# Nigger Heaven (Van Vechten)/Book 1/Chapter 4

A day or so later, Mary encountered Adora emerging from a shop on Seventh Avenue.
You haven't been to see me since I came back from the country, the ex-music-hall diva complained. I've a good mind to cut you dead.
Don't scold me, Mary pleaded. You know I'm a working woman.
I know you have more time than I have, Adora retorted, but I don't care how you behave. I like you and I'm going to hang on to you. Come home with me now.
Assenting willingly, Mary entered the Rolls-Royce, whereupon the chauffeur in purple livery slammed the door and drove the pair the short distance to West One hundred and thirty-ninth Street, dubbed Strivers' Row by all and sundry in Harlem. This block of tan brick houses, flanked by rows of trees on either side of the way, had been designed in the early twentieth century by Stanford White, at the time when Harlem was a German section. Now they had been taken over by rich Negroes: a few, like Fletcher Henderson, the band-leader, and Harry Wills, the prize-fighter, of international fame, but most of them lawyers, physicians, real-estate operators, or opulent proprietors of beauty ​parlours. Mary remembered that she had read an editorial in Opportunity, based on advertising statistics, which seemed to prove that her race spent more money on hair-straighteners and skin-lightening preparations than they did on food or clothing. It was peculiarly ironic, Mary thought in this connection, that while the coloured women were making such an effort to have their hair uncurled, the white women were undergoing the horrors incident to the production of the permanent wave.
Adora's house stood near the centre of the block, and entrance to it, as was the case with the other dwellings on this pleasant street, was effected by ascending a few steps above the sidewalk. In the hallway the hostess paused long enough to throw aside her leather sport-coat, adjuring Mary to follow her example before she led her upstairs into the drawing-room.
Sit down a minute, Adora invited, as she disappeared up another flight of stairs.
Mary did not sit down. Instead, she seized the occasion to look around, for she had never been in this house before, and her interest in beautiful rooms was enduring. She sometimes wondered from what remote ancestor she had inherited this love of luxury which came to the fore whenever it was given a reasonable opportunity. Ordinarily, however, she succeeded in burying it in her subconsciousness, as she could not afford to indulge her own tastes. However she was not envious of others. ​Indeed, she derived as much pleasure from the appraisal and admiration of beautiful objects in an art gallery as she would have, had they belonged to her.
Most of the furniture in the room was representative of the Louis XVI epoch, Mary, who had passed Jong hours studying period-rooms in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, recognized at once, and it pleased her to be aware that she could distinguish the chairs which had recently been upholstered from those which still preserved their original brocades. The walls were hung in a pale-lavender satin, and adorned, here and there, with pictures, Fragonard or Boucher sketches, or something very like them. On the tea-table a Sèvres service, in turquoise and amethyst paste, was laid out. The carpet was Aubusson. On the mantelpiece, between a clock and two candlesticks, also Sèvres, stood a few photographs framed in silver. One of these in particular caught and held Mary's attention.
This was a photograph of a lady in evening-dress, seated beside two Pekinese spaniels on a Victorian couch. Across the knees of the unknown, trailing carelessly over the arm of the couch, the long fringe sweeping the floor, was spread a Spanish shawl, embroidered in fantastic flowers. The lady was of a surpassing loveliness. Apparently light brown—very like my own colour, Mary decided—certainly much darker than yellow or tan, the features were not Negroid. Rather they suggested a Spanish or a Portuguese origin. The nose was delicate, the ​mouth provocative and sensual. Pear-shaped pearls depended from the lobes of the tiny ears. The black, wavy hair was combed severely back from the forehead, above the ears, and shingled. The lady was dressed in the smartest mode of the moment; moreover, Mary observed at once, she wore her clothes with that manner which is rare with women of any race or colour. During the comparatively short period she had lived in Harlem, Mary had been a constant attendant at the white theatres in New York; she frequently had an opportunity to study white women in restaurants; with a few she even was personally acquainted. The beauties of Harlem were all known to her; she recognized at sight the more celebrated dancers and singers engaged in vaudeville or the coloured revues. She could not, however, at the moment, bring to mind a single figure of either race—she excepted, on reflection, the amazing Mrs. Lorillard—who gave such a vivid impression of magnetism and distinction.
To examine it more closely, Mary lifted the photograph in its massive, engraved, silver frame. What was it, even in this dead, flat counterpart, that gave to the lady the impression of supervitality? Mary did not know. Yet she was aware at once of the abundant sex-appeal in this lithe creature's body, an appeal which had filtered through the lens, been caught on the negative, and finally been stamped perdurably on this sheet of paper. As ​Adora returned, Mary replaced the picture on the mantelpiece.
It's a lovely room, she commented.
Do you like it? I wonder if it suits me? An interior decorator arranged it for me.
It's charming, but I think I'd prefer you in a Spanish setting.
Oh, the dining-room's Spanish. I'll show it to you presently. The furniture is so heavy I have to send for a piano-mover when I want the place cleaned!
I was admiring this photograph.
Pretty, isn't she?
She's more than pretty. She's beautiful. Who is it?
Adora regarded her with astonishment. Why don't you know? It's Lasca Sartoris.
So that's the famous Mrs. Sartoris. Ollie told me that she had come back.
Revived by this identification of the photograph, a host of memories raced through the girl's mind. Lasca Sartoris! Why, she was almost a legend in Harlem, this woman who had married a rich African in Paris and had eventually deserted him to fulfil her amorous destiny with a trap-drummer from a boîte de nuit. But the signs and portents had been with her even here, for her husband had expired of a stroke the night she disappeared, apparently quite ignorant of all knowledge of her peccancy, and when his will, executed several months earlier, had been ​read, it was discovered that she had inherited che bulk of his huge fortune. By the time she had come into this money, she had long since tired of the trap-drummer and had passed on to other interests. It could hardly be said that Harlem, generally speaking, had received the tidings of Lasca's wayward adventures with approval, even with equanimity, but those who knew her apparently liked her, and the rest perhaps, when she returned, so thought one of Mary's informants, would be won over by her money, her beauty, her wit, and her charm. She is certainly unconventional, this woman had told her, but she is also Lasca: to know her is usually to forgive her. Now that she had seen the photograph, Mary believed she could understand.
Yes, she's back. Adora was speaking once more. I forget how short a time you've lived here: it's only a little over two years, isn't it? Good God! . . . Adora's eyes appeared to be literally looking back into the past. . . . I can remember when there wasn't any Harlem, when we used to go to Marshall's on Fifty-third Street for a bite to eat and to listen to Florence. I can still remember that red and green wall-paper. I wish I had some like it now! . . . Adora sighed. . . . Well, they've had cabarets and cabaret entertainers since then, but I don't think any of them have quite come up to Marshall's and Florence! Perhaps it seemed better because I was younger. Baron Wilkins's place was downtown then, too. Poor Baron! I don't sup​pose you've ever heard of Sisseretta Jones, the Black Patti, or Ernest Hogan, or Williams and Walker, or Cole and Johnson. . . .
I've heard of them all, Mary replied, although mostly they came before my time, but I've seen Bert Williams and, of course, Rosamond Johnson. . . .
Well, poor Bob Cole is dead, and Hogan is dead, and George Walker and Bert Williams and Aida Overton. . . . A tear glistened in Adora's eyes. . . . They were all my friends. I've appeared with them all. Those were the days. New York will never see coloured shows like 'em again. Why, these young whippersnappers today don't know anything about the profession . . . except how to dance the Charleston. Some of 'em can't even do that! You should have seen George Walker do the strut!
Well, Adora went on, it was in those days that I met Lasca. She came up from Louisiana. Her father was a country-preacher, one of the Camp-meeting kind. A shoutin' exhorter. You know, hell and brimstone, and the congregation moanin' no end. Amen! . . . Tickled with the recollection of one of these ceremonies, Adora gave vent to a hearty chuckle. . . . I'd just like to be hearing one now. . . . She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. . . . You've never been South, have you, Mary?
No, Mary replied.
Well, Adora continued, Lasca began by teaching ​school in the backwoods down in Louisiana—she was educated at Straight College at New Orleans—and then suddenly an uncle died—an uncle who had inherited property in Kentucky from some buckra relation with a conscience—and he left his land to her. Now Lasca was always musical—she played the harmonium at her father's meetings—and when she got her money she came to New York to study.
You know what usually happens when you've been brought up in a minister's family: when you get the chance you cut loose and go to the devil. Well, Lasca certainly cut loose, but in the old days she never quite went to the devil. She always kept a certain dignity. Often I've seen her cut loose at Marshall's—she was just a kid then—towards three in the morning, do an old-fashioned pigeon-wing or a hoe-down—she'd learned all the Southern country-dances on the old plantations. She was good at the new ones, too, the turkey trot and the bunny hug. And when she got through dancing, she'd sit down to the piano and sing a shout or a lively Spiritual.
How did she get to Paris? Mary inquired.
This fellow Sartoris came over here on some French government mission or other; you see he was an official from one of the French provinces. The first time he set eyes on her he fell and they were married right away. He was an old man when she married him, and I don't believe she ever cared much for him, but Lasca knows what she wants and goes after it, more than most of us do. ​That girl's got a positive genius for going after things.
Hasn't she been back here before? Mary asked. It seems tome. . . .
You're right. She has. Many times, but let me see, I don't believe she's been back in the last two years . . . Adora pondered . . . How long has it been since Bert Williams died?
Mary shook her head and smiled. I can't tell you that, she answered.
Well, that's the last time Lasca was here.
Why does she come back at all?
God knows! Probably she gets bored. If I were Lasca I'd stick to Paris. No colour prejudice there, and what a spot to parade her particular line of material! But here—well, she shocks 'em. Certain people won't even have her in the house. She always raises hell here, without intending to, I guess. She just can't help it. She's just naturally full o' pep and she bounces the papas off their rails . . . Adora scowled . . . She'd better leave mine be. If she don't there'll be some fancy carvin' . . . Adora cut a scar in the air.
You know, Adora went on, Lasca did just what I wanted you to do, but you went back on me. Of course, Rannie's not cultured like Sartoris, but I'll bet he's got ten times the cash. You could do anything in Harlem you wanted to with that bunch of coin.
But I'm not Lasca, Mary protested. I'm afraid ​I wouldn't be much of a success at that sort of thing.
Well, Rannie liked you, Adora said, liked you from the first moment he met you in my house, swore you were just what he was looking for . . . Suddenly, she fixed Mary with a gaze full of suspicion . . . You're not sore on account of anything you've heard about Rannie? she demanded.
No, I'm not sore at all, Mary replied. I just don't happen to love him, that's all.
That's all right: I get you when you talk about love. I couldn't marry either, if I wasn't in love. The trouble is that I have to pay for a lot of my love, like Rannie. You see these boys all know I cleaned up big in the theatre and when I want something, well . . . I guess it's worth it . . . sometimes. I don't know. She sighed. . . . Of course, she continued, Rannie didn't care whether you loved him or not. He wanted a respectable woman for a wife, somebody to give him a decent show-window, so he could go about a little more with the real swells. He thought you were the article. He's dead cut up about it.
I'm sorry, Mary responded. I can't help it. I just couldn't do it.
There, dearie! Adora crossed the floor, bent over and kissed her friend. There, we'll forget it.
The front door was heard to open and close. Presently, footsteps, slow and deliberate, resounded on the stairs; Alcester Parker slunk into the room.
​Hello, 'Dora. Afternoon, Mary. He had a sheepish air.
Where've you been? Adora demanded sternly.
Just down to the pool-parlour, playin' with Irwin.
Well, you've been gone a long time, Adora whined. I looked for you when I went out.
I just been down to the pool-parlour, Al repeated dully.
Well, go on upstairs. I'm talking to Mary now.
With silent alacrity the boy obeyed her.
As he disappeared at the turn of the stairs, Adora burst into tears.
My life's nothing but dust and ashes, she sobbed. They all treat me like that, like dirt. They go and they come and they never think of me, and when a young, pretty flapper comes along . . . I don't deserve it, she cried. I try to get even by treating them like dirt, but it don't work. They listen to me shout, but they don't pay no attention.
They? Mary queried.
Well, he, Adora stammered. I mean Al. No, I don't! No, I don't! she cried. He'll never, leave me! He's different! Al loves me!