Dark Princess. The Exile, VI
Matthew sat in the dining-room of the Princess on Lützower Ufer. Looking about, his heart swelled. For the first time since he had left New York, he felt himself a man, one of those who could help build a world and guide it. He had no regrets.
Medicine seemed a far-off, dry-as-dust thing.
The oak paneling of the room went to the ceiling and there broke softly with carven light against white flowers and into long lucent curves. The table below was sheer with lace and linen, sparkling with silver and crystal. The servants moved deftly, and all of them were white save one who stood behind the Princess' high and crimson chair. At her right sat Matthew himself, hardly realizing until long afterward the honor thus done an almost nameless guest.
Fortunately he had the dinner jacket of year before last with him. It was not new, but it fitted his form perfectly, and his was a form worth fitting. He was a bit shocked to note that all the other men but two were in full evening dress. But he did not let this worry him much.
Ten of them sat at the table. On the Princess' left was a Japanese, faultless in dress and manner, evidently a man of importance, as the deference shown him and the orders on his breast indicated. He was quite yellow, short and stocky, with a face which was a delicately handled but perfect mask. There were two Indians, one a man grave, haughty, and old, dressed richly in turban and embroidered tunic, the other, in conventional dress and turban, a young man, handsome and alert, whose eyes were ever on the Princess. There were two Chinese, a young man and a young woman, he in a plain but becoming Chinese costume of heavy blue silk, she in a pretty dress, half Chinese, half European in effect. An Egyptian and his wife came next, he suave, talkative, and polite-just a shade too talkative and a bit too polite, Matthew thought; his wife a big, handsome, silent woman, elegantly jeweled and gowned, with much bare flesh. Beyond them was a cold and rather stiff Arab who spoke seldom, and then abruptly.
Of the food and wine of such dinners, Matthew had read often but never partaken; and the conversation, now floating, now half submerged, gave baffling glimpses of unknown lands, spiritual and physical. It was all something quite new in his experience, the room, the table, the service, the company.
He could not keep his eyes from continually straying side-wise to his hostess. Never had he seen color in human flesh so regally set: the rich and flowing grace of the dress out of
which rose so darkly splendid the jeweled flesh. The black and purple hair was heaped up on her little head, and in its depths gleamed a tiny coronet of gold. Her voice and her poise, her self-possession and air of quiet command, kept Matthew staring almost unmannerly, despite the fact that he somehow sensed a shade of resentment in the young and handsome Indian opposite.
They had eaten some delicious tidbits of meat and vegetables and then were served with a delicate soup when the Princess, turning slightly to her right, said: "You will note, Mr. Towns, that we represent here much of the Darker World. Indeed, when all our circle is present, we represent all of it, save your world of Black Folk."
"All the darker world except the darkest," said the Egyptian.
"A pretty large omission," said Matthew with a smile.
"I agree," said the Chinaman; but the Arab said something abruptly in French. Matthew had said that he knew "some" French. But his French was of the American variety
which one excavates from dictionaries and cements with grammar, like bricks. He was astounded at the ease and the fluency with which most of this company used languages, so easily, without groping or hesitation and with light, sure shading.
They talked art in French, literature in Italian, politics in German, and everything in clear English.
"M. Ben Ali suggests," said the Princess, "that even you are not black, Mr. Towns."
"My grandfather was, and my soul is. Black blood with us in America is a matter of spirit and not simply of flesh."
"Ah! mixed blood," said the Egyptian.
"Like all of us, especially me," laughed the Princess.
"But, your Royal Highness-not Negro," said the elder Indian in a tone that hinted a protest.
"Essentially," said the Princess lightly, "as our black and curly-haired Lord Buddha testifies in a hundred places. But" - a bit imperiously-"enough of that. Our point is that Pan-Africa belongs logically with Pan-Asia; and for that reason Mr. Towns is welcomed tonight by you, I am sure, and by me especially. He did me a service as I was returning from the New Palace."
They all looked interested, but the Egyptian broke out: "Ah, Your Highness, the New Palace, and what is the fad today? What has followed expressionism, cubism, futurism, vorticism? I confess myself at sea. Picasso alarms me. Matisse sets me aflame. But I do not understand them. I prefer the classics."
"The Congo," said the Princess, "is flooding the Acropolis. There is a beautiful Kandinsky on exhibit, and some lovely and startling things by unknown newcomers."
"Mais," replied the Egyptian, dropping into French-and they were all off to the discussion, save the silent Egyptian woman and the taciturn Arab.
Here again Matthew was puzzled. These persons easily penetrated worlds where he was a stranger. Frankly, but for the context he would not have known whether Picasso was a man, a city, or a vegetable. He had never heard of Matisse. Lightly, almost carelessly, as he thought, his companions leapt to unknown subjects. Yet they knew. They knew art, books, and literature, politics of all nations, and not newspaper politics merely, but inner currents and whisperings, unpublished facts. "Ah, pardon," said the Egyptian, returning to English, "I forgot Monsieur Towns speaks only English and does not in-
terest himself in art."
Perhaps Matthew was sensitive and imagined that the Egyptian and the Indian rather often, if not purposely, strayed to French and subjects beyond him.
"Mr. Towns is a scientist?" asked the Japanese.
"He studies medicine," answered the Princess.
"Ah-a high service," said the Japanese. "I was reading only today of the work on cancer by your Peyton Rous in Carrel's laboratory."
Towns was surprised. "What, has he discovered the etiological factor? I had not heard."
"No, not yet, but he's a step nearer."
For a few moments Matthew was talking eagerly, until a babble of unknown tongues interrupted him across the table. "Proust is dead, that 'snob of humor'-yes, but his
Recherche du Temps Perdu is finished and will be published in full. I have only glanced at parts of it. Do you know Gasquet's Hymnes?"
"Beraud gets the Prix Goncourt this year. Last year it was the Negro, Maran-"
"I have been reading Croce's Aesthetic lately-"
"Yes, I saw the Meyerhold theater in Moscow-gaunt realism—Howl China was tremendous."
Then easily, after the crisp brown fowl, the Princess tactfully steered them back to the subject which some seemed willing to avoid.
"And so," she said, "the darker peoples who are dissatisfied-" She looked at the Japanese and paused as though inviting comment. He bowed courteously.
"If I may presume, your Royal Highness, to suggest," he said slowly, "the two categories are not synonymous. We ourselves know no line of color. Some of us are white, some yellow, some black. Rather, is it not, your Highness, that we have from time to time taken council with the oppressed peoples of the world, many of whom by chance are colored?"
"True, true," said the Princess.
"And yet," said the Chinese lady, "it is dominating Europe which has flung this challenge of the color line, and we cannot avoid it."
"And on either count," said Matthew, "whether we be bound by oppression or by color, surely we Negroes belong in the foremost ranks."
There was a slight pause, a sort of hesitation, and it seemed to Matthew as though all expected the Japanese to speak.
He did, slowly and gravely: "It would be unfair to our guest not to explain with some
clarity and precision that the whole question of the Negro race both in Africa and in America is for us not simply a question of suffering and compassion. Need we say that for these peoples we have every human sympathy? But for us here and for the larger company we represent, there is a deeper question that of the ability, qualifications, and real possibilities of the black race in Africa or elsewhere."
Matthew left the piquant salad and laid down his fork slowly. Up to this moment he had been quite happy. Despite the feeling of being out of it now and then, he had assumed
that this was his world, his people, from the high and beautiful lady whom he worshiped more and more, even to the Egyptians, Indians, and Arab who seemed slightly, but very.
slightly, aloof or misunderstanding.
Suddenly now there loomed plain and clear the shadow of a color line within a color line, a prejudice within prejudice, and he and his again the sacrifice. His eyes became somber and did not lighten even when the Princess spoke. "I cannot see that it makes great difference what ability Negroes have. Oppression is oppression. It is our privilege to relieve it."
"Yes," answered the Japanese, "but who will do it? Who can do it but those superior races whose necks now bear the yoke of the inferior rabble of Europe?"
"This," said the Princess, "I have always believed; but as I have told your Excellency, I have received impressions in Moscow which have given me very serious thought-first as to our judgment of the ability of the Negro race, and second"- she paused in thought-"as to the relative ability of all classes and peoples."
Matthew stared at her, as she continued: "You see, Moscow has reports-careful reports of the world's masses. And the report on the Negroes of America was astonishing. At the time, I doubted its truth: their education, their work, their property, their organizations; and the odds, the terrible, crushing odds against which, inch by inch and heart-
break by heartbreak, they have forged their unfaltering way upward. If the report is true, they are a nation today, a modern nation worthy to stand beside any nation here."
"But can we put any faith in Moscow?" asked the Egyptian. "Are we not keeping dangerous company and leaning on broken reeds?"
"Well," said Matthew, "if they are as sound in everything as in this report from America, they'll bear listening to."
The young Indian spoke gently and evenly, but with bright Eyes. "Naturally," he said, "one can see Mr. Towns need must agree with the Bolshevik estimate of the lower classes."
Matthew felt the slight slur and winced. He thought he saw the lips of the Princess tighten ever so little. He started to answer quickly, with aplomb if not actual swagger.
"I reckon," he began-then something changed within him. It was as if he had faced and made a decision, as though some great voice, crying and reverberating within his soul,
spoke for him and yet was him. He had started to say, "I reckon there's as much high-born blood among American Negroes as among any people. We've had our kings, presidents, and judges—” He started to say this, but he did not finish.
He found himself saying quite calmly and with slightly lifted chin: "I reckon you're right. We American blacks are very common people. My grandfather was a whipped and driven slave; my father was never really free and died in jail. My mother plows and washes for a living. We come out of the depths- the blood and mud of battle. And from just such depths, I take it, came most of the worth-while things in this old world. If they didn't-God help us."
The table was very still, save for the very faint clink of china as the servants brought in the creamed and iced fruit.
The Princess turned, and he could feel her dark eyes full upon him.
"I wonder-I wonder," she murmured, almost catching her breath.
The Indian frowned. The Japanese smiled, and the Egyptian whispered to the Arab.
"I believe that is true," said the Chinese lady thoughtfully, "and if it is, this world is glorious."
"And if it is not?" asked the Egyptian icily. "It is perhaps both true and untrue," the Japanese suggested. "Certainly Mr. Towns has expressed a fine and human hope, although I fear that always blood must tell."
"No, it mustn't," cried Matthew, "unless it is allowed to talk. Its speech is accidental today. There is some weak, thin stuff called blood, which not even a crown can make speak intelligently; and at the same time some of the noblest blood God ever made is dumb with chains and poverty."
The elder Indian straightened, with blazing eyes. "Surely," he said, slowly and calmly, "surely the gentleman does not mean to reflect on royal blood?"、
Matthew started, flushed darkly, and glanced quickly at the Princess. She smiled and said lightly, "Certainly not," and then with a pause and a look straight across the table to the turban and tunic, "nor will royal blood offer insult to him.'
The Indian bowed to the tablecloth and was silent. As they rose and sauntered out to coffee in the silk and golden drawing-room, there was a discussion, started of course
by the Egyptian, first of the style of the elaborate piano case and then of Schönberg's new and unobtrusive transcription of Bach's triumphant choral Prelude, "Komm, Gott, Schöpfer."
The Princess sat down. Matthew could not take his eyes from her. Her fingers idly caressed the keys as her tiny feet sought the pedals. From white, pearl-embroidered slippers, her young limbs, smooth in pale, dull silk, swept up in long, low lines. Even the delicate curving of her knees he saw as she drew aside her drapery and struck the first warm tones. She played the phrase in dispute-great chords of aspiration and vision that melted to soft melody. The Egyptian acknowledged his fault. "Yes-yes, that was the theme I had forgotten."
Again Matthew felt his lack of culture audible, and not simply of his own culture, but of all the culture in white America which he had unconsciously and foolishly, as he now
realized, made his norm. Yet withal Matthew was not unhappy: If he was a bit out of it, if he sensed divided counsels and opposition, yet he still felt almost fiercely that that was his world. Here were culture, wealth, and beauty. Here was power, and here he had some recognized part. God! If he could just do his part, any part! And he waited impatiently for the real talk to begin again.
It began and lasted until after midnight. It started on lines so familiar to Matthew that he had to shut his eyes and stare again at their swarthy faces: Superior races-the right to rule -born to command-inferior breeds-the lower classes-the rabble. How the Egyptian rolled off his tongue his contempt for the "r-r-rabble"! How contemptuous was the young Indian of inferior races! But how humorous it was to Matthew to see all tables turned; the rabble now was the white workers of Europe; the inferior races were the ruling whites of Europe and America. The superior races were yellow and brown.
"You see," said the Japanese, "Mr. Towns, we here are all agreed and not agreed. We are agreed that the present white hegemony of the world is nonsense; that the darker peoples are the best-the natural aristocracy, the makers of art, religion, philosophy, life, everything except brazen machines."
"But why?"
"Because of the longer rule of natural aristocracy among us. We count our millenniums of history where Europe counts her centuries. We have our own carefully thought-out philosophy and civilization, while Europe has sought to adopt an ill-fitting mélange of the cultures of the world."
"But does this not all come out the same gate, with the majority of mankind serving the minority? And if this is the only ideal of civilization, does the tint of a skin matter in
the question of who leads?" Thus Matthew summed it up.
"Not a whit-it is the natural inborn superiority that matters," said the Japanese, "and it is that which the present color bar of Europe is holding back."
"And what guarantees, in the future more than in the past and with colored more than with white, the wise rule of the gifted and powerful?"
"Self-interest and the inclusion in their ranks of all really superior men of all colors-the best of Asia together with the best of the British aristocracy, of the German Adel, of the
French writers and financiers of the rulers, artists, and poets of all peoples."
"And suppose we found that ability and talent and art is not entirely or even mainly among the reigning aristocrats of Asia and Europe, but buried among millions of men down in the great sodden masses of all men and even in Black Africa?"
"It would come forth."
"Would it?"
"Yes," said the Princess, "it would come forth, but when and how? In slow and tenderly nourished efflorescence, or in wild and bloody upheaval with all that bitter loss?"
"Pah!" blurted the Egyptian-"pardon, Royal Highness—but what art ever came from the canaille!"
The blood rushed to Matthew's face. He threw back his head and closed his eyes, and with the movement he heard again the Great Song. He saw his father in the old log church by the river, leading the moaning singers in the Great Song of Emancipation. Clearly, plainly he heard that mighty voice and saw the rhythmic swing and beat of the thick brown arm.
Matthew swung his arm and beat the table; the silver tinkled. Silence dropped on all, and suddenly Matthew found himself singing. His voice full, untrained but mellow, quivered down the first plaintive bar:
"When Israel was in Egypt land—”
Then it gathered depth:
"Let my people go!"
He forgot his audience and saw only the shining river and
the bowed and shouting throng:
"Oppressed so hard, they could not stand,
Let my people go."
Then Matthew let go restraint and sang as his people sang in Virginia, twenty years ago. His great voice, gathered in one long deep breath, rolled the Call of God:
"Go down, Moses!
Way down into the Egypt land,
Tell Old Pharaoh
To let my people go!"
He stopped as quickly as he had begun, ashamed, and beads of sweat gathered on his forehead. Still there was silence-silence almost breathless. The voice of the Chinese woman broke it.
"It was an American slave song! I know it. How-how wonderful."
A chorus of approval poured out, led by the Egyptian.
"That," said Matthew, "came out of the black rabble of America." And he trilled his "r." They all smiled as the tension broke.
"You assume then," said the Princess at last, "that the mass of the workers of the world can rule as well as be ruled?"
"Yes-or rather can work as well as be worked, can live as well as be kept alive. America is teaching the world one thing and only one thing of real value, and that is, that ability and capacity for culture is not the hereditary monopoly of a few, but the widespread possibility for the majority of mankind if they only have a decent chance in life."
The Chinaman spoke: "If Mr. Towns' assumption is true, and I believe it is, and recognized, as some time it must be, it will revolutionize the world."
"It will revolutionize the world," smiled the Japanese, “but not-today."
"Nor this siècle," growled the Arab.
"Nor the next-and so in saecula saeculorum," laughed the Egyptian.
"Well," said the little Chinese lady, "the unexpected happens."
And Matthew added ruefully, "It's about all that does happen!"
He lapsed into blank silence, wondering how he had come to express the astonishing philosophy which had leapt unpremeditated from his lips. Did he himself believe it? As they arose from the table the Princess called him aside.