Read—

Some Southern Snapshots

by

George S. Schuyler
in the December issue of

NEW MASSES

In this article Mr. Schuyler, a Negro writer, gives short sketches of Negro-white incidents in various Southern states. Negro boys and girls, men and women, insulted, arrested, hounded out of town, beaten, molested, and killed for imaginary, or at the most, ridiculously small and superficial acts. New details of the same old stories.

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Foreword

FIRE ... flaming, burning, searing, and penetrating far beneath the superficial items of the flesh to boil the sluggish blood.

FIRE ... a cry of conquest in the night, warning those who sleep and revitalizing those who linger in the quiet places dozing.

FIRE ... melting steel and iron bars, poking livid tongues between stone apertures and burning wooden opposition with a cackling chuckle of contempt.

FIRE ... weaving vivid, hot designs upon an ebon bordered loom and satisfying pagan thirst for beauty unadorned ... the flesh is sweet and real ... the soul an inward flush of fire.... Beauty?... flesh on fire—on fire in the furnace of life blazing....

“Fy-ah,

Fy-ah, Lawd,

Fy-ah gonna burn ma soul!”

FIRE!

A Quarterly Devoted to the Younger Negro Artists

Wishes to Thank the Following Persons
Who Acted as Patrons
For the First Issue

Maurine Boie, Minneapolis, Minn.
Nellie R. Bright, Philadelphia, Pa.
Arthur Huff Fauset, Philadelphia, Pa.
Dorothy Hunt Harris, New York City
Arthur P. Moor, Harrisburg, Pa.
Dorothy R. Peterson, Brooklyn, N. Y.
Mr. and Mrs. John Peterson, New York City
E. B. Taylor, Baltimore, Md.
Carl Van Vechten, New York City

Being a non-commercial product interested only in the arts, it is necessary that we make some appeal for aid from interested friends. For the second issue of Fire we would appreciate having fifty people subscribe ten dollars each, and fifty more to subscribe five dollars each.

We make no eloquent or rhetorical plea. Fire speaks for itself.

Gratefully,

THE BOARD OF EDITORS.

FIRE!

A Quarterly Devoted to the Younger Negro Artists

Premier Issue Edited by
Wallace Thurman
In Association With
Langston Hughes
Gwendolyn Bennett
Richard Bruce
Zora Neale Hurston
Aaron Douglas
John Davis

Table of Contents

Volume One

Number One

Editorial Offices
314 West 138th Street, New York City

Price $1.00 per copy

Issued Quarterly

FIRE!!
DEVOTED T^o YOUNGER NEGRO ARTISTS

Cordelia the Crude

Physically, if not mentally, Cordelia was a potential prostitute, meaning that although she had not yet realized the moral import of her wanton promiscuity nor become mercenary, she had, nevertheless, become quite blasé and bountiful in the matter of bestowing sexual favors upon persuasive and likely young men. Yet, despite her seeming lack of discrimination, Cordelia was quite particular about the type of male to whom she submitted, for numbers do not necessarily denote a lack of taste, and Cordelia had discovered after several months of active observation that one could find the qualities one admires or reacts positively to in a varied hodge-podge of outwardly different individuals.

The scene of Cordelia’s activities was The Roosevelt Motion Picture Theatre on Seventh Avenue near 145th Street. Thrice weekly the program changed, and thrice weekly Cordelia would plunk down the necessary twenty-five cents evening admission fee, and saunter gaily into the foul-smelling depths of her favorite cinema shrine. The Roosevelt Theatre presented all of the latest pictures, also, twice weekly, treated its audiences to a vaudeville bill, then too, one could always have the most delightful physical contacts ... hmm....

Cordelia had not consciously chosen this locale nor had there been any conscious effort upon her part to take advantage of the extra opportunities afforded for physical pleasure. It had just happened that the Roosevelt Theatre was more close to her home than any other neighborhood picture palace, and it had also just happened that Cordelia had become almost immediately initiated into the ways of a Harlem theatre chippie soon after her discovery of the theatre itself.

It is the custom of certain men and boys who frequent these places to idle up and down the aisle until some female is seen sitting alone, to slouch down into a seat beside her, to touch her foot or else press her leg in such a way that it can be construed as accidental if necessary, and then, if the female is wise or else shows signs of willingness to become wise, to make more obvious approaches until, if successful, the approached female will soon be chatting with her baiter about the picture being shown, lolling in his arms, and helping to formulate plans for an after-theatre rendezvous. Cordelia had, you see, shown a willingness to become wise upon her second visit to The Roosevelt. In a short while she had even learned how to squelch the bloated, lewd faced Jews and eager middle aged Negroes who might approach as well as how to inveigle the likeable little yellow or brown half men, embryo avenue sweetbacks, with their well modeled heads, stickily plastered hair, flaming cravats, silken or broadcloth shirts, dirty underwear, low cut vests, form fitting coats, bell-bottom trousers and shiny shoes with metal cornered heels clicking with a brave, brazen rhythm upon the bare concrete floor as their owners angled and searched for prey.

Cordelia, sixteen years old, matronly mature, was an undisciplined, half literate product of rustic South Carolina, and had come to Harlem very much against her will with her parents and her six brothers and sisters. Against her will because she had not been at all anxious to leave the lackadaisical life of the little corn pone settlement where she had been born, to go trooping into the unknown vastness of New York, for she had been in love, passionately in love with one John Stokes who raised pigs, and who, like his father before him, found the raising of pigs so profitable that he could not even consider leaving Lintonville. Cordelia had blankly informed her parents that she would not go with them when they decided to be lured to New York by an older son who had remained there after the demobilization of the war time troops. She had even threatened to run away with John until they should be gone, but of course John could not leave his pigs, and John’s mother was not very keen on having Cordelia for a daughter-in-law—those Joneses have bad mixed blood in ’em—so Cordelia had had to join the Gotham bound caravan and leave her lover to his succulent porkers.

However, the mere moving to Harlem had not doused the rebellious flame. Upon arriving Cordelia had not only refused to go to school and refused to hold even the most easily held job, but had also victoriously defied her harassed parents so frequently when it came to matters of discipline that she soon found herself with a mesmerizing lack of home restraint, for the stress of trying to maintain themselves and their family in the new environment was far too much of a task for Mr. and Mrs. Jones to attend to facilely and at the same time try to control a recalcitrant child. So, when Cordelia had refused either to work or to attend school, Mrs. Jones herself had gone out for day’s work, leaving Cordelia at home to take care of their five room railroad flat, the front room of which was rented out to a couple “living together,” and to see that the younger children, all of whom were of school age, made their four trips daily between home and the nearby public school—as well as see that they had their greasy, if slim, food rations and an occasional change of clothing. Thus Cordelia’s days were full—and so were her nights. The only difference being that the days belonged to the folks at home while the nights (since the folks were too tired or too sleepy to know or care when she came in or went out) belonged to her and to—well—whosoever will, let them come.

Cordelia had been playing this hectic, entrancing game for six months and was widely known among a certain group of young men and girls on the avenue as a fus’ class chippie when she and I happened to enter the theatre simultaneously. She had clumped down the aisle before me, her open galoshes swishing noisily, her two arms busy wriggling themselves free from the torn sleeve lining of a shoddy imitation fur coat that one of her mother’s wash clients had sent to her. She was of medium height and build, with overly developed legs and bust, and had a clear, keen light brown complexion. Her too slick, too naturally bobbed hair, mussed by the removing of a tight, black turban was of an undecided nature, i.e., it was undecided whether to be kinky or to be kind, and her body, as she sauntered along in the partial light had such a conscious sway of invitation that unthinkingly I followed, slid into the same row of seats and sat down beside her.

Naturally she had noticed my pursuit, and thinking that I was eager to play the game, let me know immediately that she was wise, and not the least bit averse to spooning with me during the evening’s performance. Interested, and, I might as well confess, intrigued physically, I too became wise, and played up to her with all the fervor, or so I thought, of an old timer, but Cordelia soon remarked that I was different from mos’ of des’ sheiks, and when pressed for an explanation brazenly told me in a slightly scandalized and patronizing tone that I had not even felt her legs...!

At one o’clock in the morning we strolled through the snowy bleakness of one hundred and forty-fourth street between Lenox and Fifth Avenues to the walk-up tenement flat in which she lived, and after stamping the snow from our feet, pushed through the double outside doors, and followed the dismal hallway to the rear of the building where we began the tedious climbing of the crooked, creaking, inconveniently narrow stairway. Cordelia had informed me earlier in the evening that she lived on the top floor—four flights up east side rear—and on our way we rested at each floor and at each half way landing, rested long enough to mingle the snowy dampness of our respective coats, and to hug clumsily while our lips met in an animal kiss.

Finally only another half flight remained, and instead of proceeding as was usual after our amourous demonstration I abruptly drew away from her, opened my overcoat, plunged my hand into my pants pocket, and drew out two crumpled one dollar bills which I handed to her, and then, while she stared at me foolishly, I muttered good-night, confusedly pecked her on her cold brown cheek, and darted down into the creaking darkness.

Six months later I was taking two friends of mine, lately from the provinces, to a Saturday night house-rent party in a well known whore house on one hundred and thirty-fourth street near Lenox Avenue. The place as we entered seemed to be a chaotic riot of raucous noise and clashing color all rhythmically merging in the red, smoke filled room. And there I saw Cordelia savagely careening in a drunken abortion of the Charleston and surrounded by a perspiring circle of handclapping enthusiasts. Finally fatigued, she whirled into an abrupt finish, and stopped so that she stared directly into my face, but being dizzy from the calisthenic turns and the cauterizing liquor she doubted that her eyes recognized someone out of the past, and, visibly trying to sober herself, languidly began to dance a slow drag with a lean hipped pimply faced yellow man who had walked between her and me. At last he released her, and seeing that she was about to leave the room I rushed forward calling Cordelia?—as if I was not yet sure who it was. Stopping in the doorway, she turned to see who had called, and finally recognizing me said simply, without the least trace of emotion—’Lo kid....

And without another word turned her back and walked into the hall to where she joined four girls standing there. Still eager to speak, I followed and heard one of the girls ask: Who’s the dicty kid?...

And Cordelia answered: The guy who gimme ma’ firs’ two bucks....

Wallace Thurman.

Color Struck

A Play in Four Scenes

Time: Twenty years ago and present.

Place: A Southern City.

PERSONS

Several who play mouth organs, guitars, banjos.
Dancers, passengers, etc.

Setting.—Early night. The inside of a “Jim Crow” railway coach. The car is parallel to the footlights. The seats on the down stage side of the coach are omitted. There are the luggage racks above the seats. The windows are all open. There are exits in each end of the car—right and left.

Action.—Before the curtain goes up there is the sound of a locomotive whistle and a stopping engine, loud laughter, many people speaking at once, good-natured shrieks, strumming of stringed instruments, etc. The ascending curtain discovers a happy lot of Negroes boarding the train dressed in the gaudy, tawdry best of 1900. They are mostly in couples—each couple bearing a covered-over market basket which the men hastily deposit in the racks as they scramble for seats. There is a little friendly pushing and shoving. One pair just miss a seat three times, much to the enjoyment of the crowd. Many “plug” silk hats are in evidence, also sun-flowers in button holes. The women are showily dressed in the manner of the time, and quite conscious of their finery. A few seats remain unoccupied.

Enter Effie (left) above, with a basket. One of the Men (standing, lifting his “plug” in a grand manner). Howdy do, Miss Effie, you’se lookin’ jes lak a rose.

(Effie blushes and is confused. She looks up and down for a seat.) Fack is, if you wuzn’t walkin’ long, ah’d think you wuz a rose—(he looks timidly behind her and the others laugh). Looka here, where’s Sam at?

Effie (tossing her head haughtily). I don’t know an’ I don’t keer.

The Man (visibly relieved). Then lemme scorch you to a seat. (He takes her basket and leads her to a seat center of the car, puts the basket in the rack and seats himself beside her with his hat at a rakish angle.)

Man (sliding his arm along the back of the seat). How come Sam ain’t heah—y’ll on a bust?

Effie (angrily). A man dat don’t buy me nothin tuh put in mah basket, ain’t goin’ wid me tuh no cake walk. (The hand on the seat touches her shoulder and she thrusts it away). Take yo’ arms from ’round me, Dinky! Gwan hug yo’ Ada!

Man (in mock indignation). Do you think I’d look at Ada when Ah got a chance tuh be wid you? Ah always wuz sweet on you, but you let ole Mullet-head Sam cut me out.

Another Man (with head out of the window). Just look at de darkies coming! (With head inside coach.) Hey, Dinky! Heah come Ada wid a great big basket.

(Dinky jumps up from beside Effie and rushes to exit right. In a moment they re-enter and take a seat near entrance. Everyone in coach laughs. Dinky’s girl turns and calls back to Effie.)

Girl. Where’s Sam, Effie?

Effie. Lawd knows, Ada.

Girl. Lawd a mussy! Who you gointer walk de cake wid?

Effie. Nobody, Ah reckon, John and Emma gointer win it nohow. They’s the bestest cake walkers in dis state.

Ada. You’se better than Emma any day in de week. Cose Sam cain’t walk lake John. (She stands up and scans the coach.) Looka heah, ain’t John an’ Emma going? They ain’t on heah!

(The locomotive bell begins to ring.)

Effie. Mah Gawd, s’pose dey got left!

Man (with head out of window). Heah they come, nip and tuck—whoo-ee! They’se gonna make it! (He waves excitedly.) Come on Jawn! (Everybody crowds the windows, encouraging them by gesture and calls. As the whistle blows twice, and the train begins to move, they enter panting and laughing at left. The only seat left is the one directly in front of Effie.)

Dinky (standing). Don’t y’all skeer us no mo’ lake dat! There couldn’t be no cake walk thout y’all. Dem shad-mouf St. Augustine coons would win dat cake and we would have tuh kill ’em all bodaciously.

John. It was Emmaline nearly made us get left. She says I wuz smiling at Effie on the street car and she had to get off and wait for another one.

Emma (removing the hatpins from her hat, turns furiously upon him). You wuz grinning at her and she wuz grinning back jes lake a ole chessy cat!

John (positively). I wuzn’t.

Emma (about to place her hat in rack). You wuz. I seen you looking jes lake a possum.

John. I wuzn’t. I never gits a chance tuh smile at nobody—you won’t let me.

Emma. Jes the same every time you sees a yaller face, you takes a chance. (They sit down in peeved silence for a minute.)

Dinky. Ada, les we all sample de basket. I bet you got huckleberry pie.

Ada. No I aint, I got peach an’ tater pies, but we aint gonna tetch a thing tell we gits tuh de hall.

Dinky (mock alarm). Naw, don’t do dat! It’s all right tuh save the fried chicken, but pies is always et on trains.

Ada. Aw shet up! (He struggles with her for a kiss. She slaps him but finally yields.)

John (looking behind him). Hellow, Effie, where’s Sam?

Effie. Deed, I don’t know.

John. Y’all on a bust?

Emma. None ah yo’ bizness, you got enough tuh mind yo’ own self. Turn ’round!

(She puts up a pouting mouth and he snatches a kiss. She laughs just as he kisses her again and there is a resounding smack which causes the crowd to laugh. And cries of “Oh you kid!” “Salty dog!”)

(Enter conductor left calling tickets cheerfully and laughing at the general merriment.)

Conductor. I hope somebody from Jacksonville wins this cake.

John. You live in the “Big Jack?”

Conductor. Sure do. And I wanta taste a piece of that cake on the way back tonight.

John. Jes rest easy—them Augustiners aint gonna smell it. (Turns to Emma.) Is they, baby?

Emma. Not if Ah kin help it.

Somebody with a guitar sings: “Ho babe, mah honey taint no lie.”

(The conductor takes up tickets, passes on and exits right.)

Wesley. Look heah, you cake walkers—y’all oughter git up and limber up yo’ joints. I heard them folks over to St. Augustine been oiling up wid goose-grease, and over to Ocala they been rubbing down in snake oil.

A Woman’s Voice. You better shut up, Wesley, you just joined de church last month. Somebody’s going to tell the pastor on you.

Wesley. Tell it, tell it, take it up and smell it. Come on out you John and Emma and Effie, and limber up.

John. Naw, we don’t wanta do our walking steps—-nobody won’t wanta see them when we step out at the hall. But we kin do something else just to warm ourselves up.

(Wesley begins to play “Goo Goo Eyes” on his accordion, the other instruments come in one by one and John and Emma step into the aisle and “parade” up and down the aisle—Emma holding up her skirt, showing the lace on her petticoats. They two-step back to their seat amid much applause.)

Wesley. Come on out, Effie! Sam aint heah so you got to hold up his side too. Step on out. (There is a murmur of applause as she steps into the aisle. Wesley strikes up “I’m gointer live anyhow till I die.” It is played quite spiritedly as Effie swings into the pas-me-la—)

Wesley (in ecstasy). Hot stuff I reckon! Hot stuff I reckon! (The musicians are stamping. Great enthusiasm. Some clap time with hands and feet. She hurls herself into a modified Hoochy Koochy, and finishes up with an ecstatic yell.)

There is a babble of talk and laughter and exultation.

John (applauding loudly). If dat Effie can’t step nobody can.

Emma. Course you’d say so cause it’s her. Everything she do is pretty to you.

John (caressing her). Now don’t say that, Honey. Dancing is dancing no matter who is doing it. But nobody can hold a candle to you in nothing.

(Some men are heard tuning up—getting pitch to sing. Four of them crowd together in one seat and begin the chorus of “Daisies Won’t Tell.” John and Emma grow quite affectionate.)

John (kisses her). Emma, what makes you always picking a fuss with me over some yaller girl. What makes you so jealous, nohow? I don’t do nothing.

(She clings to him, but he turns slightly away. The train whistle blows, there is a slackening of speed. Passengers begin to take down baskets from their racks.)

Emma. John! John, don’t you want me to love you, honey?

John (turns and kisses her slowly). Yes, I want you to love me, you know I do. But I don’t like to be accused o’ ever light colored girl in the world. It hurts my feeling. I don’t want you to be jealous like you are.

(Enter at right Conductor, crying “St. Augustine, St. Augustine.” He exits left. The crowd has congregated at the two exits, pushing good-naturedly and joking. All except John and Emma. They are still seated with their arms about each other.)

Emma (sadly). Then you don’t want my love, John, cause I can’t help mahself from being jealous. I loves you so hard, John, and jealous love is the only kind I got.

(John kisses her very feelingly.)

Emma. Just for myself alone is the only way I knows how to love.

(They are standing in the aisle with their arms about each other as the curtain falls.)

Scene II

Setting.—A weather-board hall. A large room with the joists bare. The place has been divided by a curtain of sheets stretched on a rope across from left to right. From behind the curtain there are occasional sounds of laughter, a note or two on a stringed instrument or accordion. General stir. That is the dance hall. The front is the ante-room where the refreshments are being served. A “plank” seat runs all around the hall, along the walls. The lights are kerosene lamps with reflectors. They are fixed to the wall. The lunch-baskets are under the seat. There is a table on either side upstage with a woman behind each. At one, ice cream is sold, at the other, roasted peanuts and large red-and-white sticks of peppermint candy.

People come in by twos and threes, laughing, joking, horse-plays, gauchily flowered dresses, small waists, bulging hips and busts, hats worn far back on the head, etc. People from Ocala greet others from Palatka, Jacksonville, St. Augustine, etc.

Some find seats in the ante-room, others pass on into the main hall.

Enter the Jacksonville delegation, laughing, pushing proudly.

Dinky. Here we is, folks—here we is. Gointer take dat cake on back tuh Jacksonville where it belongs.

Man. Gwan! Whut wid you mullet-head Jacksonville Coons know whut to do wid a cake. It’s gointer stay right here in Augustine where de good cake walkers grow.

Dinky. Taint no ‘Walkers’ never walked till John and Emmaline prance out—you mighty come a tootin’.

Great laughing and joshing as more people come in. John and Emma are encouraged, urged on to win.

Emma. Let’s we git a seat, John, and set down.

John. Sho will—nice one right over there.

(They push over to wall seat, place basket underneath, and sit. Newcomers shake hands with them and urge them on to win.)

(Enter Joe Clarke and a small group. He is a rotund, expansive man with a liberal watch chain and charm.)

Dinky (slapping Clarke on the back). If you don’t go ’way from here! Lawdy, if it aint Joe.

Clarke (jovially). Ah thought you had done forgot us people in Eatonville since you been living up here in Jacksonville.

Dinky. Course Ah aint. (Turning.) Looka heah folks! Joe Clarke oughta be made chairman uh dis meetin’—Ah mean Past Great-Grand Master of Ceremonies, him being the onliest mayor of de onliest colored town in de state.

General Chorus. Yeah, let him be—thass fine, etc.

Dinky (setting his hat at a new angle and throwing out his chest). And Ah’ll scorch him to de platform. Ahem!

(Sprinkling of laughter as Joe Clarke is escorted into next room by Dinky.)

(The musicians are arriving one by one during this time. A guitar, accordion, mouth organ, banjo, etc. Soon there is a rapping for order heard inside and the voice of Joe Clarke.)

Joe Clarke. Git yo’ partners one an’ all for de gran’ march! Git yo’ partners, gent-mens!

A Man (drawing basket from under bench). Let’s we all eat first.

(John and Emma go buy ice-cream. They coquettishly eat from each other’s spoons. Old Man Lizzimore crosses to Effie and removes his hat and bows with a great flourish.)

Lizzimore. Sam ain’t here t’night, is he, Effie.

Effie (embarrassed). Naw suh, he aint.

Lizz. Well, you like chicken? (Extends arm to her.) Take a wing!

(He struts her up to the table amid the laughter of the house. He wears no collar.)

John (squeezes Emma’s hand). You certainly is a ever loving mamma—when you aint mad.

Emma (smiles sheepishly). You oughtn’t to make me mad then.

John. Ah don’t make you! You makes yo’self mad, den blame it on me. Ah keep on tellin’ you Ah don’t love nobody but you. Ah knows heaps uh half-white girls Ah could git ef Ah wanted to. But (he squeezes her hard again) Ah jus’ wants you! You know what they say! De darker de berry, de sweeter de taste!

Emma (pretending to pout). Oh, you tries to run over me an’ keep it under de cover, but Ah won’t let yuh. (Both laugh.) Les’ we eat our basket!

John. Alright. (He pulls the basket out and she removes the table cloth. They set the basket on their knees and begin to eat fried chicken.)

Male Voice. Les’ everybody eat—motion’s done carried. (Everybody begins to open baskets. All have fried chicken. Very good humor prevails. Delicacies are swapped from one basket to the other. John and Emma offer the man next them some supper. He takes a chicken leg. Effie crosses to John and Emma with two pieces of pie on a plate.)

Effie. Y’ll have a piece uh mah blueberry pie—it’s mighty nice! (She proffers it with a timid smile to Emma who “freezes” up instantly.)

Emma. Naw! We don’t want no pie. We got cocoanut layer-cake.

John. Ah—Ah think ah’d choose a piece uh pie, Effie. (He takes it.) Will you set down an’ have a snack wid us? (He slides over to make room.)

Effie (nervously). Ah, naw, Ah got to run on back to mah basket, but Ah thought maybe y’ll mout’ want tuh taste mah pie. (She turns to go.)

John. Thank you, Effie. It’s mighty good, too. (He eats it. Effie crosses to her seat. Emma glares at her for a minute, then turns disgustedly away from the basket. John catches her shoulder and faces her around.)

John (pleadingly). Honey, be nice. Don’t act lak dat!

Emma (jerking free). Naw, you done ruint mah appetite now, carryin’ on wid dat punkin-colored ole gal.

John. Whut kin Ah do? If you had a acted polite Ah wouldn’t a had nothin’ to say.

Emma. Naw, youse jus’ hog-wile ovah her cause she’s half-white! No matter whut Ah say, you keep carryin’ on wid her. Act polite? Naw Ah aint gonna be deceitful an’ bust mah gizzard fuh nobody! Let her keep her dirty ole pie ovah there where she is!

John (looking around to see if they are overheard). Sh-sh! Honey, you mustn’t talk so loud.

Emma (louder). Ah-Ah aint gonna bite mah tongue! If she don’t like it she can lump it. Mah back is broad—(John tries to cover her mouth with his hand). She calls herself a big cigar, but I kin smoke her!

(The people are laughing and talking for the most part and pay no attention. Effie is laughing and talking to those around her and does not hear the tirade. The eating is over and everyone is going behind the curtain. John and Emma put away their basket like the others, and sit glum. Voice of Master-of-ceremonies can be heard from beyond curtain announcing the pas-me-la contest. The contestants, mostly girls, take the floor. There is no music except the clapping of hands and the shouts of “Parse-me-lah” in time with the hand-clapping. At the end Master announces winner. Shadows seen on curtain.)

Master. Mathilda Clarke is winner—if she will step forward she will receive a beautiful wook fascinator. (The girl goes up and receives it with great hand-clapping and good humor.) And now since the roosters is crowin’ foah midnight, an’ most of us got to git up an’ go to work tomorrow, The Great Cake Walk will begin. Ah wants de floor cleared, cause de representatives of de several cities will be announced an’ we wants ’em to take de floor as their names is called. Den we wants ’em to do a gran’ promenade roun’ de hall. An’ they will then commence to walk fuh de biggest cake ever baked in dis state. Ten dozen eggs—ten pounds of flour—ten pounds of butter, and so on and so forth. Now then—(he strikes a pose) for St. Augustine—

Miss Lucy Taylor, Mr. Ned Coles.

(They step out amid applause and stand before stage.)

For Daytona—

Miss Janie Bradley, Enoch Nixon.

(Same business.)

For Ocala—

Miss Docia Boger, Mr. Oscar Clarke.

(Same business.)

For Palatka—

Miss Maggie Lemmons, Mr. Senator Lewis.

(Same business.)

And for Jacksonville the most popular “walkers” in de state—

Miss Emmaline Beazeby, Mr. John Turner.

(Tremendous applause. John rises and offers his arm grandiloquently to Emma.)

Emma (pleadingly, and clutching his coat). John let’s we all don’t go in there with all them. Let’s we all go on home.

John (amazed). Why, Emma?

Emma. Cause, cause all them girls is going to pulling and hauling on you, and—

John (impatiently). Shucks! Come on. Don’t you hear the people clapping for us and calling our names? Come on!

(He tries to pull her up—she tries to drag him back.)

Come on, Emma! Taint no sense in your acting like this. The band is playing for us. Hear ’em? (He moves feet in a dance step.)

Emma. Naw, John, Ah’m skeered. I loves you—I—.

(He tries to break away from her. She is holding on fiercely.)

John. I got to go! I been practising almost a year—I—we done come all the way down here. I can walk the cake, Emma—we got to—I got to go in! (He looks into her face and sees her tremendous fear.) What you skeered about?

Emma (hopefully). You won’t go in—You’ll come on go home with me all by ourselves. Come on John. I can’t, I just can’t go in there and see all them girls—Effie hanging after you—.

John. I got to go in—(he removes her hand from his coat)—whether you come with me or not.

Emma. Oh—them yaller wenches! How I hate ’em! They gets everything they wants—.

Voice Inside. We are waiting for the couple from Jacksonville—Jacksonville! Where is the couple from—.

(Wesley parts the curtain and looks out.)

Wesley. Here they is out here spooning! You all can’t even hear your names called. Come on John and Emma.

John. Coming. (He dashes inside. Wesley stands looking at Emma in surprise.)

Wesley. What’s the matter, Emma? You and John spatting again? (He goes back inside.)

Emma (calmly bitter). He went and left me. If we is spatting we done had our last one. (She stands and clenches her fists.) Ah, mah God! He’s in there with her—Oh, them half whites, they gets everything, they gets everything everybody else wants! The men, the jobs—everything! The whole world is got a sign on it. Wanted: Light colored. Us blacks was made for cobble stones. (She muffles a cry and sinks limp upon the seat.)

Voice Inside. Miss Effie Jones will walk for Jacksonville with Mr. John Turner in place of Miss Emmaline Beazeley.

Scene III—Dance Hall

Emma springs to her feet and flings the curtains wide open. She stands staring at the gay scene for a moment defiantly, then creeps over to a seat along the wall and shrinks into the Spanish Moss, motionless.

Dance hall decorated with palmetto leaves and Spanish Moss—a flag or two. Orchestra consists of guitar, mandolin, banjo, accordion, church organ and drum.

Master (on platform). Couples take yo’ places! When de music starts, gentlemen parade yo’ ladies once round de hall, den de walk begins. (The music begins. Four men come out from behind the platform bearing a huge chocolate cake. The couples are “prancing” in their tracks. The men lead off the procession with the cake—the contestants make a grand slam around the hall.)

Master. Couples to de floor! Stan’ back, ladies an’ gentlemen—give ’em plenty room.

(Music changes to “Way Down in Georgia.” Orchestra sings. Effie takes the arm that John offers her and they parade to the other end of the hall. She takes her place. John goes back upstage to the platform, takes off his silk hat in a graceful sweep as he bows deeply to Effie. She lifts her skirts and curtsies to the floor. Both smile broadly. They advance toward each other, meet midway, then, arm in arm, begin to “strut.” John falters as he faces her, but recovers promptly and is perfection in his style. (Seven to nine minutes to curtain.) Fervor of spectators grows until all are taking part in some way—either hand-clapping or singing the words. At curtain they have reached frenzy.)

Quick Curtain

(It stays down a few seconds to indicate ending of contest and goes up again on John and Effie being declared winners by Judges.)

Master (on platform, with John and Effie on the floor before him). By unanimous decision de cake goes to de couple from Jacksonville! (Great enthusiasm. The cake is set down in the center of the floor and the winning couple parade around it arm in arm. John and Effie circle the cake happily and triumphantly. The other contestants, and then the entire assembly fall in behind and circle the cake, singing and clapping. The festivities continue. The Jacksonville quartet step upon the platform and sing a verse and chorus of “Daisies won’t tell.” Cries of “Hurrah for Jacksonville! Glory for the big town,” “Hurrah for Big Jack.”)

A Man (seeing Emma). You’re from Jacksonville, aint you? (He whirls her around and around.) Aint you happy? Whoopee! (He releases her and she drops upon a seat. She buries her face in the moss.)

(Quartet begins on chorus again. People are departing, laughing, humming, with quartet cheering. John, the cake, and Effie being borne away in triumph.)

Scene IV

Time—present. The interior of a one-room shack in an alley. There is a small window in the rear wall upstage left. There is an enlarged crayon drawing of a man and woman—man sitting cross-legged, woman standing with her hand on his shoulder. A center table, red cover, a low, cheap rocker, two straight chairs, a small kitchen stove at left with a wood-box beside it, a water-bucket on a stand close by. A hand towel and a wash basin. A shelf of dishes above this. There is an ordinary oil lamp on the center table but it is not lighted when the curtain goes up. Some light enters through the window and falls on the woman seated in the low rocker. The door is center right. A cheap bed is against the upstage wall. Someone is on the bed but is lying so that the back is toward the audience.

Action—As the curtain rises, the woman is seen rocking to and fro in the low rocker. A dead silence except for the sound of the rocker and an occasional groan from the bed. Once a faint voice says “water” and the woman in the rocker arises and carries the tin dipper to the bed.

Woman. No mo’ right away—Doctor says not too much. (Returns dipper to pail.—Pause.) You got right much fever—I better go git the doctor agin.

(There comes a knocking at the door and she stands still for a moment, listening. It comes again and she goes to door but does not open it.)

Woman. Who’s that?

Voice Outside. Does Emma Beasely live here?

Emma. Yeah—(pause)—who is it?

Voice. It’s me—John Turner.

Emma (puts hands eagerly on the fastening). John? Did you say John Turner?

Voice. Yes, Emma, it’s me.

(The door is opened and the man steps inside.)

Emma. John! Your hand (she feels for it and touches it). John flesh and blood.

John (laughing awkwardly). It’s me alright, old girl. Just as bright as a basket of chips. Make a light quick so I can see how you look. I’m crazy to see you. Twenty years is a long time to wait, Emma.

Emma (nervously). Oh, let’s we all just sit in the dark awhile. (Apologetically.) I wasn’t expecting nobody and my house aint picked up. Sit down. (She draws up the chair. She sits in rocker.)

John. Just to think! Emma! Me and Emma sitting down side by each. Know how I found you?

Emma (dully). Naw. How?

John (brightly). Soon’s I got in town I hunted up Wesley and he told me how to find you. That’s who I come to see, you!

Emma. Where you been all these years, up North somewheres? Nobody round here could find out where you got to.

John. Yes, up North. Philadelphia.

Emma. Married yet?

John. Oh yes, seventeen years ago. But my wife is dead now and so I came as soon as it was decent to find you. I wants to marry you. I couldn’t die happy if I didn’t. Couldn’t get over you—couldn’t forget. Forget me, Emma?

Emma. Naw, John. How could I?

John (leans over impulsively to catch her hand). Oh, Emma, I love you so much. Strike a light honey so I can see you—see if you changed much. You was such a handsome girl!

Emma. We don’t exactly need no light, do we, John, tuh jus’ set an’ talk?

John. Yes, we do, Honey. Gwan, make a light. Ah wanna see you.

(There is a silence.)

Emma. Bet you’ wife wuz some high-yaller dickty-doo.

John. Naw she wasn’t neither. She was jus’ as much like you as Ah could get her. Make a light an’ Ah’ll show you her pictcher. Shucks, ah gotta look at mah old sweetheart. (He strikes a match and holds it up between their faces and they look intently at each other over it until it burns out.) You aint changed none atall, Emma, jus’ as pretty as a speckled pup yet.

Emma (lighter). Go long, John! (Short pause) ’member how you useter bring me magnolias?

John. Do I? Gee, you was sweet! ’Member how Ah useter pull mah necktie loose so you could tie it back for me? Emma, Ah can’t see to mah soul how we lived all this time, way from one another. ’Member how you useter make out mah ears had done run down and you useter screw ’em up agin for me? (They laugh.)

Emma. Yeah, Ah useter think you wuz gointer be mah husban’ then—but you let dat ole—.

John. Ah aint gonna let you alibi on me lak dat. Light dat lamp! You cain’t look me in de eye and say no such. (He strikes another match and lights the lamp.) Course, Ah don’t wanta look too bossy, but Ah b’lieve you got to marry me tuh git rid of me. That is, if you aint married.

Emma. Naw, Ah aint. (She turns the lamp down.)

John (looking about the room). Not so good, Emma, But wait till you see dat little place in Philly! Got a little “Rolls-Rough,” too—gointer teach you to drive it, too.

Emma. Ah been havin’ a hard time, John, an’ Ah lost you—oh, aint nothin’ been right for me! Ah aint never been happy.

(John takes both of her hands in his.)

John. You gointer be happy now, Emma. Cause Ah’m gointer make you. Gee Whiz! Ah aint but forty-two and you aint forty yet—we got plenty time. (There is a groan from the bed.) Gee, what’s that?

Emma (ill at ease). Thass mah chile. She’s sick. Reckon Ah bettah see ’bout her.

John. You got a chile? Gee, that great! Ah always wanted one, but didn’t have no luck. Now we kin start off with a family. Girl or boy?

Emma (slowly). A girl. Comin’ tuh see me agin soon, John?

John. Comin’ agin? Ah aint gone yet! We aint talked, you aint kissed me an’ nothin’, and you aint showed me our girl. (Another groan, more prolonged.) She must be pretty sick—let’s see. (He turns in his chair and Emma rushes over to the bed and covers the girl securely, tucking her long hair under the covers, too—before he arises. He goes over to the bed and looks down into her face. She is mulatto. Turns to Emma teasingly.) Talkin’ ’bout me liking high-yallers—yo husband musta been pretty near white.

Emma (slowly). Ah, never wuz married, John.

John. It’s alright, Emma. (Kisses her warmly.) Everything is going to be O.K. (Turning back to the bed.) Our child looks pretty sick, but she’s pretty. (Feels her forehead and cheek.) Think she oughter have a doctor.

Emma. Ah done had one. Course Ah cain’t git no specialist an’ nothin’ lak dat. (She looks about the room and his gaze follows hers.) Ah aint got a whole lot lake you. Nobody don’t git rich in no white-folks’ kitchen, nor in de washtub. You know Ah aint no school-teacher an’ nothin’ lak dat.

(John puts his arm about her.)

John. It’s all right, Emma. But our daughter is bad off—run out an’ git a doctor—she needs one. Ah’d go if Ah knowed where to find one—you kin git one the quickest—hurry, Emma.

Emma (looks from John to her daughter and back again.) She’ll be all right, Ah reckon, for a while. John, you love me—you really want me sho’ nuff?

John. Sure Ah do—think Ah’d come all de way down here for nothin’? Ah wants to marry agin.

Emma. Soon, John?

John. Real soon.

Emma. Ah wuz jus’ thinkin’, mah folks is away now on a little trip—be home day after tomorrow—we could git married tomorrow.

John. All right. Now run on after the doctor—we must look after our girl. Gee, she’s got a full suit of hair! Glad you didn’t let her chop it off. (Looks away from bed and sees Emma standing still.)

John. Emma, run on after the doctor, honey. (She goes to the bed and again tucks the long braids of hair in, which are again pouring over the side of the bed by the feverish tossing of the girl.) What’s our daughter’s name?

Emma. Lou Lillian. (She returns to the rocker uneasily and sits rocking jerkily. He returns to his seat and turns up the light.)

John. Gee, we’re going to be happy—we gointer make up for all them twenty years (another groan). Emma, git up an’ gwan git dat doctor. You done forgot Ah’m de boss uh dis family now—gwan, while Ah’m here to watch her whilst you’re gone. Ah got to git back to mah stoppin’-place after a while.

Emma. You go git one, John.

John. Whilst Ah’m blunderin’ round tryin’ to find one, she’ll be gettin’ worse. She sounds pretty bad—(takes out his wallet and hands her a bill)—get a taxi if necessary. Hurry!

Emma (does not take the money, but tucks her arms and hair in again, and gives the girl a drink). Reckon Ah better go git a doctor. Don’t want nothin’ to happen to her. After you left, Ah useter have such a hurtin’ in heah (touches bosom) till she come an’ eased it some.

John. Here, take some money and get a good doctor. There must be some good colored ones around here now.

Emma (scornfully). I wouldn’t let one of ’em tend my cat if I had one! But let’s we don’t start a fuss.

(John caresses her again. When he raises his head he notices the picture on the wall and crosses over to it with her—his arm still about her.)

John. Why, that’s you and me!

Emma. Yes, I never could part with that. You coming tomorrow morning, John, and we’re gointer get married, aint we? Then we can talk over everything.

John. Sure, but I aint gone yet. I don’t see how come we can’t make all our arrangements now.

(Groans from bed and feeble movement.)

Good lord, Emma, go get that doctor!

(Emma stares at the girl and the bed and seizes a hat from a nail on the wall. She prepares to go but looks from John to bed and back again. She fumbles about the table and lowers the lamp. Goes to door and opens it. John offers the wallet. She refuses it.)

Emma. Doctor right around the corner. Guess I’ll leave the door open so she can get some air. She won’t need nothing while I’m gone, John. (She crosses and tucks the girl in securely and rushes out, looking backward and pushing the door wide open as she exits. John sits in the chair beside the table. Looks about him—shakes his head. The girl on the bed groans, “water,” “so hot.” John looks about him excitedly. Gives her a drink. Feels her forehead. Takes a clean handkerchief from his pocket and wets it and places it upon her forehead. She raises her hand to the cool object. Enter Emma running. When she sees John at the bed she is full of fury. She rushes over and jerks his shoulder around. They face each other.)