Beauty stirred…Alex put out his cigarette…closed his eyes…he mustn’t see Beauty yet…speak to him…his lips were too hot…dry…the palms of his hands too cool and moist…thru his half closed eyes he could see Beauty…propped…cheek in hand…on one elbow…looking at him… lips smiling quizzically…he wished Beauty wouldn’t look so hard…Alex was finding it difficult to breathe…breathe normally…why must Beauty look so long…and smile that way…his face seemed nearer…it was…Alex could feel Beauty’s hair on his forehead…breathe normally…breathe normally…could feel Beauty’s breath on his nostrils and lips…and it was clean and faintly colored with tobacco…breathe normally Alex…Beauty’s lips were nearer…Alex closed his eyes…how did one act…his pulse was hammering…from wrists to finger tip…wrist to finger tip…Beauty’s lips touched his…his temples throbbed…throbbed…his pulse hammered from wrist to finger tip…Beauty’s breath came short now…softly staccato… breathe normally Alex…you are asleep…Beauty’s lips touched his…breathe normally…and pressed…pressed hard…cool…his body trembled…breathe normally Alex…Beauty’s lips pressed cool…cool and hard…how much pressure does it take to waken one…Alex sighed… moved softly…how does one act…Beauty’s hair barely touched him now…his breath was faint on…Alex’s nostrils…and lips…Alex stretched and opened his eyes…Beauty was looking at him…propped on one elbow…cheek in his palm…Beauty spoke…scratch my head please Dulce…Alex was breathing normally now…propped against the bed head…Beauty’s head in his lap…Beauty spoke…I wonder why I like to look at some things Dulce…things like smoke and cats…and you… Alex’s pulse no longer hammered from…wrist to finger tip…wrist to finger tip…the rose dusk had become blue night…and soon…soon they would go out into the blue……….. the little church was crowded…warm…the rows of benches were brown and sticky…Harold was there…and Constance and Langston and Bruce and John…there was Mr. Robeson…how are you Paul…a young man was singing…Caver…Caver was a very self assured young man… such a dream…poppies…black poppies…they were applauding… Constance and John were exchanging notes…the benches were sticky…a young lady was playing the piano…fair…and red calla lilies…who had ever heard of red calla lilies…they were applauding…a young man was playing the viola…what could it all mean…so many poppies…and Beauty looking at him like…like Monty looked at Zora…another young man was playing a violin…he was the first real artist to perform…he had a touch of soul…or was it only feeling…they were hard to differentiate on the violin…and Melva standing in the poppies and lilies… Mr..Phillips was singing…Mr. Phillips was billed as a basso…and he had kissed her…they were applauding…the first young man was singing again…Langston’s spiritual…Fy-ah-fy-ah-Lawd…fy-ah’s gonna burn ma soul…Beauty’s hair was so black and curly…they were applauding… encore…Fy-ah Lawd had been a success…Langston bowed…Langston had written the words…Hall bowed…Hall had written the music…the young man was singing it again…Beauty’s lips had pressed hard… cool…cool…fy-ah Lawd…his breath had trembled…fy-ah’s gonna burn ma soul…they were all leaving…first to the roof dance… fy-ah Lawd…there was Catherine…she was beautiful tonight…she always was at night…Beauty’s lips…fy-ah Lawd…hello Dot…why don’t you take a boat that sails…when are you leaving again…and there’s Estelle…every one was there…fy-ah Lawd…Beauty’s body had pressed close…close…fy-ah’s gonna burn my soul…let’s leave…have to meet some people at the New World…then to Augusta’s party…Harold… John…Bruce…Connie…Langston…ready…down one hundred thirty-fifth street…fy-ah…meet these people and leave…fy-ah Lawd…now to Augusta’s party…fy-ah’s gonna burn ma soul…they were at Augusta’s… Alex half lay…half sat on the floor…sipping a cocktail…such a dream… red calla lilies…Alex left…down the narrow streets…fy-ah…up the long noisy stairs…fy-ahs gonna bu’n ma soul…his head felt swollen… expanding…contracting…expanding…contracting…he had never been like this before…expanding…contracting…it was that…fy-ah… fy-ah Lawd…and the cocktails…and Beauty…he felt two cool strong hands on his shoulders…it was Beauty…lie down Dulce…Alex lay down…Beauty…Alex stopped…no no…don’t say it…Beauty mustn’t know…Beauty couldn’t understand…are you going to lie down too Beauty…the light went out expanding…contracting…he felt the bed sink as Beauty lay beside him…his lips were dry…hot…the palms of his hands so moist and cool…Alex partly closed his eyes…from beneath his lashes he could see Beauty’s face overhis…nearer…nearer…Beauty’s hair touched his forehead now…he could feel his breath on his nostrils and lips…Beauty’s breath came short…breathe normally Beauty…breathe normally…Beauty’s lips touched his…pressed
hard…cool…opened slightly…Alex opened his eyes…into Beauty’s… parted his lips…Dulce…Beauty’s breath was hot and short…Alex ran his hand through Beauty’s hair…Beauty’s lips pressed hard against his teeth…Alex trembled…could feel Beauty’s body…close against his…hot… tense…white…and soft…soft…soft………
they were at Forno’s…every one came to Forno’s once maybe only once…but they came…see that big fat woman Beauty…Alex pointed to an overly stout and bejeweled lady making her way thru the maze of chairs…that’s Maria Guerrero…Beauty looked to see a lady guiding almost the whole opera company to an immense table…really Dulce…for one who appreciates beauty you do use the most abominable English…Alex lit a cigarette…and that florid man with white hair…that’s Carl…Beauty smiled…The Blind bow boy…he asked…Alex wondered…everything seemed so…so just the same…here they were laughing and joking about people…there’s Rene…Rene this is my friend Adrian…after that night…and he felt so unembarrassed…Rene and Adrian were talking…there was Lucricia Bori…she was bowing at their table…oh her cousin was with them…and Peggy Joyce…every one came to Forno’s…Alex looked toward the door…there was Melva…Alex beckoned…Melva this is Adrian…Beauty held her hand…they talked… smoked…Alex loved Melva…in Forno’s…every one came there sooner or later…maybe once…but………
up…up…slow…jerk up…up…not fast…not glorious…but slow…up…up into the sun…slow…sure like fate…poise on the brim…the brim of life…two shining rails straight down…Melva’s head was on his shoulder… his arm was around her…poise…the down…gasping…straight down…straight like sin…down…the curving shiny rail rushed up to meet them…hit the bottom then…shoot up…fast…glorious…up into the sun…Melva gasped…Alex’s arm tightened…all goes up…then down…straight like hell…all breath squeezed out of them…Melva’s head on his shoulder…up…up…Alex kissed her…down…they stepped out of the car…walking music…now over to the Ferris Wheel…out and up…Melva’s hand was soft in his…out and up…over mortals…mortals drinking nectar…five cents a glass…her cheek was soft on his…up… up…till the world seemed small…tiny…the ocean seemed tiny and blue…up…up and out…over the sun…the tiny red sun…Alex kissed
her…up…up…their tongues touched…up…seventh heaven…the sea had swallowed the sun…up and out…her breath was perfumed…Alex kissed her…drift down…soft…soft…the sun had left the sky flushed… drift down…soft down…back to earth…visit the mortals sipping nectar at five cents a glass…Melva’s lips brushed his…then out among the mortals… and the sun had left a flush on Melva’s cheeks…they walked hand in hand…and the moon came out…they walked in silence on the silver strip…and the sea sang for them…they walked toward the moon…we’ll hang our hats on the crook of the moon Melva…softly on the silver strip…his hands molded her features and her cheeks were soft and warm to his touch…where is Adrian…Alex…Melva trod silver…Alex trod sand…Alex trod sand…the sea sang for her…Beauty…her hand felt cold in his…Beauty…the sea dinned…Beauty…he led the way to the train…and the train dinned…Beauty…dinned…dinned…her cheek had been soft…Beauty…Beauty…her breath had been perfumed… Beauty…Beauty…the sands h
ad been silver…Beauty…Beauty…they left the train…Melva walked music…Melva said…don’t make me blush again…and kissed him…Alex stood on the steps after she left him and the night was black…down long streets to…Alex lit a cigarette…and his heels clicked…Beauty…Melva…Beauty…Melva…and the smoke made the night blue…
Melva had said…don’t make me blush again…and kissed him… and the street had been blue…one can love two at the same time…Melva had kissed him…one can…and the street had been blue…one can…and the room was clouded with blue smoke…drifting vapors of smoke and thoughts…Beauty’s hair was so black…and soft…blue smoke from an ivory holder…was that why he loved Beauty…one can…or because his body was beautiful…and white and warm…or because his eyes…one can love……..
….To Be Continued…
COUNTEE CULLEN
[1903–1946]
WIDELY CONSIDERED THE PREMIER POET OF THE HARLEM Renaissance, Countee Cullen was the most famous African American literary figure of the late 1920s. Indeed, among black poets up to that point, only Phillis Wheatley in the eighteenth century and Paul Laurence Dunbar, a popular poet at the time of Cullen’s birth, compare in stature.
Although the details surrounding the author’s origins are uncertain, Cullen was adopted by one of Harlem’s leading fundamentalist ministers and his wife sometime before 1918. The puritanism of his adopted father, Frederick (reported to have been an effeminate, latent homosexual himself), may have influenced his son’s lifelong effort to shroud his private life, notably his homosexuality. Even Cullen’s high-profile marriage in 1928 to W. E. B. DuBois’s only daughter, Yolande, did not dispel rumors of the author’s well-known preference for his handsome friend and lover Harold Jackman; nor for that matter did the couple’s hushed divorce just four years later hamper further speculation as to Cullen’s true sexual orientation.
Cullen’s literary success was launched at an early age with the back-to- back publication of three highly popular books of verse: Color (1925), Ballad of the Brown Girl (1927), and Copper Sun (1927). Most of the poems in those collections had been modeled on the English romantic poets and composed while Cullen was a student at New York University and Harvard, where he, unlike most African Americans, had been formally educated in poetry. White and black critics alike proclaimed his brilliance, and there was even talk that Cullen’s appeal might cross over color lines.
When the national economy soured in the 1930s, however, the author’s renown began to wane. The mixed reception of his most ambitious work to date, The Black Christ and Other Poems (1929), was an unexpected blow. Switching genres, he followed up with the publication of his first and only novel, One Way to Heaven (1932), as well as The Medea and Some Poems (1935), a drama set to music by gay composer Virgil Thompson and believed to be the first major translation of a classical work by a black writer. Cullen supplemented his income as a public school instructor, teaching French to young James Baldwin, among other pupils. The author was working on a stage musical at the time of his death from high blood pressure and uremic poisoning at age forty-three.
In spite of his lofty reputation as a poet, Cullen’s One Way to Heaven is a “low-down” satire of the Harlem Renaissance in the manner of Wallace Thurman’s Infants of the Spring. Indeed, both novels were published in 1932 and each pokes fun at the most celebrated personalities of the era, including Langston Hughes and Carl Van Vechten. Unlike Thurman, however, Cullen’s career once held special promise for New Negro advocates, who had looked to his early fame as a hopeful source of racial uplift. With One Way to Heaven, however, black critics charged that he had degraded African Americans. Perhaps tellingly, the novel is dedicated to Harold Jackman.
from One Way to Heaven
[1932]
When Constancia had hit upon the kind and generous impulse of marrying Mattie from her home, she had had no ulterior motive in view, had envisaged no future date when Sam would add to her popularity and prestige by contributing to the success of one of her evenings, even though at the expense of the Duchess of Uganda. But Constancia had been born under a lucky star and belonged to that fortunate group to whom, having much, the heavens with inexplicable and illogical generosity promise more.
That a wedding may be a matter of great momentary importance, yet not magical enough to change the ingrained thoughts and actions of a lifetime in the twinkling of an eye, Mattie was to learn slowly and sorrowfully in her fitful experience with Sam. When he asked her to marry him, he had done so only after what to him was due deliberation, and with the wavering intention that surely he would find work to do the next day or the next week after his marriage. It was, however, fully two months after, and then only due to Constancia’s intervention, that he drew in his long legs from in front of the parlor stove and set out to earn his share of his and Mattie’s living.
Mattie had been too deep in love and too lost in religion to scold, or to show by word or look that she was hurt or disappointed. With her religion had come a fatalism, and she was leaving all to the Lord. Daily Aunt Mandy nagged her for keeping a good-for-nothing man lying around the house and in her way, although daily the old lady took out her cards, read Sam’s fortune, and then became his partner in one of the many card games he had taught her. Daily Mattie was forced to answer in the negative when Constancia asked if Sam had started to work. Finally, Constancia had taken the matter in hand herself, and with Mattie at her side had routed Sam away from the fire one March morning, and had taken him to a job. It was a job with a uniform, much to Aunt Mandy’s joy, and with great prestige and privilege attached, although the nature of it was not entirely to Mattie’s liking. It savored too much of the world, the flesh, and the devil. Constancia had been able to do nothing better than to secure Sam the role of ticket-chopper in one of the small variety and movie houses of the neighborhood. It was work which could be manipulated with one hand, and which at the same time, with the attendant uniform, afforded Sam a real opportunity to show off his fine height and slim, swaggering figure.
It was a gorgeous uniform of smooth bright green material, with square padded shoulders, gold epaulettes, and with black braid fronting the sleeves and surrounding the buttonholes through which large brass buttons shot their fire. Sam felt like a general or drum-major, and thought that working might not be so distasteful as long as he could be attired in such a manner.
The evening on which he first donned his glory happened to be one on which Mattie had been retained at Constancia’s, where a party was being given for Herbert Newell, a young Negro who had just published a novel. As the doors of the theater swung open to liberate its audience from the land of fancy and at the same time to liberate Sam from his toil, he thought it might be a pleasant idea if he passed by Constancia’s in order to wait for Mattie and to walk home with her, and incidentally to let her feast her eyes upon his new-spun raiment. Unfortunately, he liked himself so well in his new finery that he thought it worthy of a stimulant, with the result that by the time he reached Constancia’s home it was only by the bright lights which illumined the house from roof to cellar, and by that second sense which some drunken men seem to acquire, that he was able to locate his destination.
The party was for Herbert Newell, but the evening became that of the duchess and of Sam. Not many people had read Herbert’s novel, although it had been out for several months and had been commented upon in the Negro and white press (denounced by the former as an outrage against Negro sensibilities, and lauded by the latter as being typically Negro), yet almost everyone present came up to the author, shook his hand, and congratulated him. Poor outspoken Lottie Smith naïvely made herself an enemy for life by admitting that she was waiting to borrow Constancia’s copy of the new book. Herbert, a very dark, belligerent young Negro, was brutally frank, and shocked several of the more sentimentally minded guests by informing them that art as such didn’t mean anything to him, and that he had not written his book for the sake of anything so nebulous, but merely to make some money.
/> “Not,” he added, “that I expect to make it from Negroes.”
“I suppose I shall buy it,” sighed Mrs. Vanderbilt-Jones in a tone of deep resignation. “I’ll buy it out of pride of race, although from what
I hear, I shall hardly like it, I fear. I don’t see why our writers don’t write about nice people sometimes.” She gazed grandiloquently around the room to show Herbert the fine material at hand.
“Yes, Herbert,” interposed Constancia, who had just come up at this point. “I understand that the heroine of your book is a prostitute, and that the hero is a stevedore. How can anything good come out of Nazareth, or anything to which we as a race can point to with pride come out of a combination like that? I quite agree with Mrs. Vanderbilt- Jones. You should have written about people like Counselor Spivens, who has just been incarcerated for a year for converting to his own use money awarded one of his clients in an equal-rights case; or like Dr. Strong, whose new limousine is the reward of Heavens knows how many abortions; or you might have woven a highly colorful tale around Mrs. Vanderbilt-Jones’s own niece, Betty, who just…”
“Constancia,” interrupted the old lady as she flounced off, “if I didn’t love you so much I should positively hate you.”
Constancia smiled and laid her hand on Herbert’s arm. “Write whatever you want, Herbert, and don’t give a continental about them. It will take them centuries, anyway, to distinguish between good and bad, and what is nice and what is really smeared over with a coating which they call nice. I just heard poor Mrs. De Peyster Johnson, to whose credit it can at least be said that she has read your book, declare, simply because you are a New Negro and therefore dear to her heart, that your novel was as good as anything that Wells or Bennett had written. And when I added that it was much better than anything written by any of the Russians, she agreed heartily. That’s race pride with a vengeance for you, and self-criticism that isn’t worth a penny.”
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