CANE

thing with myself. Something real and beau-
tiful, I mean. But what's the good of trying?
I've tried to make people, every one I come in
contact with, happy—"

Dan looks at her, directly. Her animalism,
still unconquered by zoo-restrictions and keeper-
taboos, stirs him. Passion tilts upward, bring-
ing with it the elements of an old desire. Muriel's
lips become the flesh-notes of a futile, plaintive
longing. Dan's impulse to direct her is its fresh
life.

"Happy, Muriel? No, not happy. Your aim
is wrong. There is no such thing as happiness.
Life bends joy and pain, beauty and ugliness, in
such a way that no one may isolate them. No
one should want to. Perfect joy, or perfect
pain, with no contrasting element to define them,
would mean a monotony of consciousness, would
mean death. Not happy, Muriel. Say that you
have tried to make them create. Say that you
have used your own capacity for life to cradle
them. To start them upward-flowing. Or if you
cant say that you have, then say that you will.
My talking to you will make you aware of your

[112]

BOX SEAT

power to do so. Say that you will love, that you
will give yourself in love—”

“To you, Dan?”

Dan’s consciousness crudely swerves into his
passions. They flare up in his eyes. They set
up quivers in his abdomen. He is suddenly
over-tense and nervous.

“Muriel—”

The newspaper rustles in the rear room.

“Muriel—”

Dan rises. His arms stretch towards her.
His fingers and his palms, pink in the lamp-
light, are glowing irons. Muriel's chair is close
and stiff about her. The house, the rows of
houses locked about her chair. Dan's fingers
and arms are fire to melt and bars to wrench and
force and pry. Her arms hang loose. Her hands
are hot and moist. Dan takes them. He slips
to his knees before her.

“Dan, you mustnt.”

“Muriel—”

“Dan, really you mustnt. No, Dan. No.”

“Oh, come, Muriel. Must I—”

“Shhh. Dan, please get up. Please. Mrs.
Pribby is right in the next room. She’ll hear

[113]

CANE

you. She may come in. Dont, Dan. She'll see
you—”

“Well then, lets go out.”

“I cant. Let go, Dan. Oh, wont you please
let go.”

Muriel tries to pull her hands away. Dan
tightens his grip. He feels the strength of his
fingers. His muscles are tight and strong. He
stands up. Thrusts out his chest. Muriel
shrinks from him. Dan becomes aware of his
crude absurdity. His lips curl. His passion
chills. He has an obstinate desire to possess
her.

“Muriel, I love you. I want you, whatever
the world of Pribby says. Damn your Pribby.
Who is she to dictate my love? I’ve stood
enough of her. Enough of you. Come here.”

Muriel’s mouth works in and out. Her eyes
flash and waggle. She wrenches her hands
loose and forces them against his breast to keep
him off. Dan grabs her wrists. Wedges in be-
tween her arms. Her face is close to him. It is
hot and blue and moist. Ugly.

“Come here now.”

“Dont, Dan. Oh, dont. What are you
killing?”

[114]

BOX SEAT

"What's weak in both of us and a whole litter
of Pribbys. For once in your life you're going
to face what's real, by God—"

A sharp rap on the newspaper in the rear
room cuts between them. The rap is like cool
thick glass between them. Dan is hot on one
side. Muriel, hot on the other. They straight-
en. Gaze fearfully at one another. Neither
moves. A clock in the rear room, in the rear
room, the rear room, strikes eight. Eight slow,
cool sounds. Bernice. Muriel fastens on her
image. She smooths her dress. She adjusts her
skirt. She becomes prim and cool. Rising, she
skirts Dan as if to keep the glass between them.
Dan, gyrating nervously above the easy swing
of his limbs, follows her to the parlor door.
Muriel retreats before him till she reaches the
landing of the steps that lead upstairs. She
smiles at him. Dan sees his face in the hall
mirror. He runs his fingers through his hair.
Reaches for his hat and coat and puts them on.
He moves towards Muriel. Muriel steps back-
ward up one step. Dan's jaw shoots out. Muriel
jerks her arm in warning of Mrs. Pribby. She
gasps and turns and starts to run. Noise of a

[115]

CANE

chair scraping as Mrs. Pribby rises from it,
ratchets down the hall. Dan stops. He makes
a wry face, wheels round, goes out, and slams
the door.

2

People come in slowly . . . mutter, laughs,
flutter, whishadwash, "I've changed my work-
clothes—" . . . and fill vacant seats of Lincoln
Theater. Muriel, leading Bernice who is a cross
between a washerwoman and a blue-blood lady,
a washer-blue, a washer-lady, wanders down the
right aisle to the lower front box. Muriel has
on an orange dress. Its color would clash with
the crimson box-draperies, its color would con-
tradict the sweet rose smile her face is bathed
in, should she take her coat off. She'll keep it
on. Pale purple shadows rest on the planes of
her cheeks. Deep purple comes from her thick-
shocked hair. Orange of the dress goes well
with these. Muriel presses her coat down from
around her shoulders. Teachers are not sup-
posed to have bobbed hair. She'll keep her hat
on. She takes the first chair, and indicates that

[116]

BOX SEAT

Bernice is to take the one directly behind her. Seated thus, her eyes are level with, and near to, the face of an imaginary man upon the stage. To speak to Berny she must turn. When she does, the audience is square upon her.

People come in slowly . . . “—for my Sunday-go-to-meeting dress. O glory God! O shout Amen!” . . . and fill vacant seats of Lincoln Theater. Each one is a bolt that shoots into a slot, and is locked there. Suppose the Lord should ask, where was Moses when the light went out? Suppose Gabriel should blow his trumpet! The seats are slots. The seats are bolted houses. The mass grows denser. Its weight at first is impalpable upon the box. Then Muriel begins to feel it. She props her arm against the brass box-rail, to ward it off. Silly. These people are friends of hers: a parent of a child she teaches, an old school friend. She smiles at them. They return her courtesy, and she is free to chat with Berny. Berny’s tongue, started, runs on, and on. O washer-blue! O washer-lady!

Muriel: Never see Dan again. He makes me feel queer. Starts things he doesn't finish.

[117]

CANE

Upsets me. I am not upset. I am perfectly calm. I am going to enjoy the show. Good show. I've had some show! This damn tame thing. O Dan. Wont see Dan again. Not alone. Have Mrs. Pribby come in. She was in. Keep Dan out. If I love him, can I keep him out? Well then, I dont love him. Now he's out. Who is that coming in? Blind as a bat. Ding-bat. Looks like Dan. He mustnt see me. Silly. He cant reach me. He wont dare come in here. He'd put his head down like a goring bull and charge me. He'd trample them. He'd gore. He'd rape! Berny! He won't dare come in here.

"Berny, who was that who just came in? I havent my glasses."

"A friend of yours, a good friend so I hear. Mr. Daniel Moore, Lord."

"Oh. He's no friend of mine."

"No? I hear he is."

"Well, he isnt."

Dan is ushered down the aisle. He has to squeeze past the knees of seated people to reach his own seat. He treads on a man's corns. The man grumbles, and shoves him off. He shrivels

[118]

BOX SEAT

close beside a portly Negress whose huge rolls
of flesh meet about the bones of seat-arms. A
soil-soaked fragrance comes from her. Through
the cement floor her strong roots sink down.
They spread under the asphalt streets. Dream-
ing, the streets roll over their bellies, and suck
their glossy health from them. Her strong roots
sink down and spread under the river and dis-
appear in blood-lines that waver south. Her
roots shoot down. Dan's hands follow them.
Roots throb. Dan's heart beats violently. He
places his palms upon the earth to cool them.
Earth throbs. Dan's heart beats violently. He
sees all the people in the house rush to the walls
to listen to the rumble. A new-world Christ is
coming up. Dan comes up. He is startled.
The eyes of the woman dont belong to her. They
look at him unpleasantly. From either aisle,
bolted masses press in. He doesnt fit. The
mass grows agitant. For an instant, Dan's and
Muriel's eyes meet. His weight there slides
the weight on her. She braces an arm against the
brass rail, and turns her head away.

Muriel: Damn fool; dear Dan, what did you
want to follow me here for? Oh, cant you

[119]

CANE

ever do anything right? Must you always pain
me, and make me hate you? I do hate you. I
wish some one would come in with a horse-whip
and lash you out. I wish some one would drag
you up a back alley and brain you with the
whip-butt.

Muriel glances at her wrist-watch.

"Quarter of nine. Berny, what time have
you?"

"Eight-forty. Time to begin. Oh, look
Muriel, that woman with the plume; doesn't she
look good! They say she's going with, oh,
whats his name. You know. Too much powder.
I can see it from here. Here's the orchestra now.
O fine! Jim Clem at the piano!"

The men fill the pit. Instruments run the
scale and tune. The saxophone moans and
throws a fit. Jim Clem, poised over the piano,
is ready to begin. His head nods forward.
Opening crash. The house snaps dark. The
curtain recedes upward from the blush of the
footlights. Jazz overture is over. The first
act is on.

Dan: Old stuff. Muriel—bored. Must be.
But she'll smile and she'll clap. Do what you're

[120]

BOX SEAT

bid, you she-slave. Look at her. Sweet, tame
woman in a brass box seat. Clap, smile, fawn,
clap. Do what you're bid. Drag me in with you.
Dirty me. Prop me in your brass box seat. I'm
there, am I not? because of you. He-slave.
Slave of a woman who is a slave. I'm a
damned sight worse than you are. I sing your
praises, Beauty! I exalt thee, O Muriel! A
slave, thou art greater than all Freedom because
I love thee.

Dan fidgets, and disturbs his neighbors. His
neighbors glare at him. He glares back with-
out seeing them. The man whose corns have
been trod upon speaks to him.

"Keep quiet, cant you, mister. Other people
have paid their money besides yourself to see
the show."

The man's face is a blur about two sullen
liquid things that are his eyes. The eyes dis-
solve in the surrounding vagueness. Dan sud-
denly feels that the man is an enemy whom he
has long been looking for.

Dan bristles. Glares furiously at the man.

"All right. All right then. Look at the show.
I'm not stopping you."

[121]

CANE

"Shhh," from some one in the rear.
Dan turns around.

"Its that man there who started everything.
I didnt say a thing to him until he tried to start
something. What have I got to do with whether
he has paid his money or not? Thats the man-
ager's business. Do I look like the manager?"

"Shhhh. Youre right. Shhhh."

"Dont tell me to shhh. Tell him. That man
there. He started everything. If what he
wanted was to start a fight, why didnt he say
so?"

The man leans forward.

"Better be quiet, sonny. I aint said a thing
about fight, yet."

"Its a good thing you havent."

"Shhhh."

Dan grips himself. Another act is on.
Dwarfs, dressed like prize-fighters, foreheads
bulging like boxing gloves, are led upon the
stage. They are going to fight for the heavy-
weight championship. Gruesome. Dan glances
at Muriel. He imagines that she shudders. His
mind curves back into himself, and picks up
tail-ends of experiences. His eyes are open,

[122]

BOX SEAT

mechanically. The dwarfs pound and bruise
and bleed each other, on his eyeballs.

Dan: Ah, but she was some baby! And not
vulgar either. Funny how some women can do
those things. Muriel dancing like that! Hell.
She rolled and wobbled. Her buttocks rocked.
She pulled up her dress and showed her pink
drawers. Baby! And then she caught my
eyes. Dont know what my eyes had in them.
Yes I do. God, dont I though! Sometimes I
think, Dan Moore, that your eyes could burn
clean . . . burn clean . . . BURN CLEAN! . .

The gong rings. The dwarfs set to. They
spar grotesquely, playfully, until one lands a
stiff blow. This makes the other sore. He com-
mences slugging. A real scrap is on. Time!
The dwarfs go to their corners and are sponged
and fanned off. Gloves bulge from their
wrists. Their wrists are necks for the tight-
faced gloves. The fellow to the right lets his
eyes roam over the audience. He sights Muriel.
He grins.

Dan: Those silly women arguing feminism.
Here's what I should have said to them. "It

[123]

CANE

should be clear to you women, that the propo-
sition must be stated thus:

Me, horizontally above her.

Action: perfect strokes downward oblique.

Hence man dominates because of limitation.

Or, so it shall be until women learn their stuff.

So framed, the proposition is a mental-filler,
Dentist, I want gold teeth. It should become
cherished of the technical intellect. I hereby
offer it to posterity as one of the important
machine-age designs. P. S. It should be noted,
that because it is an achievement of this age, its
growth and hence its causes, up to the point of
maturity, antedate machinery. Ery . . ."

The gong rings. No fooling this time. The
dwarfs set to. They clinch. The referee parts
them. One swings a cruel upper-cut and knocks
the other down. A huge head hits the floor.
Pop! The house roars. The fighter, groggy,
scrambles up. The referee whispers to the con-
tenders not to fight so hard. They ignore him.
They charge. Their heads jab like boxing-
gloves. They kick and spit and bite. They
pound each other furiously. Muriel pounds.

[124]

BOX SEAT

The house pounds. Cut lips. Bloody noses.
The referee asks for the gong. Time! The
house roars. The dwarfs bow, are made to bow.
The house wants more. The dwarfs are led from
the stage.

Dan: Strange I never really noticed him be-
fore. Been sitting there for years. Born a slave.
Slavery not so long ago. He'll die in his chair.
Swing low, sweet chariot. Jesus will come and
roll him down the river Jordan. Oh, come along,
Moses, you'll get lost; stretch out your rod and
come across. LET MY PEOPLE GO! Old
man. Knows everyone who passes the corners.
Saw the first horse-cars. The first Oldsmobile.
And he was born in slavery. I did see his eyes.
Never miss eyes. But they were bloodshot and
watery. It hurt to look at them. It hurts to
look in most people's eyes. He saw Grant and
Lincoln. He saw Walt—old man, did you see
Walt Whitman? Did you see Walt Whitman!
Strange force that drew me to him. And I went
up to see. The woman thought I saw crazy. I
told him to look into the heavens. He did, and
smiled. I asked him if he knew what that rum-
bling is that comes up from the ground. Christ,

[125]

CANE

what a stroke that was. And the jabbering
idiots crowding around. And the crossing-cop
leaving his job to come over and wheel him
away . . .

The house applauds. The house wants more.
The dwarfs are led back. But no encore. Must
give the house something. The attendant comes
out and announces that Mr. Barry, the cham-
pion, will sing one of his own songs, "for your
approval." Mr. Barry grins at Muriel as he
wabbles from the wing. He holds a fresh white
rose, and a small mirror. He wipes blood from
his nose. He signals Jim Clem. The orchestra
starts. A sentimental love song, Mr. Barry
sings, first to one girl, and then another in the
audience. He holds the mirror in such a way
that it flashes in the face of each one he sings to.
The light swings around.

Dan: I am going to reach up and grab the
girders of this building and pull them down
The crash will be a signal. Hid by the smoke
and dust Dan Moore will arise. In his right
hand will be a dynamo. In his left, a god's face
that will flash white light from ebony. I'll grab
a girder and swing it like a walking-stick.

[126]

BOX SEAT

Lightning will flash. I'll grab its black knob and swing it like a crippled cane. Lightning... Some one's flashing... some one's flashing... Who in hell is flashing that mirror? Take it off me, godam you.

Dan's eyes are half blinded. He moves his head. The light follows. He hears the audience laugh. He hears the orchestra. A man with a high-pitched, sentimental voice is singing. Dan sees the dwarf. Along the mirror flash the song comes. Dan ducks his head. The audience roars. The light swings around to Muriel. Dan looks. Muriel is too close. Mr. Barry covers his mirror. He sings to her. She shrinks away. Nausea. She clutches the brass box-rail. She moves to face away. The audience is square upon her. Its eyes smile. Its hands itch to clap. Muriel turns to the dwarf and forces a smile at him. With a showy blare of orchestration, the song comes to its close. Mr. Barry bows. He offers Muriel the rose, first having kissed it. Blood of his battered lips is a vivid stain upon its petals. Mr. Barry offers Muriel the rose. The house applauds. Muriel flinches back. The dwarf steps forward, diffident;

[127]

CANE

threatening. Hate pops from his eyes and
crackles like a brittle heat about the box. The
thick hide of his face is drawn in tortured
wrinkles. Above his eyes, the bulging, tight-
skinned brow. Dan looks at it. It grows calm
and massive. It grows profound. It is a thing
of wisdom and tenderness, of suffering and
beauty. Dan looks down. The eyes are calm
and luminous. Words come from them . . .
Arms of the audience reach out, grab Muriel,
and hold her there. Claps are steel fingers that
manacle her wrists and move them forward to
acceptance. Berny leans forward and whispers:

"Its all right. Go on—take it."

Words form in the eyes of the dwarf:

Do not shrink. Do not be afraid of me.

Jesus

See how my eyes look at you.

the Son of God

I too was made in His image.

was once—

I give you the rose.

Muriel, tight in her revulsion, sees black, and
daintily reaches for the offering. As her hand

[128]

BOX SEAT

touches it, Dan springs up in his seat and
shouts:

"JESUS WAS ONCE A LEPER!"

Dan steps down.

He is as cool as a green stem that has just
shed its flower.

Rows of gaping faces strain towards him.
They are distant, beneath him, impalpable.
Squeezing out, Dan again treads upon the corn-
foot man. The man shoves him.

"Watch where you're going, mister. Crazy or
no, you aint going to walk over me. Watch
where you're going there."

Dan turns, and serenely tweaks the fellow's
nose. The man jumps up. Dan is jammed
against a seat-back. A slight swift anger flicks
him. His fist hooks the other's jaw.

"Now you have started something. Aint no
man living can hit me and get away with it.
Come on on the outside."

The house, tumultuously stirring, grabs its
wraps and follows the men.

The man leads Dan up a black alley. The
alley-air is thick and moist with smells of gar-

[129]

CANE

bage and wet trash. In the morning, singing
niggers will drive by and ring their gongs. . .
Heavy with the scent of rancid flowers and with
the scent of fight. The crowd, pressing forward,
is a hollow roar. Eyes of houses, soft girl-eyes,
glow reticently upon the hubbub and blink out.
The man stops. Takes off his hat and coat.
Dan, having forgotten him, keeps going on.

[130]

PRAYER

My body is opaque to the soul.

Driven of the spirit, long have I sought to temper it
unto the spirit's longing,

But my mind, too, is opaque to the soul.

A closed lid is my soul's flesh-eye.

O Spirits of whom my soul is but a little finger,
Direct it to the lid of its flesh-eye.

I am weak with much giving.

I am weak with the desire to give more.

(How strong a thing is the little finger!)

So weak that I have confused the body with the soul,
And the body with its little finger.

(How frail is the little finger.)

My voice could not carry to you did you dwell in
stars,

O Spirits of whom my soul is but a little finger . .

[131]

HARVEST SONG

I am a reaper whose muscles set at sundown. All
my oats are cradled.

But I am too chilled, and too fatigued to bind them.
And I hunger.

I crack a grain between my teeth. I do not taste it.

I have been in the fields all day. My throat is dry.

I hunger.

My eyes are caked with dust of oatfields at harvest-
time.

I am a blind man who stares across the hills, seeking
stack'd fields of other harvesters.

It would be good to see them . . . crook'd, split, and
iron-ring'd handles of the scythes. It would be
good to see them, dust-caked and blind. I hunger.

(Dusk is a strange fear'd sheath their blades are dull'd
in.)

My throat is dry. And should I call, a cracked grain
like the oats . . . eoho—

I fear to call. What should they hear me, and offer
me their grain, oats, or wheat, or corn? I have
been in the fields all day. I fear I could not taste
it. I fear knowledge of my hunger.

[132]

My ears are caked with dust of oatfields at harvest-
time.

I am a deaf man who strains to hear the calls of other
harvesters whose throats are also dry.

It would be good to hear their songs . . reapers of
the sweet-stalk'd cane, cutters of the corn . .
even though their throats cracked and the
strangeness of their voices deafened me.

I hunger. My throat is dry. Now that the sun has
set and I am chilled, I fear to call. (Eoho, my
brothers!)

I am a reaper. (Eoho!) All my oats are cradled.
But I am too fatigued to bind them. And I hun-
ger. I crack a grain. It has no taste to it.
My throat is dry. . .

O my brothers, I beat my palms, still soft, against the
stubble of my harvesting. (You beat your soft
palms, too.) My pain is sweet. Sweeter than
the oats or wheat or corn. It will not bring me
knowledge of my hunger.

[133]

BONA AND PAUL

1

ON the school gymnasium floor, young men and women are drilling. They are going to be teachers, and go out into the world . . thud, thud . . and give precision to the movements of sick people who all their lives have been drilling. One man is out of step. In step. The teacher glares at him. A girl in bloomers, seated on a mat in the corner because she has told the director that she is sick, sees that the footfalls of the men are rhythmical and syncopated. The dance of his blue-trousered limbs thrills her.

Bona: He is a candle that dances in a grove
swung with pale balloons.

Columns of the drillers thud towards her. He
is in the front row. He is in no row at all. Bona
can look close at him. His red-brown face—

Bona: He is a harvest moon. He is an
autumn leaf. He is a nigger. Bona! But dont
all the dorm girls say so? And dont you, when

[134]

BONA AND PAUL

you are sane, say so? Thats why I love— Oh,
nonsense. You have never loved a man who
didnt first love you. Besides—

Columns thud away from her. Come to a halt
in line formation. Rigid. The period bell rings,
and the teacher dismisses them.

A group collects around Paul. They are
choosing sides for basket-ball. Girls against
boys. Paul has his. He is limbering up be-
neath the basket. Bona runs to the girl captain
and asks to be chosen. The girls fuss. The
director comes to quiet them. He hears what
Bona wants.

“But, Miss Hale, you were excused—”

“So I was, Mr. Boynton, but—”

“—you can play basket-ball, but you are too
sick to drill.”

“If you wish to put it that way.”

She swings away from him to the girl captain.

“Helen, I want to play, and you must let me.
This is the first time I’ve asked and I dont see
why—”

“Thats just it, Bona. We have our team.”

“Well, team or no team, I want to play and
thats all there is to it.”

[135]

CANE

She snatches the ball from Helen's hands, and charges down the floor.

Helen shrugs. One of the weaker girls says that she'll drop out. Helen accepts this. The team is formed. The whistle blows. The game starts. Bona, in center, is jumping against Paul. He plays with her. Out-jumps her, makes a quick pass, gets a quick return, and shoots a goal from the middle of the floor. Bona burns crims-on. She fights, and tries to guard him. One of her team-mates advises her not to play so hard. Paul shoots his second goal.

Bona begins to feel a little dizzy and all in. She drives on. Almost hugs Paul to guard him. Near the basket, he attempts to shoot, and Bona lunges into his body and tries to beat his arms. His elbow, going up, gives her a sharp crack on the jaw. She whirls. He catches her. Her body stiffens. Then becomes strangely vibrant, and bursts to a swift life within her anger. He is about to give way before her hatred when a new passion flares at him and makes his stomach fall. Bona squeezes him. He suddenly feels stifled, and wonders why in hell the ring of silly gaping faces that's caked about him doesn't make way

[136]

BONA AND PAUL

and give him air. He has a swift illusion that it
is himself who has been struck. He looks at
Bona. Whir. Whir. They seem to be human
distortions spinning tensely in a fog. Spin-
ning . . dizzy . . spinning. . . Bona jerks
herself free, flushes a startling crimson, breaks
through the bewildered teams, and rushes from
the hall.

2

Paul is in his room of two windows.

Outside, the South-Side L track cuts them in
two.

Bona is one window. One window, Paul.

Hurtling Loop-jammed L trains throw them
in swift shadow.

Paul goes to his. Gray slanting roofs of
houses are tinted lavender in the setting sun.
Paul follows the sun, over the stock-yards where
a fresh stench is just arising, across wheat lands
that are still waving above their stubble, into
the sun. Paul follows the sun to a pine-matted
hillock in Georgia. He sees the slanting roofs
of gray unpainted cabins tinted lavender. A

[137]

CANE

Negress chants a lullaby beneath the mate-eyes
of a southern planter. Her breasts are ample
for the suckling of a song. She weans it, and
sends it, curiously weaving, among lush melo-
dies of cane and corn. Paul follows the sun into
himself in Chicago.

He is at Bona's window.

With his own glow he looks through a dark
pane.

Paul's room-mate comes in.

"Say, Paul, I've got a date for you. Come on
Shake a leg, will you?"

His blonde hair is combed slick. His vest
is snug about him.

He is like the electric light which he snaps on.

"Whatdoysay, Paul? Get a wiggle on. Come
on. We havent got much time by the time we eat
and dress and everything."

His bustling concentrates on the brushing of
his hair.

Art: What in hell's getting into Paul of late,
anyway? Christ, but he's getting moony. Its
his blood. Dark blood: moony. Doesnt get

[138]

BONA AND PAUL

anywhere unless you boost it. You've got to
keep it going—

“Say, Paul!”

—or it'll go to sleep on you. Dark blood;
nigger? Thats what those jealous she-hens say.
Not Bona though, or she . . from the South . .
wouldnt want me to fix a date for him and her.
Hell of a thing, that Paul's dark: you've got to
always be answering questions.

“Say, Paul, for Christ's sake leave that window, cant you?”

“Whats it, Art?”

“Hell, I’ve told you about fifty times. Got a
date for you. Come on.”

“With who?”

Art: He didn't use to ask; now he does. Getting up in the air. Getting funny.

“Here's your hat. Want a smoke? Paul!
Here. I've got a match. Now come on and I'll
tell you all about it on the way to supper.”

Paul: He's going to Life this time. No doubt
of that. Quit your kiddinging. Some day, dear Art,
I'm going to kick the living slats out of you, and
you wont know what I've done it for. And your
slats will bring forth Life . . beautiful
woman. . .

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CANE

Pure Food Restaurant.

"Bring me some soup with a lot of crackers,
understand? And then a roast-beef dinner.
Same for you, eh, Paul? Now as I was saying,
you've got a swell chance with her. And she's
game. Best proof: she dont give a damn what
the dorm girls say about you and her in the gym,
or about the funny looks that Boynton gives her,
or about what they say about, well, hell, you
know, Paul. And say, Paul, she's a sweetheart.
Tall, not puffy and pretty, more serious and
deep—the kind you like these days. And they
say she's got a car. And say, she's on fire. But
you know all about that. She got Helen to fix it
up with me. The four of us—remember the last
party? Crimson Gardens! Boy!"

Paul's eyes take on a light that Art can settle
in.

3

Art has on his patent-leather pumps and fancy
vest. A loose fall coat is swung across his arm.
His face has been massaged, and over a close
shave, powdered. It is a healthy pink the blue

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BONA AND PAUL

of evening tints a purple pallor. Art is happy
and confident in the good looks that his mirror
gave him. Bubbling over with a joy he must
spend now if the night is to contain it all. His
bubbles, too, are curiously tinted purple as Paul
watches them. Paul, contrary to what he had
thought he would be like, is cool like the dusk,
and like the dusk, detached. His dark face is
a floating shade in evening's shadow. He sees
Art, curiously. Art is a purple fluid, carbon-
charged, that effervesces besides him. He loves
Art. But is it not queer, this pale purple fac-
simile of a red-blooded Norwegian friend of his?
Perhaps for some reason, white skins are not
supposed to live at night. Surely, enough nights
would transform them fantastically, or kill them.
And their red passion? Night paled that too,
and made it moony. Moony. Thats what Art
thought of him. Bona didnt, even in the day-
time. Bona, would she be pale? Impossible.
Not that red glow. But the conviction did not
set his emotion flowing.

"Come right in, wont you? The young ladies
will be right down. Oh, Mr. Carlstrom, do play
something for us while you are waiting. We just

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CANE

love to listen to your music. You play so well."

Houses, and dorm sitting-rooms are places
where white faces seclude themselves at night.
There is a reason...

Art sat on the piano and simply tore it down.
Jazz. The picture of Our Poets hung perilously.

Paul: I've got to get the kid to play that stuff
for me in the daytime. Might be different.
More himself. More nigger. Different? There
is. Curious, though.

The girls come in. Art stops playing, and
almost immediately takes up a petty quarrel,
where he had last left it, with Helen.

Bona, black-hair curled staccato, sharply con-
trasting with Helen's puffy yellow, holds Paul's
hand. She squeezes it. Her own emotion sup-
plements the return pressure. And then, for no
tangible reason, her spirits drop. Without them,
she is nervous, and slightly afraid. She resents
this. Paul's eyes are critical. She resents Paul.
She flares at him. She flares to poise and
security.

"Shall we be on our way?"

"Yes, Bona, certainly."

The Boulevard is sleek in asphalt, and, with

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BONA AND PAUL

arc-lights and limousines, aglow. Dry leaves
camper behind the whir of cars. The scent of
exploded gasoline that mingles with them is
faintly sweet. Mellow stone mansions over-
shadow clapboard homes which now resemble
Negro shanties in some southern alley. Bona
and Paul, and Art and Helen, move along an
island-like, far-stretching strip of leaf-soft
ground. Above them, worlds of shadow-planes
and solids, silently moving. As if on one of
these, Paul looks down on Bona. No doubt of
it: her face is pale. She is talking. Her words
have no feel to them. One sees them. They are
pink petals that fall upon velvet cloth. Bona is
soft, and pale, and beautiful.

"Paul, tell me something about yourself—or
would you rather wait?"

"I'll tell you anything you'd like to know."

"Not what I want to know, Paul; what you
want to tell me."

"You have the beauty of a gem fathoms un-
der sea."

"I feel that, but I dont want to be. I want to
be near you. Perhaps I will be if I tell you
something. Paul, I love you."

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CANE

The sea casts up its jewel into his hands, and
burns them furiously. To tuck her arm under
his and hold her hand will ease the burn.

"What can I say to you, brave dear woman—
I cant talk love. Love is a dry grain in my
mouth unless it is wet with kisses."

"You would dare? right here on the Boule-
vard? before Arthur and Helen?"

"Before myself? I dare."

"Here then."

Bona, in the slim shadow of a tree trunk, pulls
Paul to her. Suddenly she stiffens. Stops.

"But you have not said you love me."

"I cant—yet—Bona."

"Ach, you never will. Youre cold. Cold."

Bona: Colored; cold. Wrong somewhere.

She hurries and catches up with Art and
Helen.

4

Crimson Gardens. Hurrah! So one feels.
People . . . University of Chicago students,
members of the stock exchange, a large Negro in
crimson uniform who guards the door . . had

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BONA AND PAUL

watched them enter. Had leaned towards each
other over ash-smeared tablecloths and high-
balls and whispered: What is he, a Spaniard, an
Indian, an Italian, a Mexican, a Hindu, or a
Japanese? Art had at first fidgeted under their
stares . . what are you looking at, you godam
pack of owl-eyed hyenas? . . but soon settled
into his fuss with Helen, and forgot them. A
strange thing happened to Paul. Suddenly he
knew that he was apart from the people around
him. Apart from the pain which they had un-
consciously caused. Suddenly he knew that
people saw, not attractiveness in his dark skin,
but difference. Their stares, giving him to him-
self, filled something long empty within him,
and were like green blades sprouting in his con-
sciousness. There was fullness, and strength
and peace about it all. He saw himself, cloudy,
but real. He saw the faces of the people at the
tables round him. White lights, or as now, the
pink lights of the Crimson Gardens gave a glow
and immediately to white faces. The pleasure of
it, equal to that of love or dream, of seeing this.
Art and Bona and Helen? He'd look. They
were wonderfully flushed and beautiful. Not

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CANE

for himself; because they were. Distantly.
Who were they, anyway? God, if he knew them.
He'd come in with them. Of that he was sure.
Come where? Into life? Yes. No. Into the
Crimson Gardens. A part of life. A carbon
bubble. Would it look purple if he went out
into the night and looked at it? His sudden
starting to rise almost upset the table.

"What in hell—pardon—whats the matter, Paul?"

"I forgot my cigarettes—"

"Youre smoking one."

"So I am. Pardon me."

The waiter straightens them out. Takes their order.

Art: What in hell's eating Paul? Moony aint the word for it. From bad to worse. And those godam people staring so. Paul's a queer fish. Doesnt seem to mind. . . He's my pal, let me tell you, you horn-rimmed owl-eyed hyena at that table, and a lot better than you whoever you are. . . Queer about him. I could stick up for him if he'd only come out, one way or the other, and tell a feller. Besides, a room-mate has a right to know. . Thinks I wont under-

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BONA AND PAUL

stand. Said so. He's got a swell head when it
comes to brains, all right. God, he's a good
straight feller, though. Only, moony. Nut.
Nuttish. Nuttery. Nutmeg. . . "What'd you
say, Helen?"

"I was talking to Bona, thank you."

"Well, it's nothing to get spiffy about."

"What? Oh, of course not. Please lets dont
start some silly argument all over again."

"Well."

"Well."

"Now that's enough. Say, waiter, what's the
matter with our order? Make it snappy, will
you?"

Crimson Gardens. Hurrah! So one feels.
The drinks come. Four highballs. Art passes
cigarettes. A girl dressed like a bare-back rider
in flaming pink, makes her way through tables
to the dance floor. All lights are dimmed till
they seem a lush afterglow of crimson. Spot-
lights the girl. She sings. "Liza, Little Liza
Jane."

Paul is rosy before his window.

He moves, slightly, towards Bona.

With his own glow, he seeks to penetrate a
dark pane.

[147]

CANE

Paul: From the South. What does that mean, precisely, except that you'll love or hate a nigger? Thats a lot. What does it mean except that in Chicago you'll have the courage to neither love or hate. A priori. But it would seem that you have. Queer words, arent these, for a man who wears blue pants on a gym floor in the daytime. Well, never matter. You matter. I'd like to know you whom I look at. Know, not love. Not that knowing is a greater pleasure; but that I have just found the joy of it. You came just a month too late. Even this afternoon I dreamed. To-night, along the Boulevard, you found me cold. Paul Johnson, cold! Thats a good one, eh, Art, you fine old stupid fellow, you! But I feel good! The color and the music and the song. . . A Negress chants a lullaby beneath the mate-eyes of a southern planter. O song! . . And those flushed faces. Eager brilliant eyes. Hard to imagine them as unawakened. Your own. Oh, they're awake all right. "And you know it too, dont you Bona?"

"What, Paul?"

"The truth of what I was thinking."

[148]

BONA AND PAUL

"I'd like to know I know—something of you."

"You will—before the evening's over. I promise it."

Crimson Gardens. Hurrah! So one feels. The bare-back rider balances agilely on the apphause which is the tail of her song. Orchestral instruments warm up for jazz. The flute is a cat that ripples its fur against the deep-purring saxophone. The drum throws sticks. The cat jumps on the piano keyboard. Hi diddle, hi diddle, the cat and the fiddle. Crimson Gardens . . . hurrah! . . . jumps over the moon. Crimson Gardens! Helen . . . O Eliza . . . rabbit-eyes sparkling, plays up to, and tries to placate what she considers to be Paul's contempt. She always does that . . . Little Liza Jane. . . Once home, she burns with the thought of what she's done. She says all manner of snidy things about him, and swears that she'll never go out again when he is along. She tries to get Art to break with him, saying, that if Paul, whom the whole dormitory calls a nigger, is more to him than she is, well, she's through. She does not break with Art. She goes out as often as she can with Art and Paul. She explains this to herself

[149]

CANE

by a piece of information which a friend of hers
had given her: men like him (Paul) can fasci-
nate. One is not responsible for fascination.
Not one girl had really loved Paul; he fascinated
them. Bona didn't; only thought she did. Time
would tell. And of course, she didn't. Liza...
She plays up to, and tries to placate, Paul.

"Paul is so deep these days, and I'm so glad
he's found some one to interest him."

"I don't believe I do."

The thought escapes from Bona just a moment
before her anger at having said it.

Bona: You little puffy cat, I do. I do!

Dont I, Paul? her eyes ask.

Her answer is a crash of jazz from the palm-
hidden orchestra. Crimson Gardens is a body
whose blood flows to a clot upon the dance floor.
Art and Helen clot. Soon, Bona and Paul.
Paul finds her a little stiff, and his mind, wan-
dering to Helen (silly little kid who wants every
highball spoon her hands touch, for a souve-
nir), supple, perfect little dancer, wishes for the
next dance when he and Art will exchange.

Bona knows that she must win him to herself.

"Since when have men like you grown cold?"

[150]

BONA AND PAUL

"The first philosopher."

"I thought you were a poet—or a gym di-
rector."

"Hence, your failure to make love."

Bona's eyes flare. Water. Grow red about the rims. She would like to tear away from him and dash across the clotted floor.

"What do you mean?"

"Mental concepts rule you. If they were flush with mine—good. I don't believe they are."

"How do you know, Mr. Philosopher?"

"Mostly a priori."

"You talk well for a gym director."

"And you—"

"I hate you. Ou!"

She presses away. Paul, conscious of the convention in it, pulls her to him. Her body close. Her head still strains away. He nearly crushes her. She tries to pinch him. Then sees people staring, and lets her arms fall. Their eyes meet. Both, contemptuous. The dance takes blood from their minds and packs it, tinging, in the torsos of their swaying bodies. Passionate blood leaps back into their eyes. They are a dizzy blood clot on a gyrating floor.

[151]

CANE

They know that the pink-faced people have no
part in what they feel. Their instinct leads
them away from Art and Helen, and towards the
big uniformed black man who opens and closes
the gilded exit door. The cloak-room girl is
tolerant of their impatience over such trivial
things as wraps. And slightly superior. As the
black man swings the door for them, his eyes
are knowing. Too many couples have passed
out, flushed and fidgety, for him not to know.
The chill air is a shock to Paul. A strange thing
happens. He sees the Gardens purple, as if he
were way off. And a spot is in the purple. The
spot comes furiously towards him. Face of the
black man. It leers. It smiles sweetly like a
child's. Paul leaves Bona and darts back so
quickly that he doesn't give the door-man a
chance to open. He swings in. Stops. Before
the huge bulk of the Negro.

"Youre wrong."

"Yassur."

"Brother, you're wrong."

"I came back to tell you, to shake your hand,
and tell you that you are wrong. That some-
thing beautiful is going to happen. That the

[152]