“What’s the use, Aunt Sophie, of trying to be decent? I don’t see the need of trying—I might as well give up the struggle and admit I’m beaten,” she despairingly told Mrs. Rogers.
“Don’t be silly, Mimi. They’ve talked about everybody. It’ll all blow over in time.”
“No—you’re just trying to console me. People forget decent things—they never forget a thing like this.”
“There’s something in that, but the people you really care about will have sense enough to see this in a broad light. And those who don’t see it and give you credit for trying to atone for your mistake don’t count—you’ll be better off without their friendship.”
They sat at dinner and Mimi could almost hear the tumbling down of the walls she had so confidently been building. For the first time she felt sick at heart, crushed, without hope. She could withstand poverty, physical pain. But the averted glances of those who had been her friends, the ostentatious turning of heads when she passed on the street those with whom she had been on terms of intimate acquaintanceship, the sudden death of conversations at her approach which told her more plainly than if the information had been shouted through a megaphone that they had been talking of her, the boldness in the eyes of some of the men where there had been only respect before, all these and a thousand other little cruelties were the things which hurt. Hurt her painfully, more painfully than mere physical pain. She envied her aunt’s calmness, her philosophical acceptance of people’s habits, whether these habits were good or bad. She tried to keep her mind on the comforting flow of words with which Mrs. Rogers was seeking to bolster her courage.
“People have gossiped from the beginning of time and I suppose they’ll keep right on until Gabriel blows his trump. I don’t know why it is but there’s one thing that’s always true—they tear you to pieces not for what you’ve done but for getting caught. Take some of the biggest men in America—men who everybody knows have stolen railroads and banks but who’ve never been caught at it—why, they’re popular idols. There are lots of magazines with big circulations that fill their pages with stories of how these giants have gained wealth and fame by ‘honesty, hard work, sticking to the job.’ That’s bunk! Do you remember the story of one of these ‘self-made’ men who was telling a college class that his secret of success was ‘pluck! pluck! pluck!’ and the irreverent boy who asked the pompous one who he had plucked? That’s the true story of a lot of these people who haven’t been caught with their hands in the other fellow’s pockets.”
Mimi smiled a wan smile. This was interesting, perhaps, but it didn’t help her much. Mrs. Rogers went on.
“And coloured people are no better than anybody else. The motive is the same everywhere in the world and with all races and sexes and classes. If you aren’t of any importance they don’t gossip about you because nobody’s interested. But they’ve got to have something humiliating, something that’ll bear down a person’s reputation, something malicious and spiteful. It’s got to be about somebody who’s got something to lose, it’ll have to be something that’ll stick, something that’ll be dangerous but not too dangerous for the person who’s gossiping. And above everything else it’s got to be spread with a high and lofty manner—the biggest spreader of tales I ever knew always started her most vile story the same way. She’d say: ‘I stay at home attending to my own business and I don’t meddle in other people’s affairs, but have you heard that—’ and then she proceeds to give you a long account of what some person has done, all of it told in a tone of Christian forbearance and pity and tacit regret.”
“That’s a very interesting and logical analysis but it doesn’t offer much comfort. It’s just like a doctor explaining why your leg broke when you’re lying in a hospital bed.”
“You’re depressed and worried—there’s no need giving in to what these people say. Just face it and it will all blow over. And I’ll stick with you always, Mimi.”
Mrs. Rogers watched Mimi, more worried over the girl’s troubles than she would admit even to herself. In a few months Mimi had become a part and a very important part of the household. Younger people came and she had always preferred associating with young people. “It keeps me young, too,” she would say when the subject was mentioned. The house would be unbearable if Mimi went away or did anything desperate. She feared this though she laughed at her fears. But the set look on Mimi’s face, the despondency which was greater now than when Mimi had first come to New York after putting Petit Jean in the orphanage, the utter dejection so evident in Mimi’s face and body, made her definitely apprehensive.
“You’re a darling, Aunt Sophie, but I just can’t stick it out. I can stand a lot of things I’ve had to—but what’s happened here will just keep on happening every place I go. I’ve tried to go straight—God knows I have. But these meddling people won’t let me have any peace. Do you remember that night at the dance you pointed out a girl to me who was working down town, passing for white?”
Mrs. Rogers admitted she had, but wondered what that had to do with Mimi.
“Just this,” was the answer she received. “I never thought I’d want to leave my own people. I wouldn’t leave them now but they’ve driven me away—driven me to the point where I’ve either got to drop out of sight where I won’t be hounded again or else I’ll do something terrible. If that girl can
