“It must be troublesome to hear your perfect lover so sadly maligned in spite of his eloquent assertions of innocence,” Helgin said, smiling. “Most of the stories are really told in admiration of his savage gifts.”
“Yes, the admiration is both profound and imaginative,” Oppendorf retorted, with a weary return of the smile.
Blanche listened to the others with feelings of uncertainty and dismay. How could refined, serious, artistic people act so rottenly toward each other? They weren’t so very much different from the toughs in her neighborhood, except that they used words while the gangsters and bullies employed their feet and fists, or fell back on guns and knives. The gangsters were far less dangerous, too. They could only hurt a person for a short time, or else kill him and send him beyond any further injury, but these artist-people with their mean tongues and their sneering stories could damage some one for the rest of his life, in different ways. Oh, well, maybe most people were always alike, except that some of them were clever and had minds, while others were more inept and stupid. What real difference was there between the endless digs which her new acquaintances traded and the catty remarks which she heard every day at the Beauty Parlor? Still, she made a mental reservation in the case of Oppendorf. He had to retaliate or keep quiet, and he never started any of the sarcasm, as far as she could hear, though he certainly could finish it! If he had only been physically stronger, and more blithely animated, she could have fallen in love with him. This ideal man of hers!—she’d probably never meet him. It only happened in story-books. But, at any rate, she intended to apply herself to writing and feel of some importance for a change. How relieved and happy she had been after putting down the last word of her tearoom sketch—it had been almost the first real thrill in her life.
When she entered Paul Vanderin’s large, high-ceilinged studio and spied the Juliet balcony that ran around two sides of it, with rooms leading out on the balcony, and the profusion of statues and paintings—most of them weird or fiercely unorthodox—and the grand piano, and the abundance of luxurious furniture in neutral shades, she sighed and slipped a hand over her eyes. How delirious it must be to live in a place of this kind—big, and high, and filled with conveniences and intensely interesting objects—and how different it was from her own small, ugly room, with the ceiling hemming you in as though you were in a cage. Life was so darned unfair—lavishing favors, and stimulations, and beauties on some people and treating others in the most grudging and miserly fashion. Well, that was an old story—no good to rave over it. You had to beat life to its knees somehow, sharpening your mind and trying to express yourself, and praying for luck.
Several people had already gathered in the studio, and as she walked beside Helgin in the round of introductions, she opened her mouth and felt stunned at the discovery that some of them ... were negroes! This was really astonishing—she had never dreamt that cultured, artistic white people mingled with black and brown men and women on terms of familiar friendship! Her head felt in a turmoil and she couldn’t decide whether these contacts were right or wrong, whether she herself could join them without shrinking. Of course, human beings were all equal and shouldn’t look down upon each other because the color of their skins varied, but ... didn’t it go much deeper than that? Wasn’t there a physical repugnance between the different races—a strong feeling that simply couldn’t be overcome? Certainly, she had always thought so.
She had spoken to negroes, and Japanese, and Chinamen before, and had even joked with them—elevator boys, and porters, and waiters, and laundry-men—but she had never cared for their physical proximity and had always felt repulsed if they happened to brush against her. But still, they had been unrefined and ordinary, while these negroes were intelligent and cultured, and spoke about art and psychology. This was a revelation, as she had never imagined that negroes of this kind existed, except in the ratio of one to tens of thousands. She had heard vaguely of Booker T. Washington, and famous negro lawyers, and, oh yes, a negro writer named Du Bois, whom Rosenberg had always talked about, but she had thought that they were rarities and had even felt a flitting pity for their isolation among their own race.
Of course, she had been foolish and thoughtless—there was no valid reason why negroes should not voice their feelings and search for beauty and uniqueness, instead of always clinging to some business or manual labor. They were human beings, too, and their hearts and minds were probably often much more restless than those of most white people. Besides, since these white writers and artists mixed with negroes, it must be that society was gradually beginning to approve of this union and was losing its prejudice in the matter. Sti-ill, perhaps these negroes and whites simply talked to each other, or danced together, without any sexual intimacies. Surely, there was no harm in that.
As she sat beside Helgin she voiced her perplexity.
“Say, I never knew that black and white people went to the same parties,” she said. “I don’t quite know what to think of it.”
“Oh, yes, it’s the latest fad among white dilettantes,” Helgin replied. “They became weary of their other enthusiasms—finding a tragic, esthetic beauty in Charlie Chaplin and other slapstick comedians, and raving over East Side Burlesque Shows, and making Greek gladiators out of flat-nosed prize-fighters, and hunting for love in Greenwich Village. They are now busily engaged in patronizing and eulogizing the negro race. Vanderin is one of the ring-leaders in the matter. It tickles his jaded senses and reassures him of his decadence, and provides him with material for novels.”