Nobody came until nine-thirty; by ten there was the editor, an ironmolder, a college student, a politician, a street cleaner, a young physician, an insurance agent, and two men who might have been idlers, agitators, or plain crooks. It was an ugly room, incongruously furnished and with no natural center like a fireplace, a table, or a rostrum. Some of the men smoked, some did not; there was a certain air of mutual suspicion. Matthew gathered quickly that this was no regular group, but a fortuitous meeting of particles arranged by the editor. Instead of listening to a conference, he found himself introduced as a representative of Mr. Perigua of New York, and they prepared to hear a speech. Matthew was puzzled, nonplussed, almost dumb. He hated speechmaking. His folk talked too easily and glibly in his opinion. They did not mean what they said—not half—but they said it well. But he must do something; he must test Perigua and his followers. He must know the truth. So Matthew talked—at first a little vaguely and haltingly; and then finally he found himself telling them almost word for word that conversation about American Negroes in Berlin. He did not say who talked or where it took place; he just told what was said by certain strangers. They all listened with deep absorption. The student was the first to break out with:
“It is the truth; we’re punk—useless sheep; and all because of the cowardice of the old men who are in the saddle. Youth has no recognition. It is fear that rules. Old slipper is afraid of missing his tea and toast.”
The editor agreed. “No recognition for genius,” he said. “I’ve published the Arrow off and on for three years.”
“Usually off,” growled the politician.
“And a damn poor paper it is,” added the ironmolder.
“I know it, but what can you expect from two hundred and fifty-eight paid subscribers? If I had five thousand I’d show you a radical paper.”
“Aw, it’s no good—niggers won’t stay put,” returned the politician.
“You mean they won’t stay sold,” said someone.
“We’re satisfied—that’s the trouble,” said the editor. “We’re too damn satisfied. We’ve done so much more with ourselves than we ever dreamed of doing that we’re sitting back licking our chops and patting each other on the back.”
“Well,” said the young physician, “we have done well, haven’t we?”
“You has,” growled the ironmolder. “But how ’bout us? You-all is piling up money, but it don’t help us none. If we had our own foundries, we’d get something like wages stead of scabbing to starve white folks.”
“Well, you know we are investing,” said the insurance agent. “Our company—”
“Hell! That ain’t investment, it’s gambling.”
“That’s the trouble,” said the scavenger. “We’se strivers; we’se climbing on one another’s backs; we’se gittin’ up—some of us—by trompin’ others down.”
“Well, at any rate, some do get up.”
“Yes, sure-but the most of us, where is we going? Down, with not only white folks but niggers on top of us.”
“Well, what are we going to do about it?”
“What can we do? Merit and thrift will rise,” said the physician.
“Nonsense. Selfishness and fraud rise until somebody begins to fight,” answered the editor.
“Perigua is fighting.”
“Perigua is a fool—Negroes won’t fight.”
“You won’t.”
“Will you?”
“If I get a chance.”
“Chance? Hell! Can’t any fool fight?” asked the editor.
“Sure, but I ain’t no fool—and besides, if I was, how’d I begin?”
“How!” yelled the student. “Clubs, guns, dynamite!”
But the politician sneered. “You couldn’t get one nigger in a million to fight at all, and then they’d sell each other out.”
“You ought to know.”
“I sure do!”
And so it went on. When the meeting broke up, Matthew felt bruised and bewildered.
V
Matthew walked into the church about noon. Jimmie positively refused to go. “Had all the church I need,” he said. “Besides, got a date!” The services were just beginning. It was a large auditorium, furnished at considerable expense and with some taste. It gave a sense of space and well-being. The voices of the surpliced choir welled up gloriously, and the tones of the minister rolled in full accents.
Matthew particularly noticed the minister. He remembered the preacher at his own home—an old, bent man, outlandish, with blazing eyes and a fire of inspiration and denunciation that moved every auditor. But this man was young—not much older than Matthew—good-looking, intelligent and educated. This service of mingled music and ceremony was attractive, and the sermon—well, the minister did not say much, but he said it well; and if conventionally and with some tricks of the orator, yet he was pleasing and soothing. His Death was an interpretation of Fall—the approach of looming Winter and the test of good resolutions after the bursting Spring and fruitful Summer.
The audience listened contentedly but with no outbursts of enthusiasm. There were a few “amens” from the faithful near the pulpit, but they followed the cadence of the beautiful voice rather than the impact of his ideas. The audience looked comfortable, well fed and well clothed. What were they really thinking? What did the emancipation of the darker races mean to them?
Matthew lingered after the service, and his tall, well-clad figure attracted attention. A deacon welcomed him. He must meet the pastor; and at the door in his silk robe he did meet him. They liked each other at a glance. The minister insisted on his waiting until most of the crowd had passed. Matthew ventured on his queries.
“I’ve just returned from Germany—” he began.
The minister beamed: “Well, well! That’s fine. Hope to take a trip over myself in a year or two. My people here insist. May get a Walker popularity prize. Now what do people over there think of us here? I mean, of us colored folk?”
It was the opening. Matthew explained at length some of the
