is jammed against a seat-back. A slight swift anger flicks him. His
fist hooks the other’s jaw.
“Now you have started something. Aint no man living can hit me and get
away with it. Come on on the outside.”
The house, tumultuously stirring, grabs its wraps and follows the men.
The man leads Dan up a black alley. The alley-air is thick and moist
with smells of garbage and wet trash. In the morning, singing niggers
will drive by and ring their gongs... Heavy with the scent of rancid
flowers and with the scent of fight. The crowd, pressing forward, is a
hollow roar. Eyes of houses, soft girl-eyes, glow reticently upon the
hubbub and blink out. The man stops. Takes off his hat and coat. Dan,
having forgotten him, keeps going on.
PRAYER
My body is opaque to the soul.
Driven of the spirit, long have I sought to temper it unto the
spirit’s longing,
But my mind, too, is opaque to the soul.
A closed lid is my soul’s flesh-eye.
O Spirits of whom my soul is but a little finger,
Direct it to the lid of its flesh-eye.
I am weak with much giving.
I am weak with the desire to give more.
(How strong a thing is the little finger!)
So weak that I have confused the body with the soul,
And the body with its little finger.
(How frail is the little finger.)
My voice could not carry to you did you dwell in stars,
O Spirits of whom my soul is but a little finger..
HARVEST SONG
I am a reaper whose muscles set at sundown. All my oats are
cradled.
But I am too chilled, and too fatigued to bind them.
And I hunger.
I crack a grain between my teeth. I do not taste it.
I have been in the fields all day. My throat is dry.
I hunger.
My eyes are caked with dust of oatfields at harvest-time.
I am a blind man who stares across the hills, seeking stack’d
fields of other harvesters.
It would be good to see them .. crook’d, split, and iron-ring’d
handles of the scythes. It would be good to see them,
dust-caked and blind. I hunger.
(Dusk is a strange fear’d sheath their blades are dull’d in.)
My throat is dry. And should I call, a cracked grain like the oats
... eoho—
I fear to call. What should they hear me, and offer me their
grain, oats, or wheat, or corn? I have been in the fields all
day. I fear I could not taste it. I fear knowledge of my
hunger.
My ears are caked with dust of oatfields at harvest-time.
I am a deaf man who strains to hear the calls of other harvesters
whose throats are also dry.
It would be good to hear their songs .. reapers of the
sweet-stalk’d cane, cutters of the corn .. even though their
throats cracked and the strangeness of their voices deafened
me.
I hunger. My throat is dry. Now that the sun has set and I am
chilled, I fear to call. (Eoho, my brothers!)
I am a reaper. (Eoho!) All my oats are cradled. But I am too
fatigued to bind them. And I hunger. I crack a grain. It has
no taste to it. My throat is dry...
O my brothers, I beat my palms, still soft, against the stubble of
my harvesting. (You beat your soft palms, too.) My pain is
sweet. Sweeter than the oats or wheat or corn. It will not
bring me knowledge of my hunger.
BONA AND PAUL
1
On the school gymnasium floor, young men and women are drilling. They
are going to be teachers, and go out into the world .. thud, thud ..
and give precision to the movements of sick people who all their lives
have been drilling. One man is out of step. In step. The teacher glares
at him. A girl in bloomers, seated on a mat in the corner because she
has told the director that she is sick, sees that the footfalls of the
men are rhythmical and syncopated. The dance of his blue-trousered
limbs thrills her.
Bona: He is a candle that dances in a grove swung with pale balloons.
Columns of the drillers thud towards her. He is in the front row. He is
in no row at all. Bona can look close at him. His red-brown face—
Bona: He is a harvest moon. He is an autumn leaf. He is a nigger. Bona!
But dont all the dorm girls say so? And dont you, when you are sane,
say so? Thats why I love—Oh, nonsense. You have never loved a man who
didnt first love you. Besides—
Columns thud away from her. Come to a halt in line formation. Rigid.
The period bell rings, and the teacher dismisses them.
A group collects around Paul. They are choosing sides for basket-ball.
Girls against boys. Paul has his. He is limbering up beneath the
basket. Bona runs to the girl captain and asks to be chosen. The girls
fuss. The director comes to quiet them. He hears what Bona wants.
“But, Miss Hale, you were excused—”
“So I was, Mr. Boynton, but—”
“—you can play basket-ball, but you are too sick to drill.”
“If you wish to put it that way.”
She swings away from him to the girl captain.
“Helen, I want to play, and you must let me. This is the first time
I’ve asked and I dont see why—”
“Thats just it, Bona. We have our team.”
“Well, team or no team, I want to play and thats all there is to it.”
She snatches the ball from Helen’s hands, and charges down the floor.
Helen shrugs. One of the weaker girls says that she’ll drop out. Helen
accepts this. The team is formed. The whistle blows. The game starts.
Bona, in center, is jumping against Paul. He plays with her. Out-jumps
her, makes a quick pass, gets a quick return, and shoots a goal from
the middle of the floor. Bona burns crimson. She fights, and tries to
guard him. One of her team-mates advises her not to play so hard. Paul
shoots his second goal.
Bona begins to feel a little dizzy and all in. She drives on. Almost
hugs Paul to guard him. Near the basket, he attempts to shoot, and Bona
lunges into his body and tries to beat his arms. His elbow, going up,
gives her a sharp crack on the jaw. She whirls. He catches her. Her
body stiffens. Then becomes strangely vibrant, and bursts to a swift
life within her anger. He is about to give way before her hatred when
a new passion flares at him and makes his stomach fall. Bona squeezes
him. He suddenly feels stifled, and wonders why in hell the ring of
silly gaping faces that’s caked about him doesnt make way and give
him air. He has a swift illusion that it is himself who has been
struck. He looks at Bona. Whir. Whir. They seem to be human distortions
spinning tensely in a fog. Spinning .. dizzy .. spinning... Bona
jerks herself free, flushes a startling crimson, breaks through the
bewildered teams, and rushes from the hall.
2
Paul is in his room of two windows.
Outside, the South-Side L track cuts them in two.
Bona is one window. One window, Paul.
Hurtling Loop-jammed L trains throw them in swift shadow.
Paul goes to his. Gray slanting roofs of houses are tinted lavender
in the setting sun. Paul follows the sun, over the stock-yards where
a fresh stench is just arising, across wheat lands that are still
waving above their stubble, into the sun. Paul follows the sun to a
pine-matted hillock in Georgia. He sees the slanting roofs of gray
unpainted cabins tinted lavender. A Negress chants a lullaby beneath
the mate-eyes of a southern planter. Her breasts are ample for the
suckling of a song. She weans it, and sends it, curiously weaving,
among lush melodies of cane and corn. Paul follows the sun into himself
in Chicago.
He is at Bona’s window.
With his own glow he looks through a dark pane.
• • • • •
Paul’s room-mate comes in.
“Say, Paul, I’ve got a date for you. Come on. Shake a leg, will you?”
His blonde hair is combed slick. His vest is snug about him.
He is like the electric light which he snaps on.
“Whatdoysay, Paul? Get a wiggle on. Come on. We havent got much time by
the time we eat and dress and everything.”
His bustling concentrates on the brushing of his hair.
Art: What in hell’s getting into Paul of late, anyway? Christ, but he’s
getting moony. Its his blood. Dark blood: moony. Doesnt get anywhere
unless you boost it. You’ve got to keep it going—
“Say, Paul!”
—or it’ll go to sleep on you. Dark blood; nigger? Thats what those
jealous she-hens say. Not Bona though, or she .. from the South ..
wouldnt want me to fix a date for him and her. Hell of a thing, that
Paul’s dark: you’ve got to always be answering questions.
“Say, Paul, for Christ’s sake leave that window, cant you?”
“Whats it, Art?”
“Hell, I’ve told you about fifty times. Got a date for you. Come on.”
“With who?”
Art: He didnt use to ask; now he does. Getting up in the air. Getting
funny.
“Heres your hat. Want a smoke? Paul! Here. I’ve got a match. Now come
on and I’ll tell you all about it on the way to supper.”
Paul: He’s going to Life this time. No doubt of that. Quit your
kidding. Some day, dear Art, I’m going to kick the living slats out of
you, and you wont know what I’ve done it for. And your slats will bring
forth Life .. beautiful woman...
_Pure Food Restaurant._
“Bring me some soup with a lot of crackers, understand? And then a
roast-beef dinner. Same for you, eh, Paul? Now as I was saying, you’ve
got a swell chance with her. And she’s game. Best proof: she dont give
a damn what the dorm girls say about you and her in the gym, or about
the funny looks that Boynton gives her, or about what they say about,
well, hell, you know, Paul. And say, Paul, she’s a sweetheart. Tall,
not puffy and pretty, more serious and deep—the kind you like these
days. And they say she’s got a car. And say, she’s on fire. But you
know all about that. She got Helen to fix it up with me. The four of
us—remember the last party? Crimson Gardens! Boy!”
Paul’s eyes take on a light that Art can settle in.
3
Art has on his patent-leather pumps and fancy vest. A loose fall coat
is swung across his arm. His face has been massaged, and over a close
shave, powdered. It is a healthy pink the blue of evening tints a
purple pallor. Art is happy and confident in the good looks that his
mirror gave him. Bubbling over with a joy he must spend now if the
night is to contain it all. His bubbles, too, are curiously tinted
purple as Paul watches them. Paul, contrary to what he had thought he
would be like, is cool like the dusk, and like the dusk, detached.
His dark face is a floating shade in evening’s shadow. He sees Art,
curiously. Art is a purple fluid, carbon-charged, that effervesces
besides him. He loves Art. But is it not queer, this pale purple
facsimile of a red-blooded Norwegian friend of his? Perhaps for some
reason, white skins are not supposed to live at night. Surely, enough
nights would transform them fantastically, or kill them. And their red
passion? Night paled that too, and made it moony. Moony. Thats what Art
thought of him. Bona didnt, even in the daytime. Bona, would she be
pale? Impossible. Not that red glow. But the conviction did not set his
emotion flowing.
“Come right in, wont you? The young ladies will be right down. Oh, Mr.
Carlstrom, do play something for us while you are waiting. We just
love to listen to your music. You play so well.”
Houses, and dorm sitting-rooms are places where white faces seclude
themselves at night. There is a reason...
Art sat on the piano and simply tore it down. Jazz. The picture of Our
Poets hung perilously.
Paul: I’ve got to get the kid to play that stuff for me in the daytime.
Might be different. More himself. More nigger. Different? There is.
Curious, though.
The girls come in. Art stops playing, and almost immediately takes up a
petty quarrel, where he had last left it, with Helen.
Bona, black-hair curled staccato, sharply contrasting with Helen’s
puffy yellow, holds Paul’s hand. She squeezes it. Her own emotion
supplements the return pressure. And then, for no tangible reason, her
spirits drop. Without them, she is nervous, and slightly afraid. She
resents this. Paul’s eyes are critical. She resents Paul. She flares at
him. She flares to poise and security.
“Shall we be on our way?”
“Yes, Bona, certainly.”
• • • • •
The Boulevard is sleek in asphalt, and, with arc-lights and
limousines, aglow. Dry leaves scamper behind the whir of cars. The
scent of exploded gasoline that mingles with them is faintly sweet.
Mellow stone mansions over-shadow clapboard homes which now resemble
Negro shanties in some southern alley. Bona and Paul, and Art and
Helen, move along an island-like, far-stretching strip of leaf-soft
ground. Above them, worlds of shadow-planes and solids, silently
moving. As if on one of these, Paul looks down on Bona. No doubt of it:
her face is pale. She is talking. Her words have no feel to them. One
sees them. They are pink petals that fall upon velvet cloth. Bona is
soft, and pale, and beautiful.
“Paul, tell me something about yourself—or would you rather wait?”
“I’ll tell you anything you’d like to know.”
“Not what I want to know, Paul; what you want to tell me.”
“You have the beauty of a gem fathoms under sea.”
“I feel that, but I dont want to be. I want to be near you. Perhaps I
will be if I tell you something. Paul, I love you.”
The sea casts up its jewel into his hands, and burns them furiously. To
tuck her arm under his and hold her hand will ease the burn.
“What can I say to you, brave dear woman—I cant talk love. Love is a
dry grain in my mouth unless it is wet with kisses.”
“You would dare? right here on the Boulevard? before Arthur and Helen?”
“Before myself? I dare.”
“Here then.”
Bona, in the slim shadow of a tree trunk, pulls Paul to her. Suddenly
she stiffens. Stops.
“But you have not said you love me.”
“I cant—yet—Bona.”
“Ach, you never will. Youre cold. Cold.”
Bona: Colored; cold. Wrong somewhere.
She hurries and catches up with Art and Helen.
4
Crimson Gardens. Hurrah! So one feels. People ... University of Chicago
students, members of the stock exchange, a large Negro in crimson
uniform who guards the door .. had watched them enter. Had leaned
towards each other over ash-smeared tablecloths and highballs and
whispered: What is he, a Spaniard, an Indian, an Italian, a Mexican, a
Hindu, or a Japanese? Art had at first fidgeted under their stares ..
what are _you_ looking at, you godam pack of owl-eyed hyenas? .. but
soon settled into his fuss with Helen, and forgot them. A strange thing
happened to Paul. Suddenly he knew that he was apart from the people
around him. Apart from the pain which they had unconsciously caused.
Suddenly he knew that people saw, not attractiveness in his dark skin,
but difference. Their stares, giving him to himself, filled something
long empty within him, and were like green blades sprouting in his
consciousness. There was fullness, and strength and peace about it all.
He saw himself, cloudy, but real. He saw the faces of the people at
the tables round him. White lights, or as now, the pink lights of the
Crimson Gardens gave a glow and immediacy to white faces. The pleasure
of it, equal to that of love or dream, of seeing this. Art and Bona and
Helen? He’d look. They were wonderfully flushed and beautiful. Not for
himself; because they were. Distantly. Who were they, anyway? God, if
he knew them. He’d come in with them. Of that he was sure. Come where?
Into life? Yes. No. Into the Crimson Gardens. A part of life. A carbon
bubble. Would it look purple if he went out into the night and looked
at it? His sudden starting to rise almost upset the table.
“What in hell—pardon—whats the matter, Paul?”
“I forgot my cigarettes—”
“Youre smoking one.”
“So I am. Pardon me.”
The waiter straightens them out. Takes their order.
Art: What in hell’s eating Paul? Moony aint the word for it. From bad
to worse. And those godam people staring so. Paul’s a queer fish.
Doesnt seem to mind... He’s my pal, let me tell you, you horn-rimmed
owl-eyed hyena at that table, and a lot better than you whoever you
are... Queer about him. I could stick up for him if he’d only come
out, one way or the other, and tell a feller. Besides, a room-mate has
a right to know. Thinks I wont understand. Said so. He’s got a swell
head when it comes to brains, all right. God, he’s a good straight
feller, though. Only, moony. Nut. Nuttish. Nuttery. Nutmeg... “What’d
you say, Helen?”
“I was talking to Bona, thank you.”
“Well, its nothing to get spiffy about.”
“What? Oh, of course not. Please lets dont start some silly argument
all over again.”
“Well.”
“Well.”
“Now thats enough. Say, waiter, whats the matter with our order? Make
it snappy, will you?”
Crimson Gardens. Hurrah! So one feels. The drinks come. Four highballs.
Art passes cigarettes. A girl dressed like a bare-back rider in flaming
pink, makes her way through tables to the dance floor. All lights are
dimmed till they seem a lush afterglow of crimson. Spotlights the girl.
She sings. “Liza, Little Liza Jane.”
Paul is rosy before his window.
He moves, slightly, towards Bona.
With his own glow, he seeks to penetrate a dark pane.
Paul: From the South. What does that mean, precisely, except that
you’ll love or hate a nigger? Thats a lot. What does it mean except
that in Chicago you’ll have the courage to neither love or hate. A
priori. But it would seem that you have. Queer words, arent these,
for a man who wears blue pants on a gym floor in the daytime. Well,
never matter. You matter. I’d like to know you whom I look at. Know,
not love. Not that knowing is a greater pleasure; but that I have
just found the joy of it. You came just a month too late. Even this
afternoon I dreamed. To-night, along the Boulevard, you found me cold.
Paul Johnson, cold! Thats a good one, eh, Art, you fine old stupid
fellow, you! But I feel good! The color and the music and the song...
A Negress chants a lullaby beneath the mate-eyes of a southern planter.
O song!.. And those flushed faces. Eager brilliant eyes. Hard to
imagine them as unawakened. Your own. Oh, they’re awake all right. “And
you know it too, dont you Bona?”
“What, Paul?”
“The truth of what I was thinking.”
“I’d like to know I know—something of you.”
“You will—before the evening’s over. I promise it.”
Crimson Gardens. Hurrah! So one feels. The bare-back rider balances
agilely on the applause which is the tail of her song. Orchestral
instruments warm up for jazz. The flute is a cat that ripples its fur
against the deep-purring saxophone. The drum throws sticks. The cat
jumps on the piano keyboard. Hi diddle, hi diddle, the cat and the
fiddle. Crimson Gardens .. hurrah! .. jumps over the moon. Crimson
Gardens! Helen .. O Eliza .. rabbit-eyes sparkling, plays up to,
and tries to placate what she considers to be Paul’s contempt. She
always does that .. Little Liza Jane... Once home, she burns with
the thought of what she’s done. She says all manner of snidy things
about him, and swears that she’ll never go out again when he is along.
She tries to get Art to break with him, saying, that if Paul, whom
the whole dormitory calls a nigger, is more to him than she is, well,
she’s through. She does not break with Art. She goes out as often as
she can with Art and Paul. She explains this to herself by a piece of
information which a friend of hers had given her: men like him (Paul)
can fascinate. One is not responsible for fascination. Not one girl had
really loved Paul; he fascinated them. Bona didnt; only thought she
did. Time would tell. And of course, _she_ didnt. Liza... She plays up
to, and tries to placate, Paul.
“Paul is so deep these days, and I’m so glad he’s found some one to
interest him.”
“I dont believe I do.”
The thought escapes from Bona just a moment before her anger at having
said it.
Bona: You little puffy cat, I do. I do!
Dont I, Paul? her eyes ask.
Her answer is a crash of jazz from the palm-hidden orchestra. Crimson
Gardens is a body whose blood flows to a clot upon the dance floor. Art
and Helen clot. Soon, Bona and Paul. Paul finds her a little stiff, and
his mind, wandering to Helen (silly little kid who wants every highball
spoon her hands touch, for a souvenir), supple, perfect little dancer,
wishes for the next dance when he and Art will exchange.
Bona knows that she must win him to herself.
“Since when have men like you grown cold?”
“The first philosopher.”
“I thought you were a poet—or a gym director.”
“Hence, your failure to make love.”
Bona’s eyes flare. Water. Grow red about the rims. She would like to
tear away from him and dash across the clotted floor.
“What do you mean?”
“Mental concepts rule you. If they were flush with mine—good. I dont
believe they are.”
“How do you know, Mr. Philosopher?”
“Mostly a priori.”
“You talk well for a gym director.”
“And you—”
“I hate you. Ou!”
She presses away. Paul, conscious of the convention in it, pulls her
to him. Her body close. Her head still strains away. He nearly crushes
her. She tries to pinch him. Then sees people staring, and lets her
arms fall. Their eyes meet. Both, contemptuous. The dance takes blood
from their minds and packs it, tingling, in the torsos of their swaying
bodies. Passionate blood leaps back into their eyes. They are a dizzy
blood clot on a gyrating floor.
They know that the pink-faced people have no part in what they feel.
Their instinct leads them away from Art and Helen, and towards the
big uniformed black man who opens and closes the gilded exit door.
The cloak-room girl is tolerant of their impatience over such trivial
things as wraps. And slightly superior. As the black man swings the
door for them, his eyes are knowing. Too many couples have passed out,
flushed and fidgety, for him not to know. The chill air is a shock to
Paul. A strange thing happens. He sees the Gardens purple, as if he
were way off. And a spot is in the purple. The spot comes furiously
towards him. Face of the black man. It leers. It smiles sweetly like a
child’s. Paul leaves Bona and darts back so quickly that he doesnt give
the door-man a chance to open. He swings in. Stops. Before the huge
bulk of the Negro.
“Youre wrong.”
“Yassur.”
“Brother, youre wrong.”
“I came back to tell you, to shake your hand, and tell you that you are
wrong. That something beautiful is going to happen. That the
Gardens are purple like a bed of roses would be at dusk. That I
came into the Gardens, into life in the Gardens with one whom I did
not know. That I danced with her, and did not know her. That I felt
passion, contempt and passion for her whom I did not know. That I
thought of her. That my thoughts were matches thrown into a dark
window. And all the while the Gardens were purple like a bed of roses
would be at dusk. I came back to tell you, brother, that white faces
are petals of roses. That dark faces are petals of dusk. That I am
going out and gather petals. That I am going out and know her whom I
brought here with me to these Gardens which are purple like a bed of
roses would be at dusk.”
Paul and the black man shook hands.
When he reached the spot where they had been standing, Bona was gone.
[Illustration]
to WALDO FRANK.
KABNIS
1
Ralph Kabnis, propped in his bed, tries to read. To read himself to
sleep. An oil lamp on a chair near his elbow burns unsteadily. The
cabin room is spaced fantastically about it. Whitewashed hearth and
chimney, black with sooty saw-teeth. Ceiling, patterned by the fringed
globe of the lamp. The walls, unpainted, are seasoned a rosin yellow.
And cracks between the boards are black. These cracks are the lips the
night winds use for whispering. Night winds in Georgia are vagrant
poets, whispering. Kabnis, against his will, lets his book slip down,
and listens to them. The warm whiteness of his bed, the lamp-light, do
not protect him from the weird chill of their song:
White-man’s land.
Niggers, sing.
Burn, bear black children
Till poor rivers bring
Rest, and sweet glory
In Camp Ground.
Kabnis’ thin hair is streaked on the pillow. His hand strokes the slim
silk of his mustache. His thumb, pressed under his chin, seems to be
trying to give squareness and projection to it. Brown eyes stare from
a lemon face. Moisture gathers beneath his arm-pits. He slides down
beneath the cover, seeking release.
Kabnis: Near me. Now. Whoever you are, my warm glowing sweetheart,
do not think that the face that rests beside you is the real Kabnis.
Ralph Kabnis is a dream. And dreams are faces with large eyes and weak
chins and broad brows that get smashed by the fists of square faces.
The body of the world is bull-necked. A dream is a soft face that fits
uncertainly upon it... God, if I could develop that in words. Give
what I know a bull-neck and a heaving body, all would go well with
me, wouldnt it, sweetheart? If I could feel that I came to the South
to face it. If I, the dream (not what is weak and afraid in me) could
become the face of the South. How my lips would sing for it, my songs
being the lips of its soul. Soul. Soul hell. There aint no such thing.
What in hell was that?