

My mother barely had strength to attend the closing exercises of the

high school when I graduated, and after that day she was seldom out

of bed. She could no longer direct her work, and under the expense of

medicines, doctors, and someone to look after her our college fund

began to diminish rapidly. Many of her customers and some of the

neighbors were very kind, and frequently brought her nourishment of

one kind or another. My mother realized what I did not, that she was

mortally ill, and she had me write a long letter to my father. For

some time past she had heard from him only at irregular intervals;

we never received an answer. In those last days I often sat at her

bedside and read to her until she fell asleep. Sometimes I would leave

the parlor door open and play on the piano, just loud enough for the

music to reach her. This she always enjoyed.

One night, near the end of July, after I had been watching beside her

for some hours, I went into the parlor and, throwing myself into the

big arm chair, dozed off into a fitful sleep. I was suddenly aroused

by one of the neighbors, who had come in to sit with her that night.

She said: "Come to your mother at once." I hurried upstairs, and at

the bedroom door met the woman who was acting as nurse. I noted with

a dissolving heart the strange look of awe on her face. From my

first glance at my mother I discerned the light of death upon her

countenance. I fell upon my knees beside the bed and, burying my face

in the sheets, sobbed convulsively. She died with the fingers of her

left hand entwined in my hair.

I will not rake over this, one of the two sacred sorrows of my life;

nor could I describe the feeling of unutterable loneliness that fell

upon me. After the funeral I went to the house of my music teacher;

he had kindly offered me the hospitality of his home for so long as I

might need it. A few days later I moved my trunk, piano, my music, and

most of my books to his home; the rest of my books I divided between

"Shiny" and "Red." Some of the household effects I gave to "Shiny's"

mother and to two or three of the neighbors who had been kind to us

during my mother's illness; the others I sold. After settling up my

little estate I found that, besides a good supply of clothes, a piano,

some books and trinkets, I had about two hundred dollars in cash.

The question of what I was to do now confronted me. My teacher

suggested a concert tour; but both of us realized that I was too old

to be exploited as an infant prodigy and too young and inexperienced

to go before the public as a finished artist. He, however, insisted

that the people of the town would generously patronize a benefit

concert; so he took up the matter and made arrangements for such an

entertainment. A more than sufficient number of people with musical

and elocutionary talent volunteered their services to make a program.

Among these was my brown-eyed violinist. But our relations were not

the same as they were when we had played our first duet together. A

year or so after that time she had dealt me a crushing blow by getting

married. I was partially avenged, however, by the fact that, though

she was growing more beautiful, she was losing her ability to play the

violin.

I was down on the program for one number. My selection might have

appeared at that particular time as a bit of affectation, but I

considered it deeply appropriate; I played Beethoven's "Sonata

Pathétique." When I sat down at the piano and glanced into the faces

of the several hundreds of people who were there solely on account of

love or sympathy for me, emotions swelled in my heart which enabled me

to play the "Pathétique" as I could never again play it. When the

last tone died away, the few who began to applaud were hushed by the

silence of the others; and for once I played without receiving an

encore.

The benefit yielded me a little more than two hundred dollars, thus

raising my cash capital to about four hundred dollars. I still held

to my determination of going to college; so it was now a question of

trying to squeeze through a year at Harvard or going to Atlanta, where

the money I had would pay my actual expenses for at least two years.

The peculiar fascination which the South held over my imagination and

my limited capital decided me in favor of Atlanta University; so about

the last of September I bade farewell to the friends and scenes of my

boyhood and boarded a train for the South.