The Ways of White Folks

by Langston Hughes

  Arnie realized how they felt, but he didn’t know what to do about it. He kept himself quiet and inconspicuous, and studied hard. He was very grateful, and very lonely. There were no other colored children in the town. But all the grown-up white people made their children be very nice to him, always very nice. “Poor little black boy,” they said. “An orphan, and colored. And the Pembertons are so good to him. You be nice to him, too, do you hear? Share your lunch with him. And don’t fight him. Or hurt his feelings. He’s only a poor little Negro who has no parents.” So even the children were over-kind to Arnie.

  Everything might have been all right forever had not Arnie begun to grow up. The other children began to grow up, too. Adolescence. The boys had girls. They played kissing games, and learned to dance. There were parties to which Arnie was not invited—really couldn’t be invited—with the girls and all. And after generations of peace the village of Mapleton, and the Pembertons, found themselves beset with a Negro problem. Everyone was a little baffled and a little ashamed.

  To tell the truth, everybody had got so used to Arnie that nobody really thought of him as a Negro—until he put on long trousers and went to high-school. Now they noticed that he was truly very black. And his voice suddenly became deep and mannish, even before the white boys in Arnie’s class talked in the cracks and squeaks of coming manhood.

  Then there had arisen that problem of the Boy Scouts. When Arnie was sixteen the Pembertons applied for him to be admitted to a Summer camp for the Scouts at Barrow Beach, and the camp had refused. In a personal letter to Mr. Pemberton, they said they simply could not admit Negroes. Too many parents would object. So several of Arnie’s friends and classmates went off to camp in June, and Arnie could not go. The village of Mapleton and the Pembertons felt awfully apologetic for American democracy’s attitude to Arnie, whose father had died in the War. But, after all, they couldn’t control the Boy Scout Camp. It was a semi-private institution. They were extra nice to Arnie, though—everybody.

  That Summer, the Pembertons bought him a bicycle. And toward the end of the Summer (because they thought it was dull for him at the bungalow) they sent him to a Negro charity camp near Boston. It would be nice for him to come to know some of his own people. But Arnie hated it. He stayed a week and came home. The charity camp was full of black kids from the slums of Boston who cussed and fought and made fun of him because he didn’t know how to play the dozens. So Arnie, to whom Negroes were a new nation, even if he was black, was amazed and bewildered, and came home. The Pembertons were embarrassed to find him alone in his attic room in the big empty house when they and the servants returned from the beach.

  But they wanted so to be nice to him. They asked him if he’d met any friends he’d like to ask down for a week-end. They thought they would give him the whole top floor of the garage that year for a little apartment of his own and he could have his colored friends there. But Arnie hadn’t met anyone he wanted to have. He had no colored friends.

  The Pembertons knew that he couldn’t move in the social world of Mapleton much longer. He was too big. But, really, what could they do? Grace Pemberton prayed. Emily talked it over with the mission board at church, and Mr. Pemberton spoke to the Urban League in Boston. Why not send him to Hampton now?

  Arnie had only one more year in the high-school. Then, of course, he would go to college. But to one of the nicer Negro colleges like Fisk, they decided, where those dear Jubilee singers sang so beautifully, and where he would be with his own people, and wouldn’t be embarrassed. No, Fisk wasn’t as good as Harvard, they knew, but then Arnie had to find his own world after all. They’d have to let him go, poor black fellow! Certainly, he was their very own! But in Mapleton, what could he do, how could he live, whom could he marry? The Pembertons were a bit worried, even, about this one more year. So they decided to be extra nice to him. Indeed, everybody in Mapleton decided to be extra nice to him.

  The two rooms over the garage made a fine apartment for a growing boy. His pennants and books and skis were there. Sometimes the white boys came in the evenings and played checkers and smoked forbidden cigarettes. Sometimes they walked out and met the girls at the soda-fountain in Dr. Jourdain’s drug-store, and Arnie had a soda with the group. But he always came away alone, while the others went off in pairs. When the Christmas parties were being given, many of the girls were lovely in dresses that looked almost like real evening gowns, but Arnie wasn’t invited anywhere but to the Allens’. (And they really didn’t count in Mapleton—they were very poor white folks.)

  The Pembertons were awfully sorry, of course. They were one of New England’s oldest families, and they were raising Arnie as their son. But he was an African, a nice Christian African, and he ought to move among his own people. There he could be a good influence and have a place. The Pembertons couldn’t help it that there were no Negroes in Mapleton. Once there had been some, but now they had all moved away. It was more fashionable to have white help. And even as a servant in Mapleton, Arnie would have been a little out of place. But he was smart in school, and a good clean boy. He sang well. (All Negroes were musical.) He skated and swam and played ball. He loved and obeyed the Pembertons. They wanted him to find his place in the world, poor fine little black fellow. Poor dear Arnie.

  So it was decided that he would go to Fisk next year. When Arnie agreed, the Pembertons breathed a sort of sigh of joy. They thought he might remember the camp at Boston, and not want to go to a Negro college.

  III

  And now the Summer presented itself, the last Summer before they let Arnie go away—the boy whom they’d raised as their own. They didn’t want that last Summer spoiled for him. Or for them. They wanted no such incidents as the Boy Scout business. The Pembertons were kind people. They wanted Arnie to remember with pleasure his life with them.

  Maybe it would be nice to take him to Europe. They themselves had not been abroad for a long time. Arnie could see Paris and his father’s grave and the Tower of London. The Pembertons would enjoy the trip, too. And on their return, Arnie could go directly to Fisk, where his life at college, and in the grown-up world, would begin. Maybe he’d marry one of those lovely brown girls who sang spirituals so beautifully, and live a good Christian man—occasionally visiting the Pembertons, and telling them about his influence on the poor black people of the South.

  Graduation came. Arnie took high honors in the class, and spoke on the program. He went to the senior prom, but he didn’t dance with any of the girls. He just sort of stood around the punch-bowl, and joked with the fellows. So nobody was embarrassed, and everyone was glad to see him there. The one dark spot in a world of whiteness. It was too bad he didn’t have a partner to stand with him when they sang the Alma Mater after the final dance. But he was a lucky chap to be going to Europe. Not many youngsters from Mapleton had been. The Pembertons were doing well by him, everybody said aloud, and the church board had got him into Fisk.

  But with all their careful planning, things weren’t going so well about the European trip. When the steamship company saw the passports, they cancelled the cabin that had been engaged for Arnie. Servants always went second class, they wrote. That Arnie wasn’t a servant, it was revealed ultimately, made no difference. He was a Negro, wasn’t he?

  So it ended with the Pembertons going first, and Arnie second class on the same boat. They would have all gone second, out of sympathy for Arnie, except that accommodations in that class had been completely booked for months ahead. Only as a great favor to first-class passengers had the steamship company managed to find a place for Arnie at all. The Pembertons and their boy had a cross to bear, but they bore it like Christians. At Cherbourg they met the little black fellow again on an equal footing. The evening found them in Paris.

  Paris, loveliest of cities, where at dusk the lights are a great necklace among the trees of the Champs Elysées. Paris, song-city of the world. Paris, with the lips of a lovely woman kissing without fear. June, in Paris.

  The Pembertons stop
ped at one of the best hotels. They had a suite which included a room for Arnie. Everything was very nice. The Louvre and the Eiffel Tower and the Café de la Paix were very nice. All with Arnie. Very nice. Everything would have gone on perfectly, surely; and there would have been no story, and Arnie and the Pembertons would have continued in Christian love forever—Arnie at Fisk, of course, and the Pembertons at Mapleton, then Arnie married and the Pembertons growing old, and so on and on—had not Claudina Lawrence moved into the very hotel where the Pembertons were staying. Claudina Lawrence! My God!

  True, they had all seen dark faces on the boulevards, and a Negro quartet at the Olympia, but only very good Americans and very high English people were staying at this hotel with the Pembertons. Then Claudina Lawrence moved in—the Claudina who had come from Atlanta, Georgia, to startle the Old World with the new beauty of brown flesh behind footlights. That Claudina who sang divinely and danced like a dryad and had amassed a terrible amount of fame and money in five years. Even the Pembertons had heard of Claudina Lawrence in the quiet and sedate village of Mapleton. Even Arnie had heard of her. And Arnie had been a little bit proud. She was a Negro.

  But why did she have to move next door to the Pembertons in this hotel? “Why, Lord, oh, why?” said Grace Pemberton. “For the sake of Arnie, why?” But here the tale begins.

  IV

  A lot of young Negroes, men and women, shiny and well-dressed, with good and sophisticated manners, came at all hours to see Claudina. Arnie and the Pembertons would meet them in the hall. They were a little too well dressed to suit the Pembertons. They came with white people among them, too—very pretty French girls. And they were terribly lively and gay and didn’t seem dependent on anybody. Their music floated out of the windows on the Summer night. The Pembertons hoped they wouldn’t get hold of Arnie. They would be a bad influence.

  But they did get hold of Arnie.

  One morning, as he came out to descend to the lobby to buy post-cards, Claudina herself stepped into the hall at the same time. They met at the elevator. She was the loveliest creature Arnie had ever seen. In pink, all tan and glowing. And she was colored.

  “Hello,” she said to the young black boy who looked old enough to be less shy. “You look like a home-towner.”

  “I’m from Mapleton,” Arnie stuttered.

  “You sound like you’re from London,” said Claudina, noting his New England accent and confusing it with Mayfair. “But your face says Alabama.”

  “Oh, I’m colored all right,” said Arnie, happy to be recognized by one of his own. “And I’m glad to know you.”

  “Having a good time?” asked Claudina, as the elevator came.

  “No,” Arnie said, suddenly truthful. “I don’t know anybody.”

  “Jesus!” said Claudina, sincerely. “That’s a shame. A lot of boys and girls are always gathering in my place. Knock on the door some time. I can’t see one of my down-home boys getting the blues in Paris. Some of the fellows in my band’ll take you around a bit, maybe. They know all the holes and corners. Come in later.”

  “Thanks awfully,” said Arnie.

  Claudina left him half-dazed in the lobby. He saw her get into her car at the curb, saw the chauffeur tip his hat, and then drive away. For the first time in his life Arnie was really happy. Somebody had offered him something without charity, without condescension, without prayer, without distance, and without being nice.

  All the pictures in the Luxembourg blurred before his eyes that afternoon, and Miss Emily’s explanations went in one ear and out the other. He was thinking about Claudina and the friends he might meet in her rooms, the gay and well-dressed Negroes he had seen in the hall, the Paris they could show him, the girls they would be sure to know.

  That night he went to see Claudina. He told the Pembertons he didn’t care about going to the Odéon, so they went without him, a little reluctantly—because they didn’t care about going either, really. They had been sticking rather strenuously to their program of cultural Paris. They were tired. Still, the Pembertons went to the Odéon—it was a play they really should see—and Arnie went next door to Claudina’s. But only after he was sure the Pembertons were sitting in the theatre.

  Claudina was playing whist. A young Englishman was her partner. Two sleek young colored men were their opponents. “Sit down, honey,” Claudina said as if he had known Arnie for years. “You can take a hand in a minute, if you’d like to play. Meet Mr. So and so and so.…” She introduced him to the group. “It’s kinda early yet. Most of our gang are at work. The theatres aren’t out.… Marie, bring him a drink.” And the French maid poured a cocktail.

  A knock, and a rather portly brown-skinned woman, beautifully dressed, entered. “Hello! Who’s holding all the trump cards? Glad to meet you, Mr. Arnie. From Boston, you say? My old stamping-ground. Do you know the Roundtrees there?”

  “No’m,” Arnie said.

  “Well, I used to study at the Conservatory and knew all the big shots,” the brown-skin woman went on. “Did you just come over? Tourist, heh? Well, what’s new in the States now? I haven’t been home for three years. Don’t intend to go soon. The color-line’s a little too much for me. What are they dancing now-a-days? You must’ve brought a few of the latest steps with you. Can you do the Lindy Hop?”

  “No’m,” said Arnie.

  “Well, I’m gonna see,” said the brown-skin lady. She put a record on the victrola, and took Arnie in her arms. Even if he couldn’t do the Lindy Hop, he enjoyed dancing with her and they got along famously. Several more people came in, a swell-looking yellow girl, some rather elderly musicians, in spats, and a young colored art student named Harry Jones. Cocktails went around.

  “I’m from Chicago,” Harry said eventually. “Been over here about a year and like it a hell of a lot. You will, too, soon as you get to know a few folks.”

  Gradually the room took on the life and gaiety of a party. Somebody sat down at a piano in the alcove, and started a liquid ripple of jazz. Three or four couples began to dance. Arnie and the lovely yellow girl got together. They danced a long time, and then they drank cocktails. Arnie forgot about the clock. It was long after midnight.

  Somebody suggested that they all go to the opening of a new Martinique ballroom where a native orchestra would play rattles and drums.

  “Come on, Arnie,” Harry Jones said. “You might as well make a night of it. Tomorrow’s Sunday.”

  “I start rehearsals tomorrow,” Claudina said, “so I can’t go. But listen here,” she warned. “Don’t you-all take Arnie out of here and lose him. Some of these little French girls are liable to put him in their pockets, crazy as they are about chocolate.”

  Arnie hoped he wouldn’t meet the Pembertons in the hall. He didn’t. They were long since in bed. And when Arnie came in at dawn, his head was swimming with the grandest night he’d ever known.

  At the Martinique ball he’d met dozens of nice girls: white girls and brown girls, and yellow girls, artists and students and dancers and models and tourists. Harry knew everybody. And everybody was gay and friendly. Paris and music and cocktails made you forget what color people were—and what color you were yourself. Here it didn’t matter—color.

  Arnie went to sleep dreaming about a little Rumanian girl named Vivi. Harry said she was a music student. But Arnie didn’t care what she was, she had such soft black hair and bright grey eyes. How she could dance! And she knew quite a little English. He’d taken her address. Tomorrow he would go to see her. Aw, hell, tomorrow the Pembertons wanted to go to Versailles!

  V

  When Arnie woke up it was three o’clock. This time Grace Pemberton had actually banged on the door. Arnie was frightened. He’d never slept so late before. What would the Pembertons think?

  “What ever is the matter, Arnold?” Mrs. Pemberton called. Only when she was put out did she call him Arnold.

  “Up late reading,” Arnie muttered through the closed door. “I was up late reading.” And then was promptly ashamed o
f himself for having lied.

  “Well, hurry up,” Mrs. Pemberton said. “We’re about to start for Versailles.”

  “I don’t want to go,” said Arnie.

  “What ever is the matter with you, boy?” gasped Grace Pemberton.

  Arnie had slipped on a bathrobe, so he opened the door.

  “Good morning,” he said. “I’ve met some friends. I want to go out with them.”

  The contrariness of late adolescence was asserting itself. He felt stubborn and mean.

  “Friends?” said Grace Pemberton. “What friends, may I ask?”

  “A colored student and some others.”

  “Where did you meet them?”

  “Next door, at Miss Lawrence’s.”

  Grace Pemberton stiffened like a bolt. “Get ready, young man,” she said, “and come with us to Versailles.” She left the room. The young man got ready.

  Arnie pouted, but he went with the Pembertons. The sun gave him a headache, and he didn’t give a damn about Versailles. That evening, after a private lecture by Mr. Pemberton on the evils of Paris (Grace and Emily had spoken about the beauty of the city), he went to bed feeling very black and sick.

  For several days, he wasn’t himself at all, what with constant excursions to museums and villages and chateaux, when he wanted to be with Vivi and Harry and Claudina. (Once he did sneak away with Harry to meet Vivi.) Meanwhile, the Pembertons lectured him on his surliness. They were inclined to be dignified and distant to the poor little black fellow now. After all, it had cost them quite a lot to bring him to Paris. Didn’t he appreciate what they were doing for him? They had raised him. Had they then no right to forbid him going about with a crowd of Negroes from the theatres?

  “He’s a black devil,” said Mr. Pemberton.