IT was Joanna who first acquainted Peter with himself. But neither of
the children knew this at the time. And although Peter came to realize
it later it was many years before he told her so. For, though he went
through many changes and though these two came to speak of many things,
he kept a certain inarticulateness all his lifetime.
Joanna and all the older Marshalls went to a school in West Fifty-second
Street, one after another like little steps, with Joanna at first quite
some distance behind. They were known throughout the school. “Those
Marshall children, you know those colored children that always dress so
well and as though they had someone to take care of them. Pretty nice
looking children, too, if only they weren’t colored. Their father is a
caterer, has that place over there on Fifty-ninth Street. Makes a lot of
money for a colored man.”
Peter, unlike Joanna, had gone to school, one might almost say, all over
New York, and nowhere for any great length of time. Meriwether had
stayed longest at Mrs. Reading’s but as, in later years, he more and
more went off on his runs without paying his bills, Mrs. Reading
frequently refused to let Peter leave the house until his father’s
return.
“For all I know he may be joinin’ his father on the outside and the two
of them go off together. Then where’d I be? For them few rags that Mr.
Bye keeps in his room wouldn’t be no good to nobody.”
This enforced truancy was the least of Peter’s troubles. He did not like
school,—too many white people and consequently, as he saw it, too much
chance for petty injustice. The result of this was that Peter at twelve,
possessed it is true of a large assortment of really useful facts,
lacked the fine precision, if the doubtful usefulness, of Joanna’s
knowledge at ten. When Miss Susan settled in the Marshalls’ neighborhood
and brought Peter to the school in Fifty-second Street he was found to
be lacking and yet curiously in advance. “We’ll try him,” said the
principal doubtfully, “in the fifth grade. I’ll take him to Miss
Shanley’s room.”
Miss Shanley was Joanna’s teacher. She greeted Peter without enthusiasm,
not because he was colored but because he was clearly a problem. Joanna
spied him immediately. He was too handsome with his brown-red skin, his
black silky hair that curled alluringly, his dark, almost almond-shaped
eyes, to escape her notice. But she forgot about him, too, almost
immediately, for the first time Miss Shanley called on him he failed
rather ignominiously. Joanna did not like stupid people and thereafter
to her he simply was not.
On the contrary, Joanna had caught and retained Peter’s attention. She
was the only other colored person in the room and therefore to him the
only one worth considering. And though at that time Joanna was still
rather plain, she already had an air. Everything about her was of an
exquisite perfection. Her hair was brushed till it shone, her skin
glowed not only with health but obviously with cleanliness, her shoes
were brown and shiny, with perfectly level heels. She wore that first
week a very fine soft sage-green middy suit with a wide buff tie. The
nails which finished off the rather square-tipped fingers of her small
square hands, were even and rounded and shining. Peter had seen little
girls with this perfection and assurance on Chestnut Street in
Philadelphia and on Fifth Avenue in New York, but they had been white.
He had not yet envisaged this sort of thing for his own. Perhaps he
inherited his great-grandfather Joshua’s spiritless acceptance of things
as they are, and his belief that differences between people were not
made, but had to be.
Joanna clearly stood for something in the class. Peter noted a little
enviously the quality of the tone in which Miss Shanley addressed her.
To other children she said, “Gertrude, can you tell me about the
Articles of Confederation?” Usually she implied a doubt, which Gertrude
usually justified. But she was sure of Joanna. The tenseness of her
attitude might be seen to relax; her mentality prepared momentarily for
a rest. “Joanna will now tell us,—” she would announce. For Joanna,
having a purpose and having been drilled by Joel to the effect that
final perfection is built on small intermediate perfections, got her
lessons completely and in detail every day.
It was at this time and for many years thereafter characteristic of
Peter that he, too, wanted to shine, but did not realize that one shone
only as a result of much mental polishing personally applied. Joanna’s
assurance, her air of purposefulness, her indifference intrigued him and
piqued him. He sidled across to the blackboard nearest her—if they were
both sent to the board—cleaned hers off if she gave him a chance,
managed to speak a word to her now and then. He even contrived to wait
for her one day at the Girls’ entrance. Joanna threw him a glance of
recognition, swept by, returned.
His heart jumped within him.
“If you see my sister Sylvia,—you know her?—tell her not to wait for me.
I have to go early to my music-lesson. She’ll be right out.”
Sylvia didn’t appear for half an hour and Peter should have been at the
butcher’s, but he waited. Sylvia and Maggie Ellersley came out laughing
and glowing. Peter gave the message.
“Thanks,” said Sylvia prettily. Maggie stared after him. She was still
the least bit bold in those days.
“Ain’t he the best looker you ever saw, Sylvia? Such eyes! Who is he,
anyway? Not ever Joanna’s beau?”
“Imagine old Joanna with a beau.” Sylvia laughed. “He’s just a new boy
in her class. He _is_ good looking.”
Some important examinations were to take place shortly and Miss Shanley
planned extensive reviews. She was a thorough if somewhat unimaginative
teacher and she meant to have no loose threads. So she devoted two days
to geography, two more to grammar, another to history, one to the rather
puzzling consideration of that mysterious study, physiology. Perhaps by
now the class was a bit fed up with cramming, perhaps the children
weren’t really interested in physiological processes. Joanna wasn’t, but
she always got lessons like these doggedly, thinking “Soon we’ll be past
all this,” or “I’m going to forget this old stuff as soon as I grow up.”
Poor Miss Shanley was in despair. She could not call on Joanna for
everything. Pupil after pupil had failed. Her eye roved over the room
and fell on Peter’s black head.
She sighed. He had not even been a member of the class when she had
taught this particular physiological phenomenon. “Can’t anyone besides
Joanna Marshall give me the ‘Course of the Food?’”
Peter raised his hand. “He looks intelligent,” she thought. “Well, Bye
you may try it.”
“I don’t think I can give it to you the way the others say it,”—the
children had been reciting by rote, “but I know what happens to the
food.”
She knew he would fail if he didn’t know it her way, but she let him
begin.
This was old ground for Peter. “Look, I can draw it. See, you take the
food in your mouth,” he drew a rough sketch of lips, mouth cavity and
gullet, “then you must chew it, masticate, I think you said.” He went on
varying from his own simplified interpretation of Meriwether Bye’s early
instructions, past difficult names like pancreatic juice and thoracic
duct, and while he talked he drew, recalling pictures from those old
anatomies; expounding, flourishing. Miss Shanley stared at him in
amazement. This jewel, this undiscovered diamond!
“How’d you come to know it, Peter?”
“I read it, I studied it.” He did not say when. “But it’s so easy to
learn things about the body. It’s yourself.”
She quizzed him then while the other children, Joanna among them, stared
open-eyed. But he knew all the simple ground which she had already
covered, and much, much beyond.
“If all the children,” said Miss Shanley, forgetting Peter’s past,
“would just get their lessons like Peter Bye and Joanna Marshall.”
She had coupled their names together! And after school Joanna was
waiting for him. He walked up the street with her, pleasantly conscious
of her interest, her frank admiration.
“How wonderful,” she breathed, “that you should know your physiology
like that. What are you going to be when you grow up, a doctor?”
“A surgeon,” said Peter forgetting his old formula and expressing a
resolve which her question had engendered in him just that second. He
saw himself on the instant, a tall distinguished-looking man, wielding
scissors and knife with deft nervous fingers. Joanna would be hovering
somewhere—he was not sure how—in the offing. And she would be looking at
him with this same admiration.
“My, won’t you have to study?” Joanna could have told an aspirant almost
to the day and measure the amount of time and effort it would take him
to become a surgeon, a dentist, a lawyer, an engineer. All these things
Joel discussed about his table with the intense seriousness which
colored men feel when they speak of their children’s futures. Alexander
and Philip were to have their choice of any calling within reason. They
were seventeen and fifteen now and the house swarmed with college
catalogues. Schools, terms, degrees of prejudice, fields of
practice,—Joanna knew them all.
“Yes,” said Peter, “I suppose I will have to study. How did you come to
know so much—did your father tell you?”
“Why, I get it out of books, of course.” Joanna was highly indignant: “I
never go to bed without getting my lessons. In fact, all I do is to get
lessons of some kind—school lessons or music. You know I’m to be a great
singer.”
“No, I didn’t know that. Perhaps you’ll sing in your choir?”
Then Joanna astonished him. “In my choir—I sing there already! No!
Everywhere, anywhere, Carnegie Hall and in Boston and London. You see,
I’m to be famous.”
“But,” Peter objected, “colored people don’t get any chance at that kind
of thing.”
“Colored people,” Joanna quoted from her extensive reading, “can do
everything that anybody else can do. They’ve already done it. Some one
colored person somewhere in the world does as good a job as anyone
else,—perhaps a better one. They’ve been kings and queens and poets and
teachers and doctors and everything. I’m going to be the one colored
person who sings best in these days, and I never, never, never mean to
let color interfere with anything I _really_ want to do.”
“I dance, too,” she interrupted herself, “and I’ll probably do that
besides. Not ordinary dancing, you know, but queer beautiful things that
are different from what we see around here; perhaps I’ll make them up
myself. You’ll see! They’ll have on the bill-board, ‘Joanna Marshall,
the famous artist,’—” She was almost dancing along the sidewalk now, her
eyes and cheeks glowing.
Peter looked at her wistfully. His practical experience and the memory
of his father inclined him to dubiousness. But her superb assurance
carried away all his doubts.
“I don’t suppose you’ll ever think of just ordinary people like me?”
“But you’ll be famous, too—you’ll be a wonderful doctor. Do be. I can’t
stand stupid, common people.”
“You’ll always be able to stand me,” said Peter with a fervor which made
his statement a vow.
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