# Nigger Heaven (Van Vechten)/Book 1/Chapter 9

Dancing parties, assuredly, were no novelty in Harlem. A night in which there was no opportunity to go to one might be counted as exceptional. There were, first, the modest rent-parties, to which little groups were invited to dance to the music of the phonograph in somebody's small apartment, individual contributions of fifty cents helping to defray the occupant's exorbitant rent. Similar small, informal dances in apartments were often given without expense to the participants, although it cannot be said that the hostess was likely to complain if one of the guests brought in a bottle of gin. Moreover, on any occasion when two or four wanted to dance, and had the money, they might visit a cabaret. Finally, at least once a week and not seldom twice, some society or institution or club arranged a ball in one or another of the larger halls. These naturally varied considerably in importance. The parties given by the theatrical set were small and more or less exclusive. The sporting set, too, interested in prize-fighting and gambling, pretty much flocked by itself. There were other dances, however, at which the intellectuals and the smart, fast set mingled to an extent which never happened at dinners or small social gatherings of any kind.
​The Charity Ball, arranged annually for Christmas week by a group of socially prominent women, was open to any one who paid admission. As the laudable purpose of the committee in charge was to raise money for certain public institutions, and as the music provided was invariably excellent, this assembly drew members from every set; even certain individuals from the Brooklyn group were induced to leave their comfortable early Victorian houses on this occasion. A careful spectator might have noted, however, even though no lines were drawn at the box-office, that persons belonging to one caste seldom danced with persons belonging to another, while social distinctions of a decidedly marked character were observed by several of the boxholders, a number of whom riever appeared on the floor at all.
It was after midnight when Mary and Byron joined the throng, stepping at once on to the waxed floor to sway to the rhythm of Sweet and Low Down, played with ecstatic fervour by Fletcher Henderson's band. During their first round of the hall Mary was kept continuously bowing to acquaintances. It seemed to her that she had never before encountered so many of her friends at one party. In a box, surrounded by a laughing company, sat Adora in a dress of black sequins, a red poppy at her belt. Mrs. Albright occupied another box alone; Hester, for the moment, was not visible. Dr. Lister was dancing with his wife. Sergia Sawyer, as she circled the hall, stared at the ​crowd over Irwin Latrobe's shoulder. What a lot of gossip she would be prepared to disseminate on the morrow! thought Mary. Dick Sill was dancing with an unknown blonde in raspberry velvet, so light in complexion and yet so typically Negroid in her movements that it was impossible to be sure whether she were white or coloured. Carmen Fisher, in cloth of gold embroidered with pearls, clasped her brown arms languidly around the shoulders of Guymon Hooker. Galva Waldeck, in a Velazquez dress of orange taffeta embellished with wide bands of lace, was dancing with Léon Cazique. Mary began to wonder if this were a romance. She caught a glimpse of Sylvia Hawthorne, looking very tired, dancing with her husband. Rumsey Meadows, for once, was not in evidence. She saw Ray and Wren Hurley; she knew they must have motored in from New Jersey, where, fifty miles in the country, he was president of a small college. Montrose Esbon, who lived in Greenwich Village, wove his intricate way skilfully in and out of the dancers, holding Yuma Niland in his arms. Mimi Daquin, the pretty Creole, with her oval, cream-coloured face and her reddish-gold hair set off by her frock of absinthe-green, followed the music with Weston Underwood. . . . And there were hundreds more.
From the centre of the ceiling depended a huge, closed, silver bell which reflected the constantly shifting hues dispatched in broad shafts of light from ​calcium lamps in the corners of the hall. These lights tinged the gold and bronze in the rich brocaded dresses. Silver and copper glittered, satin and velvet shone, under the ministrations of this unnatural illumination. Mary, as always, was fascinated by the variations in colour in the faces of the men, the shoulders of the women: black shoulders, brown shoulders, tan shoulders, ivory shoulders.
As the music stopped—they had been dancing the second and last encore—the hall blazed in a brilliant white light. Mary became aware of the presence of many more acquaintances. She bowed to Mrs. Sumner and Campaspe Lorillard, sitting side by side in a box. She also found herself facing Hester Albright, whom she had not previously encountered, as usual accompanied by Orville Snodes. She introduced the pair to Byron.
What a pretty party! Hester breathed ecstatically. Everybody looks so well!
Mary could not avoid observing that Hester was wearing a gown of black and yellow striped satin, cut princesse, with very long, tight sleeves and a train. On another this robe might have appeared picturesque. Hester merely succeeded in looking more dowdy than usual.
Très, très jolie, Orville echoed in his thin, squeaky voice. What charming music! Charmante!
It makes you dance, Byron commented dryly.
​Of course, the crowd is pretty vulgar. That notorious Sartoris woman is here, right after that dreadful scandal with Sid Hawthorne too.
I didn't know that there was a dreadful scandal, Mary remarked quietly.
Why, Sergia Sawyer . . .
Well, of course . . . Where is Mrs. Sartoris? Mary demanded.
I don't see her now. She is in red, a loud shade of red.
Orange, Orville contradicted, with some daring, Mary thought.
Scarlet, snapped Hester. Bright scarlet. Why there, she exclaimed, is that awful Randolph Pettijohn. In Washington we never have mixed parties like this!
Mary was no longer listening. Instinctively she had turned to look for the Bolito King. As he bowed to her formally she returned his greeting. She wondered who could be the girl by his side. She was very pretty in her golden-brown way, but there was an air about her which suggested that she was not quite at home in this environment. Even her dress, rose crêpe georgette strewn with purple velvet orchids, was a trifle theatrical, and her white stockings and bronze-green shoes were in deplorable taste.
You are a newcomer in our midst? Mary heard Orville demand of Byron.
Yes, was Byron's laconic response.
​Why, there's Adora Boniface! Hester shrilled. You know she's a former stage woman. People like that would never be received in Washington. Society is so mixed here.
How's your mama? Mary inquired, with a swift anxiety to change the subject. I saw her in a box a little while ago.
She's not very well, Hester replied. The weather's so nasty and it affects her rheumatism. Poor mama! She's been quite poorly.
Un peu malade, un petit peu, Orville explained. He rubbed his pale palms together and stared fixedly at Byron.
We just made her come tonight, she goes out so little, Hester continued. Do go and speak to her.
I shall, Mary promised, as she turned away.
Vulgar prig! Byron was in a bad temper.
Well, she can't help it, Mary said, but Orville is a little too much even for me.
Silly nance! Byron growled.
Dear old ruffian, when I dance with you I forget all of them.
Me too!
They're playing the Tin Roof Blues!
And we're dancing it! He clasped her in his arms. This time she buried her head shamelessly in his shoulder, and did not look up.
After the second encore they found themselves standing near Ollie and Howard.
​Some swell affair! Olive cried. How's the young sheik?
How's la sheba? Byron retorted, smiling.
How's your old man or what have you? a new voice broke in.
Mary turned to face the good-humoured countenance of Montrose Esbon.
Hello, Monte! she cried. How did you get way up here?
All God's chillun's got a Ford! he explained.
Where's Yuma?
Sheiks are all after her. . . . He drew a safety razor blade from his waistcoat pocket. . . . They'd better look out. I'm big, bad Bill when I get started. I brought this along for carving. I don't let anybody two-time me!
I see her, said Olive, over there in that box.
My God! With the Garvey nobility, the Duchess of the Bronx and the Countess of Hackensack! If she travels with those dames I'll have to get a Packard! Or else, he turned to Olive, take you on in her place and commit moral turpitude.
Be yourself! Olive laughed.
he quoted.
Look at Russia Cloudcroft, Howard interrupted. She has a brow like a thunderstorm.
The Harlem Hedda Gabler! Montrose described her.
​She's the berries at that, was Olive's comment. Better undam your itches for her, Monte!
I'm too blue for that pink-chaser. She's just unsheiked her husband. He was too blue too. Well, he added, I'm off, as the jim crow flies!
Who was that? Byron inquired.
Montrose Esbon—teaches French in a High School. I keep forgetting that you don't know everybody.
He's an amusing fellow—not much like a teacher.
He doesn't unload his French on the dancing public, said Olive.
What did he mean by calling that girl the Harlem Hedda Gabler?
She's unhappy because she isn't white, Mary explained.
Unhappy! She's positively glum! Olive elaborated. Funny thing about those pink-chasers, the ofays never seem to have any use for them. Hey! Hey! Do that thing! Here's another tune!
Dance it with me, urged Byron.
Boy, I'm your willing victim. She slipped into his arms and they disappeared in the crowd.
Well, Mary, aren't you dancing with me? Howard demanded.
She stood for a moment confused. Somehow it hadn't occurred to her to make allowances for the fact that Byron would occasionally dance with some one besides her. Of course, she might have known ​that he would not dance all the dances with her. Still . . . She accepted Howard's proposal, although without much enthusiasm.
Somehow I don't feel like dancing, she said after they had made one round of the hall. Let's sit down, Howard.
They had stopped near Adora's box and that one, glass in hand, hailed her friend.
Come in, Mary! How are you?
They entered the box.
Guess you know everybody here. Have some tea! Adora passed Howard a silver flask.
Piqua, find another glass!
Mrs. St. Paris imperilled her mauve satin by kneeling to search under a chair.
You can have mine, Howard, Mary said.
And mine too? Howard demanded.
There's plenty, Adora asserted. Don't be mean to yourself!
Save some for me! cried the moon-faced Lutie Panola, pounding her heels on the floor.
You'd better bant, Lutie, suggested Dr. Lister.
Be your age, George! I'll never start banting at a party.
You'll never start then, was Arabia Scribner's comment. You haven't missed a party since you came out!
Came out where? shouted Lutie.
Sh! Adora adjured her.
Why aren't you dancing, Adora? Mary, who had ​slipped into a vacant chair beside Mrs. Boniface, inquired.
Why aren't you? Same reason, I guess. Too much crowd. I need room. It's too hot to navigate around that floor. Have some tea. . . . Adora emptied her own glass.
No, thank you. I'm afraid that would make me hotter.
Adora adjusted her ermine wrap around her shoulders. It's positively cold if you sit still, she complained. There's a draught from that window and I get tired of asking somebody to close it. Did you see Rannie? she whispered to Mary.
Yes, I did.
He's got a nerve coming to a dance like this with that . . .
Who is she? Mary inquired.
She's a tart, Adora replied, a little street-walker named Ruby Silver. He's keeping her. Everybody knows that, but he don't have to trot her out as if she was a prize filly. You bet he won't bring her to my house.
Trot who out? demanded Alcester Parker who had just entered the box.
I'll trot you out, if you can't make yourself behave, Adora announced severely.
On the floor Mary could see Hester hopping about with Orville for all the world as though they were skipping rope. Olive and Byron she could not discover.
​Mary looked behind her. Howard had disappeared. Lutie was singing a song which seemed to have no connection rhythmically or melodically with the music the band was playing. Piqua and Arabia hovered like guardian angels over their affluent friend.
Come on and dance, Mary, Dr. Lister invited.
Not just now, George, thank you. . I have a headache. I think, Adora, I'll speak to one or two more people while I have the chance.
Come back later, urged Adora, as Mary left the box.
She walked down the aisle behind the row of boxes. On the railing of this row a strange, young man was attempting to dance the Charleston. At small tables, groups had gathered to drink and chatter. Their laughter rang high over the music. The band was still playing, but as she searched the floor again, she could see no trace of Byron and Ollie. I'll make him look me up, she said to herself, but she was trembling with agitation.
She extended her hand to Mrs. Sumner, sitting back in her cloak of sable, and then to Mrs. Lorillard, in orchid satin with a band of uncut turquoises around her throat and a cluster of scarlet geraniums at her waist.
I'm delighted to see you again, Miss Love, Campaspe greeted her. I did enjoy that exhibition of African sculpture. I've bought several pieces for myself since.
​Sit down, Mary, please, Mrs. Sumner urged.
Mary sat down. He was nowhere in sight. Hester, hopping, bobbing, Russia Cloudcroft, how many more, had circled the floor twice, but she could not find him.
I suppose this is a novel experience for you, Mrs. Lorillard? She was trying to make herself agreeable.
Not precisely that, Campaspe averred, but a charming one.
You've been to coloured balls before?
No, never! I mean I've been to balls before. They're all more or less alike. The differences are in favour of this one. What beautiful women! What handsome men! What a fascinating kaleidoscope of colour! And what fervour! You know, Emily—she turned to Mrs. Sumner—I like people who live.
I know you do, Mrs. Sumner replied. How is Byron getting on? she asked Mary.
Fine, thank you, Mary responded.
Has he found something to do?
Oh yes, he's got something splendid! . . . The next instant she wondered what had made her utter this falsehood.
I'm delighted to hear it. Aaron had something in mind—something good too—which he thought might suit him, but Byron hasn't been near us.
He's been so busy, Mary heard herself say.
​Isn't that Florence Mills? Mrs. Lorillard inquired.
Yes, Mrs. Sumner replied, adding. She's promised to sing later.
Mary wondered if Mrs. Sumner knew she had been lying. Probably. She had not pursued the subject. She had asked no more questions about Byron. How could she, Mary, retract this impulsive and silly reply? Perhaps this might be Byron's great opportunity. What had made her prevaricate? Pride? False pride, she assured herself bitterly.
Mrs. Sumner and Mrs. Lorillard were conversing. Mary listened listlessly, her heart beating furiously. The floor was more crowded than ever. The dancing, moreover, had become wilder. A few couples were undertaking to do the Charleston together. The heat was overpowering. Collars, flowers, and frocks were wilting. Mary looked at the sad little bouquet of white violets at her waist. Occasionally a rich, mellow laugh rose over the soft moaning of the saxophone. Adora had thrown aside her cloak and was standing, her regal figure, shining with sequins, dominating the hall. Mary continued anxiously to inspect the faces of the dancers. Suddenly, she caught a glimpse of Ollie, and Ollie was dancing with Howard!
Who is that? Mrs. Lorillard demanded. The woman in blue.
​That's Lasca Sartoris, Mary heard Mrs. Sumner reply.
Mary stared ahead of her. There he was, dancing with that exotic Negro sense of rhythm which made time a thing in space. In his arms was the most striking woman Mary had ever seen. A robe of turquoise-blue satin clung to her exquisite body, brought out in relief every curve. The dress was cut so low in front that the little depression between her firm, round breasts was plainly visible. Her golden-brown back was entirely nude to the waist. The dress was circled with wide bands of green and black sequins, designed to resemble the fur of the leopard. A tiara of sapphires sparkled in her hair, and a choker of these stones, around her throat.
What an extraordinary woman! Mrs. Lorillard exclaimed. Like a cocotte of the golden era! I don't think I've ever heard her name before.
She lives in Paris, Mrs. Sumner was explaining. She's only been back a short time.
Mary, through a mist, saw Dick Sill approaching the box.
Won't you dance with me, Mary? he demanded.
It's so warm, she protested. Yes, I will, she contradicted herself at once.
I wish you'd come to see me, Miss Love, Mrs. Lorillard suggested: Perhaps Emily would bring you.
​I'd adore to, Mary murmured, as she went away with Dick.
The heat was killing her. She had no desire to dance, but she put new lightness into her feet, flinging her whole body into the now detestable rhythm. When the music stopped she awarded the orchestra abandoned applause.
I've never known you to dance like this before, Sill assured her. I thought you said you were tired.
I never was less tired in my life.
Suddenly, near them rose a shriek. They turned to see two women, strangers, each pulling at the hair of the other.
I'll teach you to leave my man be! one was screaming.
Two men separated the combatants. The victim of the assault stood in an attitude of defiance, her arms akimbo. I ain't interested in your man, she taunted her assailant. I can't help it if he follows me wherever I go. I can't help it if he writes me notes every day and sends me flowers and candy. I can't help it, can I? I don't want your man, ain't got a bit o' use for him, but he's jes' nacherly bent on pursuin' . . . The music closed over the incident as the waves close over a ship wrecked in the middle of the ocean. The dancing crowd blotted out the spectacle. Gaiety and charm everywhere; gaiety and charm and rhythm.
Primitive! thought Mary, exulting. Savage!
Suddenly, quite by chance, a space cleared on the ​floor and over it she watched Lasca and Byron glide, softly, dangerously, like panthers. In an instant they had disappeared.
Wilder! Wilder! she urged Dick.
What's the matter with you tonight, Mary? he inquired. You're like a flame.
All over the hall they were singing:
When the music stopped Mary and Dick found themselves by the side of Byron and Lasca.
Been looking for you everywhere, Mary, Byron said. This is Mrs. Sartoris, Miss Love and Mr. Sill.
Oh, I know Lasca! Dick exclaimed.
Dick and I are old friends, she remarked, as she clasped his proffered hand.
Mary had not given her hand. She said, So you're the famous Mrs. Sartoris!
Infamous, you mean! Lasca tossed back her head and laughed.
Mary was silent. People shouldn't talk like that, she was thinking.
Lasca's a wonderful sport, Mary, Byron spoke with enthusiasm. Did you see us doing the Charleston together?
No, I didn't, she replied. So he called her Lasca! She recalled that it was not till their third ​meeting that he had called her Mary. She could hear him demanding, Lasca, may I call you Mrs. Sartoris?
Well then, watch us in the next dance, Mrs. Sartoris invited.
Byron looked a trifle astonished, but also Mary could see that he was definitely pleased. She was certain from his expression that he had not asked the woman for the next dance. The perfect poise of this daring creature amazed Mary. Would he refuse?
Yes, she heard him say, watch us, Mary.
How Mary hated her! How she longed for the strength, the primitive impulse that would urge her to spring at Lasca's throat, tear away the collar of sapphires, disfigure that golden-brown countenance with her nails.
What about the one after that, Mary? Byron suggested.
It's taken, Mary retorted defiantly.
Then suppose you give me that one too, Lasca begged with her divine smile. You're really too generous, Miss Love. Byron is the best dancer here.
Even in her present mood, Mary could not fail to appreciate the rich music in the woman's voice, the grace of her carriage as she stood resting her weight on one foot while with the other she carelessly traced an invisible pattern on the floor. She also became aware of the flexible bands of diamonds ​on the woman's arms, the huge cabochon emeralds on her fingers. She tried to subdue her pride, to conquer her absurd feeling of jealousy—it must be absurd, she attempted to assure herself; why, Byron has only just met this woman—to withdraw her refusal, when the music started and he and Lasca were swept away in the maelstrom of dancers.
Some sheba, Lasca! Dick commented. Whew! She'll make a dent in Harlem.
Mary was silent. In vain her eyes sought out the departed pair.
Shall we dance, Mary?
Dick, I've got a headache. Please take me to the dressing-room.
Presently she found herself alone in the room—even the maid in attendance had disappeared for the moment. Staring at her image in the mirror, she was not reassured by what she saw.
I can't do it, she moaned. I ought to kill her, I want to, but I can't. What's wrong with me?
She sank into a chair and gave way to an uncontrollable fit of sobbing.