own example might have seemed feasible if one ignored the vast
differences of situation and character, to say nothing of those between
a hulking youth and a pretty girl. I could hardly hope to find a
wealthy family who would buy my services, put me to congenial tasks,
and look with tolerance on my efforts to advance myself right out
of their employment. Even if such a chance existed I could not have
utilized it as she did; I should undoubtedly confuse one stock with
another or neglect to buy what I was told until too late, winding up
with lottery tickets and losing the stubs.
My helpless uncertainty only added to my disadvantage with her. I
had no hope her coolness would change to either ardor or affection.
At any moment she might decide her curiosity was satisfied and find
the awkwardness, inconveniences, and what must have been to her the
sordidness of the affair too great.
We were a strange pair of young lovers. When we talked we argued
opposing views or spoke sedately of things not near our hearts.
When we walked together in the streets or fled the gaslit pavements
for the moon over Reservoir Square we neither held hands nor kissed
impulsively. Because prudence forbade the slightest physical contact
save in utmost privacy there were no innocent touchings or accidental
brushing of hands against hips or arms against arms, and our secret
embraces were guilty simply because they were secret.
Often I dreamed of a miraculous change, either in circumstances or
in her attitude, to dissolve the walls between us; beneath the hope
was only expectation of an abrupt and final break. Yet when it came
at last, after more than a year, it was not the result, as I had
agonizedly anticipated, of some successful speculation or an offer of
marriage, but of natural and normal actions of my own.
Among the customers to whom I frequently delivered parcels of books was
a Monsieur René Enfandin who lived on Eighth Street, not far from Fifth
Avenue. M Enfandin was Consul for the Republic of Haiti; the house he
occupied was distinguished from otherwise equally drab neighbors by
a large red and blue escutcheon over the doorway. He did not use the
entire dwelling himself, reserving only the parlor floor for the office
of the consulate and living quarters; the rest was let to other tenants.
Tyss’s anti-foreign bias caused him to jeer at Enfandin behind his back
and embark on discourses which proved by anthropometry and frequent
references to Lombroso and Chief Jung that Negroes were incapable
of self-government. I noticed however that he treated the consul no
differently, either in politeness or honesty, from his other patrons,
and by this time I knew Tyss well enough to attribute this courtesy not
to the self-interest of a tradesman but to that compassion which he
suppressed so sternly under the contradictions of his nature.
For a long time I paid little attention to Enfandin, beyond noting the
wide range of interests revealed by the books he bought. I sensed
that, like myself, he was inclined to shyness. He had an arrangement
whereby he turned back most of his purchases for credit on others. I
saw that if he hadnt, his library would have soon dispossessed him;
as it was, books covered all the space not taken by the paraphernalia
of his office and bedroom with the exception of a bit of bare wall on
which hung a large crucifix. He seemed always to have a volume in his
large, dark brown hand, politely closed over his thumb or open for
eager sampling.
Enfandin was tall and strong-featured, notable in any company. In
the United States where a black man was, more than anything else,
a reminder of the disastrous war and Mr Lincoln’s proclamation, he
was the permanent target of rowdy boys and adult hoodlums. Even the
diplomatic immunity of his post was poor protection, for it was
believed, not without justification, that Haiti, the only American
republic south of the Mason-Dixon line to preserve its independence,
was disrupting the official if sporadically executed policy of
deporting Negroes to Africa by encouraging their emigration to its own
shores or, what was even more annoying, assisting them to flee to the
unconquered Indians of Idaho or Montana.
Beyond a “Good morning” or “Thank you” I doubt if we exchanged a
hundred words until the time I saw a copy of Randolph Bourne’s
_Fragment_ among his selections. “That’s not what you think it is,” I
exclaimed brashly; “it’s a novel.”
He looked at me gravely. “You also admire Bourne?”
“Oh yes.” I felt a trifle foolish, not only for having thrust my advice
upon him, but for the inadequacy of my comment on a writer who had so
many pertinent things to say and had been persecuted for saying them.
I was conscious too of Tyss’s opinion: How could a cripple like Bourne
speak to whole and healthy men?
“But you do not approve of fiction, is that so?” Enfandin had no
discernible accent but often his English was uncolloquial and sometimes
it was overly careful and stiff.
I thought of the adventure tales I had once swallowed so breathlessly.
“Well ... it does seem to be a sort of a waste of time.”
He nodded. “Time, yes.... We waste it or save it or use it—one would
almost think we mastered it instead of the other way around. Yet are
all novels really a waste of the precious dimension? Perhaps you
underestimate the value of invention.”
“No,” I said; “but what value has the invention of happenings that
never happened, or characters who never existed?”
“Who is to say what never happened? It is a matter of definition.”
“All right,” I said; “suppose the characters exist in the author’s
mind, like the events; where does the value of the invention come in?”
“Where the value of any invention comes in,” he answered. “In its
purpose or use. A wheel spinning aimlessly is worth nothing; the same
wheel on a cart or a pulley changes destiny.”
“You can’t learn anything from fairy tales,” I persisted stubbornly.
He smiled. “Maybe you havent read the right fairy tales.”
I soon discovered in him a quick and penetrating sympathy which was at
times almost telepathic. He listened to my callow opinions patiently,
offering observations of his own without diffidence and without
didacticism. The understanding and encouragement I did not expect or
want from Tyss he gave me generously. To him, as I never could to
Tirzah, I talked of my hopes and dreams; he listened patiently and did
not seem to think them foolish or impossible of accomplishment. I do
not minimize what Tyss did for me by saying that without Enfandin I
would have taken much less profit from the books my employer gave me
access to.
I was drawn to him more and more; I’m not sure why he interested
himself in me, unless there was a reason in the remark he made once:
“Ay, we are alike, you and I. The books, always the books. And for
themselves, not to become rich or famous like sensible people. Are
we not foolish? But it is a pleasant folly and a sometimes blameless
vice.”
I wanted anxiously to speak of Tirzah, not only because it is an urgent
necessity for lovers to mention the name at least of their beloved a
hundred times a day or more, but in the nebulous hope he could somehow
give me an answer to her as well as to her question. I approached the
topic in a number of different ways; each time our conversation moved
on without my having told him about her.
Often, after I had delivered an armful of books to the consulate and
we had talked of a wide range of things—for, unlike me, he had no
self-consciousness about what interested him, whether others might
consider it trivial or not—he would walk back to the bookstore with
me, leaving a note on his door. The promise that he would be “Back in
10 minutes” was, I’m afraid, seldom fulfilled, for he became so deeply
engrossed that he was unaware of time.
The occasion which was to be so important to me sprang from a
discussion of non-resistance to evil, a subject on which he had much
to say. We were just passing Wanamaker & Stewarts and he had just
triumphantly reviewed the amazing decision of the Japanese Shogun to
abolish all police forces, when I became conscious that someone was
staring fixedly at me.
A minibile, highslung and obviously custom-built, moved slowly down the
street. Its brass brightwork, bumpers like two enormous tackheads, hub
rims like delicate eyelets in the center of the great spokes, rococo
lamps, rain gutters and door handles, was dazzling. In the jump-seat,
facing a lady of majestic demeanor, was Tirzah. Her head was turned
ostentatiously away from us.
Enfandin halted as I did. “Ah,” he murmured; “you know the ladies?”
“The girl. The lady is her employer.”
“I caught only a glimpse of the face, but it is a pretty one.”
“Yes. Oh yes....” I wanted desperately to say more, to thank him as
though Tirzah’s looks were somehow to my credit, to praise her and at
the same time call her cruel and hardhearted. “Oh yes....”
“She is perhaps a particular friend?”
I nodded. “Very particular.” We walked on in silence.
“That is nice. But she is perhaps a little unhappy over your prospects?”
“How did you know?”
“It was not too hard to infer. You have been concealed from the
mistress; the young lady is impressed by wealth; you are the idealistic
one who is not.”
At last I was able to talk. I explained her indenture, her ambitious
plans, and how I expected her to end everything between us at any
moment. “And there’s nothing I can do about it,” I finished bitterly.
“That is right, Hodge. There is nothing you can do about it because—You
will forgive me if I speak plainly, brutally even?”
“Go ahead. Tirzah—” what a joy it was just to say the name “—Tirzah has
told me often enough how unrealistic I am.”
“That was not what I meant. I would say there is nothing you can do
about it because there is nothing you wish to do about it.”
“What do you mean? I’d do anything I could....”
“Would you? Give up books, for instance?”
“Why should I? What good would that do?”
“I do not say you should or that it would do good. I only try to show
that the young lady, charming and important as she is, is not the most
magnetic or important thing in your life. Romantic love is a curious
byproduct of west European feudalism that Africans and Asiatics can
only criticize gingerly. You shake your head with obstinacy; you do not
believe me. Good, then I have not hurt you.”
“I can’t see that youve helped me much, either.”
“Ay! What did you expect from the black man of Haiti? Miracles?”
“Nothing less will do any good I’m afraid. Now I suppose youll tell
me I’ll get over it in time; that it’s just an adolescent languishing
anyway.”
He looked at me reproachfully. “No, Hodge. I hope I should never be
the one to think suffering is tied to age or time. As for getting
over it, why, we all get over everything in the end, but no matter
how desirable absolute peace is, few of us are willing to give up
experience prematurely.”
Later, I compared what Enfandin told me with what Tyss might have said.
Did the responsibility of holding Tirzah lie with me and not with both
of us, or with fate or chance? Or were events so circumscribed by
inevitabilities that even to think of struggling with them was foolish?
I also asked myself if I had been too proud, too hypersensitive. I had
tried to make her see my viewpoint by arguing, by fighting hers; might
it not be possible, without giving up essentials, to approach her more
gently? To divert her, not from her ambitions, but from her contempt
for mine?
Full of resolves, I left the store after eight; eager walking brought
me to our meeting place in Reservoir Square early, but the nearby
churchbells had hardly sounded the quarter hour when she said, “Hodge.”
Her unusual promptness was a good omen; I was filled with warm
optimism. “Tirzah, I saw you this afternoon—”
“Did you? I thought you were so busy with Sambo you would never look
up.”
“Why do you call him that? Do you think—”
“Oh for Heavens sake, don’t start making speeches at me. I call him
Sambo because it sounds nicer than Rastus.”
All my resolutions about trying to see her point of view! “I call him
M’sieu Enfandin because that’s his name.”
“Have you no pride? No, I suppose you havent. Just some strange
manners. Well, I can put up with your eccentricities, but other people
wouldnt understand. What do you think Mrs Smythe would say?”
“Never having met the lady, I havent the faintest idea.”
“I have, and I agree with her. Would you like me to be chummy with a
naked cannibal with a ring in his nose?”
“But Enfandin doesnt wear a ring in his nose, and you must have seen
he was fully dressed. Maybe he eats missionaries in secret, but that
couldnt offend Mrs Smythe since appearances would be saved.”
“I’m serious, Hodge.”
“So am I. Enfandin is my only friend.”
“You may be above appearances and considerations of decency but I’m
not. If you ever appear in public with him again you can stop coming
here. Because I won’t have anything more to do with you.”
“But Tirzah ...” I began helplessly, overwhelmed by the impossibility
of coping with the irrelevancies and inconsistencies of her stand. “But
Tirzah....”
“No,” she said firmly; “you’ll simply have to grow up, Hodge, and stop
such childish exhibitions. Only friend indeed! Why I suppose if he
appeared here right this minute, you’d talk to him.”
“Well naturally. You’d hardly expect me to—”
“But I do. That’s exactly what I’d expect. You to act like a civilized
man.”
I wasnt angry. I couldnt be angry with her. “If that’s civilization
then I guess I don’t want to be civilized.”
I detected astonishment in her voice. “You mean, actually mean, you
intend to keep on acting this way?”
Grandfather Backmaker must have been a stubborn man; I had my
mother’s word I possessed no Hodgins traits. “Tirzah, what would you
think of me if I turned on my only friend, the only thoroughly kind
and understanding friend Ive ever had, just because Mrs Smythe has
different notions of propriety than I have?”
“I’d think you were beginning to understand things at last.”
“I’m sorry, Tirzah.”
“I mean it, Hodge, you know. I’ll never see you again.”
“If you’d only listen to my side—”
“You mean if I would only become a crank like you. But I don’t want to
be a crank or a martyr. I don’t want to change the world. I’m normal.”
“Tirzah—”
“Goodbye, Hodge.”
She walked away. I had the irrational feeling that if I called after
her she might come back. Or at least stand still and wait to hear what
I had to say. I kept my mouth obstinately closed; Enfandin had been
right, the responsibility was mine. There were things I would not give
up.
My heroic mood must have lasted fully fifteen minutes. Then I hurried
through the little park and across the street to the Smythe house.
There were lights in the upper floors, but the basement, as always,
was dark. I dared not knock or ring the bell; her admonitions were
too firmly impressed on my mind. Instead, in a turmoil of emotions, I
paced the flagged sidewalk until the suspicious eye of a patrolman was
attracted; then I fled cravenly.
I couldnt wait for the next day to write a long, chaotic letter
begging her to let me talk to her, just to talk to her, for an hour,
ten minutes, a minute. I offered to indent, to emigrate, to make a
fortune by some inspired means if only she would hear me. I recalled
moments together, I told her I loved her, said I would die without her.
Having covered several pages with these sentiments I began all over and
repeated them. It was dawn when I posted the letter in the pneumatic
mail.
Sleepless and tormented, I was of little use to Tyss next day. Would
she telegraph? If she answered by pneumatic post her letter might be
delivered in the afternoon. Or would she come to the bookstore?
The second day I sent off two more letters and went up to Reservoir
Square on the chance she might appear. I watched the house as though my
concentration would force her to emerge. On the third day my letters
came back, unopened.
There is some catchphrase or other about the elasticity of youth. It is
true it was only weeks before my misery abated, and weeks more before I
was heart-whole again. But those weeks were long.
The subject of Tirzah did not come up again between Enfandi and me. He
must have sensed I had lost her, perhaps he even guessed his connection
with the break, but he was too tactful to mention it and I was too sore.
I don’t know if the episode precipitated some maturity in me, or if, as
a result of grief and anger I tried to turn my mind away from the easy
emotions and shield myself against further hurt. At any rate, whether
there was a logical connection or not, it is from this period that I
date my resolve to center my reading on history. Somewhat diffidently I
spoke of this to him.
“History? But certainly, Hodge. It is a noble study. But what is
history? How is it written? How is it read? Is it a dispassionate
chronicle of events scientifically determined and set down in the
precise measure of their importance? Is this ever possible? Or is it
the transmutation of the ordinary into the celebrated? Or the cunning
distortion which gives a clearer picture than accurate blueprints?”
“It seems to me facts are primary and interpretations come after,” I
answered. “If we can find out the facts we can form our individual
opinions on them.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps. But take what is for me the central fact of all
history.” He pointed to the crucifix. “As a Catholic the facts are
plain to me; I believe what is written in the Gospels to be literally
true: that the Son of Man died for me on that cross. But what were
the facts for a contemporary Roman statesman? That an obscure local
agitator threatened the stability of an uneasy province and was
promptly executed in the approved Roman fashion as a warning to others.
And for a contemporary fellow-countryman? That no such person existed.
You think these facts are mutually exclusive? Yet you know no two
people see exactly the same thing; too many honest witnesses have
contradicted each other. Even the Gospels must be reconciled.”
“You are saying that truth is relative.”
“Am I? Then I shall have my tongue examined, or my head. Because I mean
to say no such thing. Truth is absolute and for all time. But one man
cannot envisage all of truth; the best he can do is see a single aspect
of it whole. That is why I say to you, be a skeptic, Hodge. Always be
the skeptic.”
“Ay?” I was finding the admonition a little difficult to harmonize with
his previous confession of faith.
“For the believer skepticism is essential. How else is he to know false
gods from true except by doubting both? One of the most pernicious of
folk-sayings is, ‘I could scarcely believe my eyes?’ Why should you
believe your eyes? You were given eyes to see with, not to believe
with. Believe your mind, your intuition, your reason, your feelings if
you like—but not your eyes unaided by any of these interpreters. Your
eyes can see the mirage, the hallucination, as easily as the actual
scenery. Your eyes will tell you nothing exists but matter—”
“Not my eyes only, but my boss.”
“Ay? What are you saying?” For all his amiability Enfandin enjoyed
interruption in mid-discourse no more than any other teacher. But in
a moment his irritation vanished and he listened to my description of
Tyss’s mechanistic creed.
“God have mercy on his soul,” he muttered at last. “Poor creature. He
has liberated himself from the superstitions of religion in order to
fall into superstition so abject no Christian can conceive it. Imagine
to yourself—” he began to pace the floor “—time is circular, man is
automaton, we are doomed to repeat the same gestures over and over,
forever. Oh I say to you, Hodge, this is monstrous. The poor man. The
poor man.”
I nodded. “Yes. But what is the answer? Limitless space? Limitless
time? They are almost as horrifying, because they are inconceivable and
awful.”
“And why should the inconceivable and awful be horrifying? Is our
small human understanding the ultimate measuring stick and guide? But
of course this is not the answer. The answer is that all—time, space,
matter—all is illusion. All but the good God Himself. Nothing is real
but Him. We are creatures of His fancy, figments of His imagination....”
“Then where does free will come in?”
“As a gift, naturally. Or supernaturally. How else? The greatest gift
and the greatest responsibility.”
I can’t say I was entirely satisfied with his exposition, though it was
certainly more to my taste than Tyss’s. I returned to the conversation
at intervals, both in my thoughts and when I saw him, but in the end I
suppose all I really accepted was his admonition to be skeptical, which
I doubt I always applied the way he meant me to.
_7._ _OF CONFEDERATE AGENTS IN 1942_
To anyone but the mooncalf I still was in the year of my majority
it would have long since occurred with considerable force that
Enfandin ought to be told of Tyss’s connection with the Negro-hating,
anti-foreign Grand Army. And the thought once entertained, no matter
how belatedly, would have been immediately translated into warning. For
me it became a dilemma.
If I exposed Tyss to Enfandin I would certainly be basely ungrateful to
the man who had saved me from destitution and given me the opportunity
I wanted so much. Membership in the Grand Army was a crime, even though
the laws were laxly enforced, and I could hardly expect an official
receiving the hospitality of the United States to conceal knowledge of
a felony against his host, especially when the Grand Army was what it
was. Yet if I kept silent I would be less than a friend.
If I spoke I would be an informer; if I didnt, a hypocrite and worse.
The fact that neither man, for totally different reasons, would
condemn me whichever course I took increased rather than diminished my
perplexity. I procrastinated, which meant I was actually protecting
Tyss, and that this was against my sympathies increased my feeling of
guilt.
At this juncture a series of events involved me still deeper with the
Grand Army and further complicated my relationship to both Tyss and
Enfandin. It began the day a customer called himself to my attention
with a selfconscious clearing of his throat.
“Yes sir. Can I help you?”
He was a fat little man with palpably false teeth, and hair hanging
down behind over his collar. However the sum of his appearance was in
no way ludicrous; rather he gave the impression of ease and authority,
and an assurance so strong there was no necessity to buttress it.
“Why, I was looking for—” he began, and then scrutinized me sharply.
“Say, aint you the young fella I saw walking with a Nigra? Big black
buck?”
Seemingly everyone had been fascinated by the spectacle of two people
of slightly different shades of color in company with each other. I
felt myself reddening. “There’s no law against it, is there?”
He made a gargling noise which I judged was laughter. “Wouldnt know
about your damyankee laws, boy. For myself I’d say there’s no harm in
it, no harm in it at all. Always did like to be around Nigras myself.
But then I was rared among em. Most damyankees seem to think Nigras
aint fitten company. Only goes to show how narrerminded and bigoted you
folks can be. Present company excepted.”
“M’sieu Enfandin is consul of the Republic of Haiti,” I said; “he’s a
scholar and a gentleman.” As soon as the words were out I was bitterly
sorry for their condescension and patronage. I felt ashamed, as if I
had betrayed him by offering credentials to justify my friendship and
implying it took special qualities to overcome the handicap of his
color.
“A mussoo, huh? Furrin and educated Nigra? Well, guess theyre all
right.” His tone, still hearty, was slightly dubious. “Ben working here
long?”
“Nearly four years.”
“Kind of dull, aint it?”
“Oh no—I like to read, and there are plenty of books around here.”
He frowned. “Should think a hefty young fella’d find more interesting
things. Youre indented, of course? No? Well then youre a mighty lucky
fella. In a way, in a way. Naturally youll be short on cash, ay? Unless
you draw a lucky number in the lottery.”
I told him I’d never bought a lottery ticket.
He slapped his leg as though I’d just repeated a very good joke. “Aint
that the pattrun,” he exclaimed; “aint that the pattrun! Necessity
makes em have a lottery; Puritanism keeps em from buying tickets. Aint
that the pattrun!” He gargled the humor of it for some time, while his
eyes moved restlessly around the dim interior of the store. “And what
do you read, ay? Sermons? Books on witches?”
I admitted I’d dipped into both, and then, perhaps trying to impress
him, explained my ambitions.
“Going to be a professional historian, hey? Little out of my line, but
I don’t suppose they’s many of em up North here.”
“Not unless you count a handful of college instructors who dabble in it”
He shook his head. “Young fella with your aims could do better down
South, I’d think.”