budding chestnut trees recede above his head. Chestnut buds and
blossoms are wool he walks upon. The eyes of houses faintly touch him
as he passes them. Soft girl-eyes, they set him singing. Girl-eyes
within him widen upward to promised faces. Floating away, they dally
wistfully over the dusk body of the street. Come on, Dan Moore, come
on. Dan sings. His voice is a little hoarse. It cracks. He strains to
produce tones in keeping with the houses’ loveliness. Cant be done. He
whistles. His notes are shrill. They hurt him. Negroes open gates, and
go indoors, perfectly. Dan thinks of the house he’s going to. Of the
girl. Lips, flesh-notes of a forgotten song, plead with him...
Dan turns into a side-street, opens an iron gate, bangs it to. Mounts
the steps, and searches for the bell. Funny, he cant find it. He
fumbles around. The thought comes to him that some one passing by might
see him, and not understand. Might think that he is trying to sneak, to
break in.
Dan: Break in. Get an ax and smash in. Smash in their faces. I’ll show
em. Break into an engine-house, steal a thousand horse-power fire
truck. Smash in with the truck. I’ll show em. Grab an ax and brain
em. Cut em up. Jack the Ripper. Baboon from the zoo. And then the
cops come. “No, I aint a baboon. I aint Jack the Ripper. I’m a poor
man out of work. Take your hands off me, you bull-necked bears. Look
into my eyes. I am Dan Moore. I was born in a canefield. The hands of
Jesus touched me. I am come to a sick world to heal it. Only the other
day, a dope fiend brushed against me— Dont laugh, you mighty, juicy,
meat-hook men. Give me your fingers and I will peel them as if they
were ripe bananas.”
Some one might think he is trying to break in. He’d better knock. His
knuckles are raw bone against the thick glass door. He waits. No one
comes. Perhaps they havent heard him. He raps again. This time, harder.
He waits. No one comes. Some one is surely in. He fancies that he sees
their shadows on the glass. Shadows of gorillas. Perhaps they saw him
coming and dont want to let him in. He knocks. The tension of his arms
makes the glass rattle. Hurried steps come towards him. The door opens.
“Please, you might break the glass—the bell—oh, Mr. Moore! I thought
it must be some stranger. How do you do? Come in, wont you? Muriel?
Yes. I’ll call her. Take your things off, wont you? And have a seat in
the parlor. Muriel will be right down. Muriel! Oh Muriel! Mr. Moore to
see you. She’ll be right down. You’ll pardon me, wont you? So glad to
see you.”
Her eyes are weak. They are bluish and watery from reading newspapers.
The blue is steel. It gimlets Dan while her mouth flaps amiably to him.
Dan: Nothing for you to see, old mussel-head. Dare I show you? If I
did, delirium would furnish you headlines for a month. Now look here.
Thats enough. Go long, woman. Say some nasty thing and I’ll kill you.
Huh. Better damned sight not. Ta-ta, Mrs. Pribby.
Mrs. Pribby retreats to the rear of the house. She takes up a
newspaper. There is a sharp click as she fits into her chair and draws
it to the table. The click is metallic like the sound of a bolt being
shot into place. Dan’s eyes sting. Sinking into a soft couch, he closes
them. The house contracts about him. It is a sharp-edged, massed,
metallic house. Bolted. About Mrs. Pribby. Bolted to the endless rows
of metal houses. Mrs. Pribby’s house. The rows of houses belong to
other Mrs. Pribbys. No wonder he couldn’t sing to them.
Dan: What’s Muriel doing here? God, what a place for her. Whats she
doing? Putting her stockings on? In the bathroom. Come out of there,
Dan Moore. People must have their privacy. Peeping-toms. I’ll never
peep. I’ll listen. I like to listen.
Dan goes to the wall and places his ear against it. A passing street
car and something vibrant from the earth sends a rumble to him. That
rumble comes from the earth’s deep core. It is the mutter of powerful
underground races. Dan has a picture of all the people rushing to put
their ears against walls, to listen to it. The next world-savior is
coming up that way. Coming up. A continent sinks down. The new-world
Christ will need consummate skill to walk upon the waters where huge
bubbles burst... Thuds of Muriel coming down. Dan turns to the
piano and glances through a stack of jazz music sheets. “Ji-ji-bo,
JI-JI-BO!”..
“Hello, Dan, stranger, what brought you here?”
Muriel comes in, shakes hands, and then clicks into a high-armed seat
under the orange glow of a floor-lamp. Her face is fleshy. It would
tend to coarseness but for the fresh fragrant something which is the
life of it. Her hair like an Indian’s. But more curly and bushed
and vagrant. Her nostrils flare. The flushed ginger of her cheeks is
touched orange by the shower of color from the lamp.
“Well, you havent told me, you havent answered my question, stranger.
What brought you here?”
Dan feels the pressure of the house, of the rear room, of the rows of
houses, shift to Muriel. He is light. He loves her. He is doubly heavy.
“Dont know, Muriel—wanted to see you—wanted to talk to you—to see
you and tell you that I know what you’ve been through—what pain the
last few months must have been—”
“Lets dont mention that.”
“But why not, Muriel? I—”
“Please.”
“But Muriel, life is full of things like that. One grows strong and
beautiful in facing them. What else is life?”
“I dont know, Dan. And I dont believe I care. Whats the use? Lets talk
about something else. I hear there’s a good show at the Lincoln this
week.”
“Yes, so Harry was telling me. Going?”
“To-night.”
Dan starts to rise.
“I didnt know. I dont want to keep you.”
“Its all right. You dont have to go till Bernice comes. And she wont be
here till eight. I’m all dressed. I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks.”
Silence. The rustle of a newspaper being turned comes from the rear
room.
Muriel: Shame about Dan. Something awfully good and fine about him. But
he don’t fit in. In where? Me? Dan, I could love you if I tried. I dont
have to try. I do. O Dan, dont you know I do? Timid lover, brave talker
that you are. Whats the good of all you know if you dont know that? I
wont let myself. I? Mrs. Pribby who reads newspapers all night wont.
What has she got to do with me? She is me, somehow. No she’s not. Yes
she is. She is the town, and the town wont let me love you, Dan. Dont
you know? You could make it let me if you would. Why wont you? Youre
selfish. I’m not strong enough to buck it. Youre too selfish to buck
it, for me. I wish you’d go. You irritate me. Dan, please go.
“What are you doing now, Dan?”
“Same old thing, Muriel. Nothing, as the world would have it. Living,
as I look at things. Living as much as I can without—”
“But you cant live without money, Dan. Why dont you get a good job and
settle down?”
Dan: Same old line. Shoot it at me, sister. Hell of a note, this loving
business. For ten minutes of it youve got to stand the torture of an
intolerable heaviness and a hundred platitudes. Well, damit, shoot on.
“To what? my dear. Rustling newspapers?”
“You mustnt say that, Dan. It isnt right. Mrs. Pribby has been awfully
good to me.”
“Dare say she has. Whats that got to do with it?”
“Oh, Dan, youre so unconsiderate and selfish. All you think of is
yourself.”
“I think of you.”
“Too much—I mean, you ought to work more and think less. Thats the
best way to get along.”
“Mussel-heads get along, Muriel. There is more to you than that—”
“Sometimes I think there is, Dan. But I dont know. I’ve tried. I’ve
tried to do something with myself. Something real and beautiful, I
mean. But whats the good of trying? I’ve tried to make people, every
one I come in contact with, happy—”
Dan looks at her, directly. Her animalism, still unconquered by
zoo-restrictions and keeper-taboos, stirs him. Passion tilts upward,
bringing with it the elements of an old desire. Muriel’s lips become
the flesh-notes of a futile, plaintive longing. Dan’s impulse to direct
her is its fresh life.
“Happy, Muriel? No, not happy. Your aim is wrong. There is no such
thing as happiness. Life bends joy and pain, beauty and ugliness,
in such a way that no one may isolate them. No one should want to.
Perfect joy, or perfect pain, with no contrasting element to define
them, would mean a monotony of consciousness, would mean death. Not
happy, Muriel. Say that you have tried to make them create. Say that
you have used your own capacity for life to cradle them. To start them
upward-flowing. Or if you cant say that you have, then say that you
will. My talking to you will make you aware of your power to do so.
Say that you will love, that you will give yourself in love—”
“To you, Dan?”
Dan’s consciousness crudely swerves into his passions. They flare up in
his eyes. They set up quivers in his abdomen. He is suddenly over-tense
and nervous.
“Muriel—”
The newspaper rustles in the rear room.
“Muriel—”
Dan rises. His arms stretch towards her. His fingers and his palms,
pink in the lamp-light, are glowing irons. Muriel’s chair is close and
stiff about her. The house, the rows of houses locked about her chair.
Dan’s fingers and arms are fire to melt and bars to wrench and force
and pry. Her arms hang loose. Her hands are hot and moist. Dan takes
them. He slips to his knees before her.
“Dan, you mustnt.”
“Muriel—”
“Dan, really you mustnt. No, Dan. No.”
“Oh, come, Muriel. Must I—”
“Shhh. Dan, please get up. Please. Mrs. Pribby is right in the next
room. She’ll hear you. She may come in. Dont, Dan. She’ll see you—”
“Well then, lets go out.”
“I cant. Let go, Dan. Oh, wont you please let go.”
Muriel tries to pull her hands away. Dan tightens his grip. He feels
the strength of his fingers. His muscles are tight and strong. He
stands up. Thrusts out his chest. Muriel shrinks from him. Dan becomes
aware of his crude absurdity. His lips curl. His passion chills. He has
an obstinate desire to possess her.
“Muriel, I love you. I want you, whatever the world of Pribby says.
Damn your Pribby. Who is she to dictate my love? I’ve stood enough of
her. Enough of you. Come here.”
Muriel’s mouth works in and out. Her eyes flash and waggle. She
wrenches her hands loose and forces them against his breast to keep
him off. Dan grabs her wrists. Wedges in between her arms. Her face is
close to him. It is hot and blue and moist. Ugly.
“Come here now.”
“Dont, Dan. Oh, dont. What are you killing?”
“Whats weak in both of us and a whole litter of Pribbys. For once in
your life youre going to face whats real, by God—”
A sharp rap on the newspaper in the rear room cuts between them. The
rap is like cool thick glass between them. Dan is hot on one side.
Muriel, hot on the other. They straighten. Gaze fearfully at one
another. Neither moves. A clock in the rear room, in the rear room,
the rear room, strikes eight. Eight slow, cool sounds. Bernice. Muriel
fastens on her image. She smooths her dress. She adjusts her skirt.
She becomes prim and cool. Rising, she skirts Dan as if to keep the
glass between them. Dan, gyrating nervously above the easy swing of his
limbs, follows her to the parlor door. Muriel retreats before him till
she reaches the landing of the steps that lead upstairs. She smiles
at him. Dan sees his face in the hall mirror. He runs his fingers
through his hair. Reaches for his hat and coat and puts them on. He
moves towards Muriel. Muriel steps backward up one step. Dan’s jaw
shoots out. Muriel jerks her arm in warning of Mrs. Pribby. She gasps
and turns and starts to run. Noise of a chair scraping as Mrs. Pribby
rises from it, ratchets down the hall. Dan stops. He makes a wry face,
wheels round, goes out, and slams the door.
2
People come in slowly ... mutter, laughs, flutter, whishadwash, “I’ve
changed my work-clothes—” ... and fill vacant seats of Lincoln
Theater. Muriel, leading Bernice who is a cross between a washerwoman
and a blue-blood lady, a washer-blue, a washer-lady, wanders down the
right aisle to the lower front box. Muriel has on an orange dress.
Its color would clash with the crimson box-draperies, its color would
contradict the sweet rose smile her face is bathed in, should she take
her coat off. She’ll keep it on. Pale purple shadows rest on the planes
of her cheeks. Deep purple comes from her thick-shocked hair. Orange
of the dress goes well with these. Muriel presses her coat down from
around her shoulders. Teachers are not supposed to have bobbed hair.
She’ll keep her hat on. She takes the first chair, and indicates that
Bernice is to take the one directly behind her. Seated thus, her eyes
are level with, and near to, the face of an imaginary man upon the
stage. To speak to Berny she must turn. When she does, the audience is
square upon her.
People come in slowly ... “—for my Sunday-go-to-meeting dress. O glory
God! O shout Amen!” ... and fill vacant seats of Lincoln Theater. Each
one is a bolt that shoots into a slot, and is locked there. Suppose
the Lord should ask, where was Moses when the light went out? Suppose
Gabriel should blow his trumpet! The seats are slots. The seats are
bolted houses. The mass grows denser. Its weight at first is impalpable
upon the box. Then Muriel begins to feel it. She props her arm against
the brass box-rail, to ward it off. Silly. These people are friends of
hers: a parent of a child she teaches, an old school friend. She smiles
at them. They return her courtesy, and she is free to chat with Berny.
Berny’s tongue, started, runs on, and on. O washer-blue! O washer-lady!
Muriel: Never see Dan again. He makes me feel queer. Starts things he
doesnt finish. Upsets me. I am not upset. I am perfectly calm. I am
going to enjoy the show. Good show. I’ve had some show! This damn tame
thing. O Dan. Wont see Dan again. Not alone. Have Mrs. Pribby come in.
She _was_ in. Keep Dan out. If I love him, can I keep him out? Well
then, I dont love him. Now he’s out. Who is that coming in? Blind as a
bat. Ding-bat. Looks like Dan. He mustnt see me. Silly. He cant reach
me. He wont dare come in here. He’d put his head down like a goring
bull and charge me. He’d trample them. He’d gore. He’d rape! Berny! He
won’t dare come in here.
“Berny, who was that who just came in? I havent my glasses.”
“A friend of yours, a _good_ friend so I hear. Mr. Daniel Moore, Lord.”
“Oh. He’s no friend of mine.”
“No? I hear he is.”
“Well, he isnt.”
Dan is ushered down the aisle. He has to squeeze past the knees of
seated people to reach his own seat. He treads on a man’s corns. The
man grumbles, and shoves him off. He shrivels close beside a portly
Negress whose huge rolls of flesh meet about the bones of seat-arms.
A soil-soaked fragrance comes from her. Through the cement floor
her strong roots sink down. They spread under the asphalt streets.
Dreaming, the streets roll over on their bellies, and suck their glossy
health from them. Her strong roots sink down and spread under the river
and disappear in blood-lines that waver south. Her roots shoot down.
Dan’s hands follow them. Roots throb. Dan’s heart beats violently. He
places his palms upon the earth to cool them. Earth throbs. Dan’s heart
beats violently. He sees all the people in the house rush to the walls
to listen to the rumble. A new-world Christ is coming up. Dan comes up.
He is startled. The eyes of the woman dont belong to her. They look at
him unpleasantly. From either aisle, bolted masses press in. He doesnt
fit. The mass grows agitant. For an instant, Dan’s and Muriel’s eyes
meet. His weight there slides the weight on her. She braces an arm
against the brass rail, and turns her head away.
Muriel: Damn fool; dear Dan, what did you want to follow me here for?
Oh cant you ever do anything right? Must you always pain me, and
make me hate you? I do hate you. I wish some one would come in with a
horse-whip and lash you out. I wish some one would drag you up a back
alley and brain you with the whip-butt.
Muriel glances at her wrist-watch.
“Quarter of nine. Berny, what time have you?”
“Eight-forty. Time to begin. Oh, look Muriel, that woman with the
plume; doesnt she look good! They say she’s going with, oh, whats his
name. You know. Too much powder. I can see it from here. Here’s the
orchestra now. O fine! Jim Clem at the piano!”
The men fill the pit. Instruments run the scale and tune. The saxophone
moans and throws a fit. Jim Clem, poised over the piano, is ready to
begin. His head nods forward. Opening crash. The house snaps dark. The
curtain recedes upward from the blush of the footlights. Jazz overture
is over. The first act is on.
Dan: Old stuff. Muriel—bored. Must be. But she’ll smile and she’ll
clap. Do what youre bid, you she-slave. Look at her. Sweet, tame woman
in a brass box seat. Clap, smile, fawn, clap. Do what youre bid. Drag
me in with you. Dirty me. Prop me in your brass box seat. I’m there, am
I not? because of you. He-slave. Slave of a woman who is a slave. I’m a
damned sight worse than you are. I sing your praises, Beauty! I exalt
thee, O Muriel! A slave, thou art greater than all Freedom because I
love thee.
Dan fidgets, and disturbs his neighbors. His neighbors glare at him.
He glares back without seeing them. The man whose corns have been trod
upon speaks to him.
“Keep quiet, cant you, mister. Other people have paid their money
besides yourself to see the show.”
The man’s face is a blur about two sullen liquid things that are his
eyes. The eyes dissolve in the surrounding vagueness. Dan suddenly
feels that the man is an enemy whom he has long been looking for.
Dan bristles. Glares furiously at the man.
“All right. All right then. Look at the show. I’m not stopping you.”
“Shhh,” from some one in the rear.
Dan turns around.
“Its that man there who started everything. I didnt say a thing to him
until he tried to start something. What have I got to do with whether
he has paid his money or not? Thats the manager’s business. Do I look
like the manager?”
“Shhhh. Youre right. Shhhh.”
“Dont tell me to shhh. Tell him. That man there. He started everything.
If what he wanted was to start a fight, why didnt he say so?”
The man leans forward.
“Better be quiet, sonny. I aint said a thing about fight, yet.”
“Its a good thing you havent.”
“Shhhh.”
Dan grips himself. Another act is on. Dwarfs, dressed like
prize-fighters, foreheads bulging like boxing gloves, are led upon
the stage. They are going to fight for the heavyweight championship.
Gruesome. Dan glances at Muriel. He imagines that she shudders. His
mind curves back into himself, and picks up tail-ends of experiences.
His eyes are open, mechanically. The dwarfs pound and bruise and bleed
each other, on his eyeballs.
Dan: Ah, but she was some baby! And not vulgar either. Funny how some
women can do those things. Muriel dancing like that! Hell. She rolled
and wabbled. Her buttocks rocked. She pulled up her dress and showed
her pink drawers. Baby! And then she caught my eyes. Dont know what my
eyes had in them. Yes I do. God, dont I though! Sometimes I think, Dan
Moore, that your eyes could burn clean ... burn clean ... BURN CLEAN!..
The gong rings. The dwarfs set to. They spar grotesquely, playfully,
until one lands a stiff blow. This makes the other sore. He commences
slugging. A real scrap is on. Time! The dwarfs go to their corners
and are sponged and fanned off. Gloves bulge from their wrists. Their
wrists are necks for the tight-faced gloves. The fellow to the right
lets his eyes roam over the audience. He sights Muriel. He grins.
Dan: Those silly women arguing feminism. Here’s what I should have said
to them. “It should be clear to you women, that the proposition must
be stated thus:
Me, horizontally above her.
Action: perfect strokes downward oblique.
Hence, man dominates because of limitation.
Or, so it shall be until women learn their stuff.
So framed, the proposition is a mental-filler, Dentist, I
want gold teeth. It should become cherished of the technical intellect.
I hereby offer it to posterity as one of the important machine-age
designs. P. S. It should be noted, that because it _is_ an achievement
of this age, its growth and hence its causes, up to the point of
maturity, antedate machinery. Ery...”
The gong rings. No fooling this time. The dwarfs set to. They clinch.
The referee parts them. One swings a cruel upper-cut and knocks the
other down. A huge head hits the floor. Pop! The house roars. The
fighter, groggy, scrambles up. The referee whispers to the contenders
not to fight so hard. They ignore him. They charge. Their heads jab
like boxing-gloves. They kick and spit and bite. They pound each other
furiously. Muriel pounds. The house pounds. Cut lips. Bloody noses.
The referee asks for the gong. Time! The house roars. The dwarfs bow,
are made to bow. The house wants more. The dwarfs are led from the
stage.
Dan: Strange I never really noticed him before. Been sitting there for
years. Born a slave. Slavery not so long ago. He’ll die in his chair.
Swing low, sweet chariot. Jesus will come and roll him down the river
Jordan. Oh, come along, Moses, you’ll get lost; stretch out your rod
and come across. LET MY PEOPLE GO! Old man. Knows everyone who passes
the corners. Saw the first horse-cars. The first Oldsmobile. And he was
born in slavery. I did see his eyes. Never miss eyes. But they were
bloodshot and watery. It hurt to look at them. It hurts to look in most
people’s eyes. He saw Grant and Lincoln. He saw Walt—old man, did you
see Walt Whitman? Did you see Walt Whitman! Strange force that drew me
to him. And I went up to see. The woman thought I saw crazy. I told
him to look into the heavens. He did, and smiled. I asked him if he
knew what that rumbling is that comes up from the ground. Christ, what
a stroke that was. And the jabbering idiots crowding around. And the
crossing-cop leaving his job to come over and wheel him away...
The house applauds. The house wants more. The dwarfs are led back. But
no encore. Must give the house something. The attendant comes out and
announces that Mr. Barry, the champion, will sing one of his own songs,
“for your approval.” Mr. Barry grins at Muriel as he wabbles from the
wing. He holds a fresh white rose, and a small mirror. He wipes blood
from his nose. He signals Jim Clem. The orchestra starts. A sentimental
love song, Mr. Barry sings, first to one girl, and then another in the
audience. He holds the mirror in such a way that it flashes in the face
of each one he sings to. The light swings around.
Dan: I am going to reach up and grab the girders of this building and
pull them down. The crash will be a signal. Hid by the smoke and dust
Dan Moore will arise. In his right hand will be a dynamo. In his left,
a god’s face that will flash white light from ebony. I’ll grab a girder
and swing it like a walking-stick. Lightning will flash. I’ll grab
its black knob and swing it like a crippled cane. Lightning... Some
one’s flashing ... some one’s flashing... Who in hell is flashing that
mirror? Take it off me, godam you.
Dan’s eyes are half blinded. He moves his head. The light follows.
He hears the audience laugh. He hears the orchestra. A man with a
high-pitched, sentimental voice is singing. Dan sees the dwarf. Along
the mirror flash the song comes. Dan ducks his head. The audience
roars. The light swings around to Muriel. Dan looks. Muriel is too
close. Mr. Barry covers his mirror. He sings to her. She shrinks away.
Nausea. She clutches the brass box-rail. She moves to face away.
The audience is square upon her. Its eyes smile. Its hands itch to
clap. Muriel turns to the dwarf and forces a smile at him. With a
showy blare of orchestration, the song comes to its close. Mr. Barry
bows. He offers Muriel the rose, first having kissed it. Blood of his
battered lips is a vivid stain upon its petals. Mr. Barry offers Muriel
the rose. The house applauds. Muriel flinches back. The dwarf steps
forward, diffident; threatening. Hate pops from his eyes and crackles
like a brittle heat about the box. The thick hide of his face is drawn
in tortured wrinkles. Above his eyes, the bulging, tight-skinned brow.
Dan looks at it. It grows calm and massive. It grows profound. It is
a thing of wisdom and tenderness, of suffering and beauty. Dan looks
down. The eyes are calm and luminous. Words come from them... Arms
of the audience reach out, grab Muriel, and hold her there. Claps
are steel fingers that manacle her wrists and move them forward to
acceptance. Berny leans forward and whispers:
“Its all right. Go on—take it.”
Words form in the eyes of the dwarf:
Do not shrink. Do not be afraid of me.
_Jesus_
See how my eyes look at you.
_the Son of God_
I too was made in His image.
_was once_—
I give you the rose.
Muriel, tight in her revulsion, sees black, and daintily reaches for
the offering. As her hand touches it, Dan springs up in his seat and
shouts:
“JESUS WAS ONCE A LEPER!”
Dan steps down.
He is as cool as a green stem that has just shed its flower.
Rows of gaping faces strain towards him. They are distant, beneath him,
impalpable. Squeezing out, Dan again treads upon the corn-foot man. The
man shoves him.
“Watch where youre going, mister. Crazy or no, you aint going to walk
over me. Watch where youre going there.”