Conrad Aiken: Blue Voyage

Silberstein, in a dinner jacket, entered laconically; with a cigar, on which the red-and-gold band was intact. In a dinner jacket, with plump shirt, he looked more than ever batrachian. Brek-ek-ek-ek. He sauntered, he rolled, he twinkled, he trolled. Drumming dripping pattering whimpering. In an old-fashioned garden.

“I don’t blame you,” he said. “I never saw such a lousy collection in my life. Hay-Lawrence is pretty good, though.”

“He looks the part to a T.”

“I don’t speak French myself, but I guess he slings it about as well as the froggies do?”

“It sounds all right to me. Have you been dancing?”

“No. I gave them the up-and-down — there’s nobody there worth looking at, except that little Irish kid and Mrs. Faubion. And, of course, your friend the Welsh Rarebit. By Godfry, she’s got up fit to kill!”

Drip drop drip drop. An old-fashioned garden in the rain.

“Have you seen her?… Hello — there she is. Mrs. Davis! Mrs. Davis !”

Mrs. Davis, a Hawaiian clad in swishing grass, with a white rose in her black hair and a purple Japanese lantern in each hand, leaned coyly through the doorway, one leg lifted behind her. Scarlet slippers. Then she was gone again.

The glass-eyed poker player came in, looking angrily about the room, and four others. Also Smith, soft-stepping in the rear, drawing back a little to avoid getting mixed with the game. He had been out in the rain — he had on his tweed hat and a rain-splashed raincoat. After him came a trampling troup of others, refugees from the dance. The thirsty hour was beginning to summon them.

“Didn’t see you at the dance,” said Smith, dropping off his coat.

“No, I’m not a dancing man.”

“The little girl was asking me where you were — says she’s mad at you.”

“Mrs. Faubion?”

“Sure. Who’d you think? Looks nice, too. Got on one of those blue embroidered mandarin cloaks, and nice little white silk pantaloons.”

“She’s the best-looking thing there,” said Silberstein, “which isn’t saying much.”

“She’s all right! Yes, sir, she’s all right. And she can dance, too. I wish I could dance — I’m too old to learn these newfangled things. But I’d sure like to dance with her.”

“Well, gentlemen, I think I’ll slide for home. I’ll see you in the morning, if the rain doesn’t sink us. Good night.”

“Good night!”

“Good night.”

Silberstein departed in a rattle of rain: the Long, Long Trail came mournfully up the stairs: a cork popped.

“Have a game?” said Smith. “He makes me tired, swelling in here with his dress suit.”

“No, not tonight, thanks. I haven’t got the energy. Lazy as a nigger.”

“Lazy as a nigger! Ever seen niggers work in the gangs down South?”

“Yes, I have.”

“They sure can work — when they want to.”

“Oh, I have the greatest respect for the nigger. I’m all for him.”

“He’s all right in the fields and the servants’ quarters. Yes, siree!”

“The Negro has genius — give him a chance and he’ll prove it.”

“Genius! I never noticed it. Give him a chance, and he gets too uppish.”

“Oh, I don’t agree with you. When he’s uppish, it’s only because he imitates the bad manners with which he’s been treated.”

Smith looked astonished.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about! You ought to live down South.”

“I have lived down South.”

“Well then, you ought to know better. Give him an inch and he’ll take an ell.”

“Why shouldn’t he?”

“Why shouldn’t he!.. Do you think he’s the equal of the white man?”

“Potentially, certainly! Good Lord, he’s only had a generation or two of freedom, scarcely any schooling, and look what he’s done already! His folk songs are the only American music, practically, that’s worth a toot.”

“Just plain savagery, that’s what it is, and I’m surprised you fall for it. You come down and live with them and look for their genius! Genius my hat! They’re black, and don’t you forget it.”

“What difference does that make?”

“A whole lot! You can’t let them mix. Got to keep them in their place.”

“Nonsense. They’re human beings, like any others. You can’t condemn a whole race because of their color! Good Lord, I never heard anything so childish!”

“Childish! Would you sit down to dinner with a nigger?”

“Certainly! I not only would, but I have .”

Smith stared.

“What! Well, no self-respecting man would. No sir.”

“I suppose you’re one of these people who feel the same way about the Chinese and Japanese.”

“Sure. To hell with them. They’re yellow — they’re not white … Good God, sitting down to dinner with a nigger! Will you listen to that!”

Smith turned his head, showing a disposition to draw in, as witnesses, the men at the next table. His voice had become louder. Demarest felt himself flushing.

“Certainly. The Negro I sat down to dinner with was a human being, and as civilized and intellectual a man as you could find. And a man very widely known.”

“Every man to his own taste, as the farmer said when he kissed the pig! I suppose next you’ll say it was an honor to sit down with him!”

“So it was.”

“You’ll have to excuse me. That’s hot air. You just fool yourself. Now look here. Suppose you had a sister—”

“I have a sister.”

“All right — you have a sister. Suppose she wanted to marry a coon, would you let her?… You know you wouldn’t.”

“I admit I’ve got strong enough primitive racial feelings in me to make me feel that any crossing of species is a mistake. And I’d certainly do my best to make HER feel this, and to make her see the social consequences of such a marriage. But if she realized all that, I don’t see that I would have any further business to interfere. No. She’s an adult, and can manage her own life. I should regret the step, for various reasons, but among them would not be any feeling that the Negro is something subhuman. Not at all!”

“Oh, good Lord deliver me! Did you hear that, you people? This man says he wouldn’t mind if his sister married a nigger!”

There was a mild, embarrassed laugh at the next table, and Demarest felt himself flushing under the scrutiny of amusedly hostile eyes. Loss of caste — this was what the smiling eyes said, but almost as if apologetically. He was made to feel, for a flash, the isolation with which a race punishes its individuals for excessive individualism, for disobeying totem and taboo. Outcast. Pariah … How idiotic of him, to discuss such a thing, with such a man, in such a place! Served him right. Drip drop. Drop drip. Better fill and light his pipe with ostentatious calm and care, and let them see his large new splendid tobacco pouch! the unhurrying fingers manipulating the sea-damp tobacco, with percipient care for every shred!

Smith, guessing that he had gone a little too far, watched, unseeing, the fingers working in the pouch. But the scene was now beyond mitigation. He rose, flushed, with angry evasive eyes.

“Funny ideas some people have,” he said. He picked up his coat.

“ De gustibus —as you remarked,” said Demarest. His voice was cool, and he directed at Smith a glance which he intended to be penetrating.

“What?…” Smith wavered, hoping for a friendlier note on which to take his departure. “Well, I guess I’ll take a look at the dance before it stops. Getting toward the end.”

He moved off sadly, sedately, as if in padded slippers: quiet upholder of the conventions; modest efficient tool of society. My Little Gray Home in the West . And now he was on his way to watch Faubion — Faubion, who was wearing a blue mandarin cloak and nice little while silk pantaloons. Delicious! Smith watching hungrily, brown eye among the potted palm trees, wistfully, waiting. Misery. Misery is creation. Misery is love. Misery is—