Sanina infatuated them all. She possessed the cunning and fascination of a serpent, and more charm than beauty. Her clients idolized her with a loyalty and respect that were rare. I was never quite sure what was the secret of her success. For although she was charming, she was ruthless in her affairs. I felt a congeniality and sweet nostalgia in her company, for we had grown up together from kindergarten. Underneath all of her shrewd New York getting-byness there was discernible the green bloom of West Indian naïveté. Yet her poise was a marvel and kept her there floating like an imperishable block of butter on the crest of the dark heaving wave of Harlem. Sanina always stirred me to remember her dominating octoroon grandmother (who was also my godmother) who beat her hard white father in a duel they fought over the disposal of her body. But that is a West Indian tale.... I think that some of Sanina's success came from her selectiveness. Although there were many lovers mixing up their loving around her, she kept herself exclusively for the lover of her choice.
I passed ten days of purely voluptuous relaxation. My fifty dollars were spent and Sanina was feeding me. I was uncomfortable. I began feeling intellectual again. I wrote to my friend, Max Eastman, that I had returned to New York. My letter arrived at precisely the right moment. The continuation of The Liberator had become a problem. Max Eastman had recently resigned the editorship in order to devote more time to creative writing. Crystal Eastman also was retiring from the management to rest and write a book on feminism. Floyd Dell had just published his successful novel, Moon Calf, and was occupied with the writing of another book.
Max Eastman invited me to Croton over the week-end to discuss the situation. He proposed to resume the editorship again if I could manage the sub-editing that Floyd Dell did formerly. I responded with my hand and my head and my heart. Thus I became associate editor of The Liberator. My experience with the Dreadnought in London was of great service to me now.
The times were auspicious for the magazine. About the time that I was installed it received a windfall of $11,000 from the government, which was I believe a refund on mailing privileges that had been denied the magazine during the war.
Soon after taking on my job I called on Frank Harris, I took along an autographed copy of Spring in New Hampshire, the book of verses that I had published in London. The first thing Frank Harris asked was if I had seen Bernard Shaw. I told him all about my visit and Shaw's cathedral sermon. Harris said that perhaps Shaw was getting religion at last and might die a good Catholic. Harris was not as well-poised as when I first met him. Pearson's Magazine was not making money, and he was in debt and threatened with suspension of publication. He said he desired to return to Europe where he could find leisure to write, that he was sick and tired of the editor business. He did not congratulate me on my new job. The incident between him and The Liberator was still a rancor in his mind. He wasn't a man who forgot hurts easily.
But he was pleased that I had put over the publication of a book of poems in London. "It's a hard, mean city for any kind of genius," he said, "and that's an achievement for you." He looked through the little brown-covered book. Then he ran his finger down the table of contents closely scrutinizing. I noticed his aggressive brow become heavier and scowling. Suddenly he roared: "Where is the poem?"
"Which one?" I asked with a bland countenance, as if I didn't know which he meant.
"You know which," he growled. "That fighting poem, 'If We Must Die.' Why isn't it printed here?"
I was ashamed. My face was scorched with fire. I stammered: "I was advised to keep it out."
"You are a bloody traitor to your race, sir!" Frank Harris shouted. "A damned traitor to your own integrity. That's what the English and civilization have done to your people. Emasculated them. Deprived them of their guts. Better you were a head-hunting, blood-drinking cannibal of the jungle than a civilized coward. You were bolder in America. The English make obscene sycophants of their subject peoples. I am Irish and I know. But we Irish have guts the English cannot rip out of us. I'm ashamed of you, sir. It's a good thing you got out of England. It is no place for a genius to live."