He began to speak on a clear, deep, bell-like note. Angela thought she had never heard its equal for beauty, for resonance, for culture. And as the young man had said he did not talk down. His English was the carefully sifted language of the savant, his periods polished, almost poetical. He was noted on two continents for his sociological and economic contributions, but his subject was racial sacrifice. He urged the deliberate introduction of beauty and pleasure into the difficult life of the American Negro. These objects should be theirs both as racial heritage and as compensation. Yet for a time, for a long time, there would have to be sacrifices, many sacrifices made for the good of the whole. “Our case is unique,” the beautiful, cultured voice intoned; “those of us who have forged forward, who have gained the front ranks in money and training, will not, are not able as yet to go our separate ways apart from the unwashed, untutored herd. We must still look back and render service to our less fortunate, weaker brethren. And the first step toward making this a workable attitude is the acquisition not so much of a racial love as a racial pride. A pride that enables us to find our own beautiful and praiseworthy, an intense chauvinism that is content with its own types, that finds completeness within its own group; that loves its own as the French love their country, because it is their own. Such a pride can accomplish the impossible.” He quoted:
“It is not courage, no, nor hate
That lets us do the things we do;
It’s pride that bids the heart be great—”
He sat down to a surge of applause that shook the building. Dark, drooping faces took on an expression of ecstatic uplift, it was as though they suddenly saw themselves, transformed by racial pride as princes in a strange land in temporary serfdom, princes whose children would know freedom.
Martha Burden and Ladislas went up to speak to him; they were old friends. Angela, with Roger, visibly impressed, stood on one side and waited. Paulette and Hudson came pushing through the crowd, the former flushed and excited. Little groups of coloured people stood about, some deeply content with a sort of vicarious pride, some arguing; Angela caught sight of Virginia standing with three young men and two girls. They were for the most part gesticulating, lost in a great excitement. But Jinny seemed listless and aloof; her childish face looked thin and more forlornly young than ever. Anthony Cross and a tall man of undeniably Spanish type passed the little party and spoke to one of the men, received introductions. Presently Cross, swinging about, caught sight of Angela and Roger. He bowed hastily, flushing; caught his companion’s arm and walked hurriedly from the hall, his head very straight, his slender figure always so upright, so élancé, more erect than ever.
Presently Martha’s party was all out on the sidewalk; Roger in fine spirits invited Paulette and Hudson to ride down town in his car. Paulette was bubbling over with excited admiration of Van Meier. “He isn’t a man, he’s a god,” she proclaimed. “Did you ever see such a superb personality? He’s not a magnificent coloured man, he’s not ‘just as good as a white man’; he is a man, just that; colour, race, conditions in his case are pure accidents, he overrides them all with his ego. Made me feel like a worm too; I gave him my prettiest smile, grand white lady making up to an ‘exceptional Negro’ and he simply didn’t see me; took my hand—I did my best to make my grasp a clinging one—and he passed me right along disengaging himself as cool as a cucumber and making room for a lady of colour.” She finished reflectively, “I wonder what he would be like alone.”
“None of your nonsense, Paulette,” said Roger frowning.
Hudson smiled. “Paulette’s a mighty attractive little piece, I’ll admit, but I’d back Van Meier against her every time; she’d present no temptation to him; the man’s not only a prophet and the son of a prophet; he’s pride incarnate.”
Roger said meditatively, “I wonder what proportion of white blood he has in his veins. Of course that’s where he gets his ability.”
“You make me tired,” said Martha. “Of course he doesn’t get it from his white blood; he gets it from all his bloods. It’s the mixture that makes him what he is. Otherwise all white people would be gods. It’s the mixture and the endurance which he has learned from being coloured in America and the determination to see life without bitterness—”
“Oh help, help,” exclaimed Roger. “No more lectures tonight. Look, you’re boring Angèle to death.”
“Nothing of the kind,” said Angela, “on the contrary I never was more interested in my life.” And reaching back she gave Martha’s hand a hearty squeeze.
Sometimes as on that first day at the art class, the five of them, Miss Powell, Paulette, Cross, Martha and Angela met before hours. Miss Powell as always was silent—she came solely for her work—but the others enjoyed a little preliminary chat. A week or so after the Van Meier lecture all but Paulette were gathered thus on an afternoon when she too came rushing in, starry eyed, flushed, consumed with laughter.
“I’ve played the biggest joke on myself,” she announced, “I’ve been to see Van Meier.”
Martha was instant attention. “A joke on Van Meier?”
“No, on myself, I tell you.”
It appeared that she had got Miss Powell to introduce her to one of the clerks in the great leader’s office. Paulettte then with deliberate intention had asked the girl to lunch and afterwards had returned with her to the office expressing a desire to meet her employer. Van Meier had received her
