“And we sit silent and motionless,” said the minister.
“That’s it; not only injustice, oppression, insult, a lynching now and then—but they rub it in, they openly flout us. Is there any group on earth, but us, who would lie down to it?”
The minister was silent.
Then he said, “They may be rallying against Rome and liquor rather than against us.”
“Nonsense,” said Matthew, and added, “What do you think of violence?”
“What do you mean?”
“Suppose Negroes should blow up that convention or that fine de luxe Special and say by this bloody gesture that they didn’t propose to stand for this sort of thing any longer?”
The minister quailed. “But what good? What good? Murder, and murder mainly of the innocent; revenge, hatred, and a million ‘I told you so’s.’ ‘The Negro is a menace to this land!’ ”
“Yes, yes, all that; but not simply that. Fear; the hushing of loose slander and insult; the curbing of easy proposals to deprive us of things deeper than life. They look out for the Indian’s war whoop, the Italian’s knife, the Irishman’s club; what else appeals to barbarians but force, blood, war?”
The minister answered slowly: “These things get on our nerves, of course. But you mustn’t get morbid and too impatient. We’ve come a long way in a short time, as time moves. We’re rising—we’re getting on.”
But Matthew brooded: “Are we getting on so far? Aren’t the gates slowly, silently closing in our faces? Isn’t there widespread, deep, powerful determination to make this a white world?”
The minister shook his head; then he added: “We can only trust in Christ—”
“Christ!” blurted Matthew.
VIII
The cabaret was close, hot, and crowded. There was loud music and louder laughter and the clinking of glasses. More than half the patrons were white, and they were clustered mostly on one side. They had the furtive air of fugitives in a foreign land, out from under the eyes of their acquaintances. Some were drunk and noisy. Others seemed looking expectantly for things that did not happen, but which surely ought to happen in this bizarre outland! The colored patrons seemed more at home and natural. They were just laughing and dancing, although some looked bored.
The minister stared. “Are they having a good time, or just trying to?”
“Some of them are really gay. This girl here—”
The minister recoiled a little as the girl reached their table. She was pale cream, with black eyes and hair; and her body, which she was continuously raising her clothes to reveal, had a sinuous, writhing movement. She danced with body and soul and sang her vulgar “blues” with a harsh, shrill voice that hardly seemed hers at all. She was an astonishing blend of beauty, rhythm, and ugliness. She had collected all the cash in sight on the white side and now came over to the Negroes.
“Come on, baby,” she yelled to the minister, as she began singing at their table, and her writhing body curled like a wisp of golden smoke. The minister recoiled, but Matthew looked up and smiled. Some yearning seized him. It seemed so long since a woman’s hand had touched him that he scarce saw the dross of this woman. He tossed her a dollar, and as she stooped to gather it, she looked at him impishly and laughed in a softer voice.
“Thanks, Big Boy,” she said.
The proprietor with his half-shut eyes and low voice strolled by.
“Would you boys like a drop of something—or perhaps a little game?”
The minister did not understand.
“Whiskey and gambling,” grinned Matthew. The minister stirred uneasily and looked at his watch. They stayed on, ordering twenty-five-cent ginger ale at a dollar a bottle and gay sandwiches at seventy-five cents apiece, and a small piece at that.
“Honest,” said the minister, “I’m not going to preach against cabarets and dance halls any more. They preach against themselves. There’s more real fun in a church festival by the Ladies’ Aid!” Then he glanced again at his watch.
“Good Lord, I must go—it’s three o’clock, and I must leave for Philadelphia at six.”
Matthew laughed and they arose. As they passed out, the dancing girl glided by Matthew again and slipped her hand in his.
“Come and dance, Big Boy,” she said. Her face was hard and older than her limbs, but her eyes were kind. Matthew hesitated.
“Goodbye,” he said to the minister, “hope to see you again some time soon.”
He went back with the girl.
IX
That trip in his Pullman seemed Matthew’s worst. Sometimes as he swung to Atlanta and back he almost forgot himself in the routine, and Jimmie’s inexhaustible humor always helped. He became the wooden automaton that his job required. He neither thought nor saw. He had no feelings, no wishes, and yet he was ears and voice, swift in eye and step, accurate and deferential. But at other times all things seemed to happen and he was a quivering bundle of protests, nerves—a great oath of revolt. It seemed particularly so this trip, perhaps because he was so upset about the Princess’ departure. Besides that, Jimmie left him at Atlanta. He had taken a few days off. “Got a date,” he grinned.
Matthew was lonesome and tired, and his return trip began with the usual lost article. People always lose something in a Pullman car, and always by direct accusation, glance, or innuendo the black porter is the thief. This time a fat, flashily dressed woman missed her diamond ring.
“—a solitaire worth five hundred dollars. I left it on the windowsill—it has been stolen.”
She talked loudly. The whole car turned and listened. The whole car stared at Matthew. It is no pleasant thing to be tacitly charged with theft and to search for vindication under the accusing eyes of two dozen people. Matthew took out the seats, raised the carpet, swept and poked. Then he went and dragged out all the dirty
