finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man/section_4_part_0.txt
The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man.chapters 10-11
chapters 10-11
{"name": "Chapters X-XI", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180424054150/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-autobiography-of-an-excolored-man/study-guide/summary-chapters-x-xi", "summary": "On the boat back to America, the narrator meets a large, dignified African American man, , a graduate of Howard University. They strike up a friendship and discuss the race question. The doctor is \"broad-minded\" and believes that \"Negroes\" are progressing, although he sympathizes with certain aspects of the white, Southern perspective. The narrator stays with his new friend in Boston for a few days and then accompanies him to Washington D.C., where the doctor lives. The narrator becomes quickly acquainted with the doctor's friends, all educated African Americans, who earn \"good salaries and a reasonable amount of leisure time to draw from\" . The doctor, meanwhile, is very critical of who he deems \"the worst\" of the race. The narrator reflects positively on his time in Washington but then moves on to Macon, Georgia. On the way, he ends up in the smoking car of the train. The men gathered there are cordial and convivial; they include a Jewish cigar maker, a white professor, an ex-Union soldier, and a boisterous Texan planter. The race question comes up. The Jewish man takes neither side but listens and comments politely. The professor is flustered and does not participate. The argument is mostly between the old soldier and the Texan. The Texan does not believe in racial equality at all while the Union soldier argues for it. The Texan tries to claim the superiority of the Anglo-Saxon race, but the soldier ably and eloquently explains that all of the accomplishments of the Anglo-Saxons are built on discoveries made by other races. The Texan is impressed, but jovially says his mind will never be changed. The narrator cannot help but admire his steadfastness, but also hopes that the mental attitudes of Southerners can be changed one day. In Macon, the narrator decides to leave his things behind and travel through the country. He sees rural African Americans for the first time and is not impressed. He is also annoyed with the poor cooking and accommodations of the South, wondering if his millionaire friend was right. He discourses for some time on the differences between the North and the South in their feelings on \"the colored man\". While he is in the South, the narrator also attends a \"big meeting\", which is a large religious gathering. It is a boisterous and exciting atmosphere. The narrator observes one impressive preacher, John Brown, and a music leader, Singing Johnson. Brown demonstrates \"all the arts and tricks of oratory\" and holds his listeners spellbound with his sermons about heaven and hell. Meanwhile, Johnson knows all of the spiritual songs and is a master at leading the congregation. The narrator marvels at the wonder of his songs' production. He feels inspired by this meeting. The narrator decides to stay with a young African American schoolteacher for a few days. This man strikes the narrator as being too earnest about the race question, but intelligent and ambitious nonetheless. They retire to a boarding house but the narrator is stirred awake by a frantic sounds outside. He hears a rumor from the people flowing past the house that a crime has been committed. Defying the schoolteacher's warnings, the narrator leaves the house and joins a crowd at the station. It is mostly white people with some black people at the fringes. A \"poor wretch\", a black man, is dragged into the circle. The white people throw up a fiendish \"rebel yell\", resembling \"savage beasts\". They tie the man to a stake and burn him alive. The narrator is horrified and dazed, but he is also humiliated that he is part of a race that can be victim to such horrible crimes. He is also in disbelief at how \"a people that can find in its conscience any excuse whatever for slowly burning to death a human being, or for tolerating such an act, can be entrusted with the salvation of a race\". He ultimately decides that he will not claim or declaim his blackness and will simply pass for whatever people assume his race to be. He departs for New York. Back in New York, the narrator feels lost but decides to amuse himself for a few days before looking for a job. This endeavor is depressing and he decides to enroll in business school. It is not long before he becomes a clerk in a wholesale house. He lives frugally and then begins investing in real estate, at which he is extremely successful. He passes for white and is content with this until the day he falls in love with a woman. She is a singer and the narrator describes her as \"the most dazzlingly white thing I have ever seen\". They begin courting and he decides he wants to marry her; this makes him wonder if he should tell her the truth about his face. He agonizes over this decision for some time. One Sunday afternoon the narrator and the girl run into Shiny on the street. Now a professor, Shiny is in town to work in a summer school before getting married. The girl is very kind to Shiny and interested in him after he leaves, and the narrator therefore feels comfortable that she will accept his secret. He tells her and she is shocked into silence until she begins weeping. This, the narrator says, is the only moment he ever feels \"absolute regret at being colored\". The girl goes away for the summer and they do not have any communication. The narrator is heart-sick. A few months later, he learns she is back in town and they run into each other at the theater. They meet again at another party and there she confesses that she loves him too. The two are married and have two children; unfortunately, the girl dies in the second childbirth. The narrator claims he will never marry again and devotes his life to his children. He expresses ambivalence about his \"present position in the world\". On the one hand, he is glad he passes as white for his children's sake. On the other hand, he sees prominent African Americans like Booker T. Washington and feels like an insignificant white man who has managed to make some money, a choice which deprived him of standing up for his race. He ends the novel by wondering if \"I have chosen the lesser part...I have sold my birthright for a mess of pottage\". In this section, the narrator travels to Europe and falls in love with Paris. However, he realizes that he needs to get back to his musical career and become a composer. He decides that the best place to do this is in the South, where he can be inspired by the African American music scene. The narrator's confusion and vacillation between being black or white permeates all of his decisions; his ambivalence suggests that he will not ever achieve a hegemonic racial identity. In these last two chapters of the novel, there are multiple depictions of African Americans. The narrator meets the doctor, who the narrator believes represents the best of the race, but back in the South, he is embarrassed by the downtrodden African Americans who populate the streets. He is inspired by the magnetic, impassioned, and authentic personages of Singing Johnson and John Brown, but is disgusted by the absolute debasement of a poor black man who is lynched by a white crowd. In this climactic moment, the anguished narrator comes to the conclusion that he can no longer live openly as a biracial man and that he will be content to pass for white. He decidedly rejects his heritage and embraces a life based on earning money and avoiding the difficulties and indignities that arise from being biracial. It is a willful self-denial seems to haunt him by the end of his story. By the end of the novel, the narrator's goals of making music that represents the traditions of his people and embracing his dual heritage are a distant memory. He is heavy with isolation and remorse. Because the narrator is biracial, he is able to critique both races according to Du Bois's theory of double consciousness. However, he rejects that potential source of power. He is ashamed of his blackness and wants to hide it. The critic Donald Goellnicht writes, \"so complete is the obliteration of an African heritage, so complete is the cultural assimilation to Euro-American values, that psychical bondage is obviated; the compliant subject policies himself.\" The narrative is destabilized by the inversion of what the reader assumes will occur -the narrator's becoming a \"race man\", a man like the doctor on the ship. His ultimate choice to pass as white is unpredictable and disappointing to many readers. On the other hand, it is possible to view the narrator's choice to pass as a veritable slap in the face to fixed notions of the racial divide. The narrator has an African American parent but is able to live and make money in a society dominated by white people without their even knowing it. This begs the question - does it even matter that the narrator is half-black? The marriage between the narrator and his wife would have fallen under the category of miscegenation if he revealed his racial background. The mere fact that the narrator chooses to pass as white may be viewed as a profound example of power and autonomy. He is an individual who chooses the path that he believes is right for himself and, later, for his family. Many critics have claimed that the novel is \"ironic\", but if it is, it is better viewed as a postmodern form of irony that does not rely on a stable referent. The act of \"passing\" can be held up to this standard as well. Passing implies that a person must be racially homogenous, but most cases do not fall neatly on one side of the racial divide. Passing could be intentional or unintentional; it was not just an imposter trying to cross the color line. As critic Neil Brooks explains, \"the physical manifestation of a psychological quest to understand oneself in a society where to be black was often not to have one consistent self, but to have a double self.\" The narrator's multiple identities and contradictions end up becoming his identity. He chooses the easier path but as a result, he cannot achieve any closure. This closure is a trope of the modernist reading of literature, but here is precisely why a postmodernist reading is more appropriate: \"the narrator has created a world where all is organized around himself, but it can never truly be organized because the self he has placed at the center is as unstable as the external world he seeks to control.\" The narrator's lack of a name also underscores his lack of a stable identity. This may indicate that he does not want to be labeled and participate in social classifications. Having always touted himself as the best at whatever he does, his namelessness is one further way for the narrator to overcome society's barriers and achieve material success. The tragedy of his choice is that he can be neither black nor white, and society still propagates arbitrary categorizations that, Brooks writes, \"cannot be applied adequately to the personal narratives of its individual members.\" Since the narrator never embraces a stable identity, the act of passing becomes that identity. His \"freedom from the societal meta-narratives of race\" brings with it \"the chaos of a disordered universe, which is also central to postmodern theory.\" Try as he might, the narrator can never bring closure to his own story. Overall, the novel proffers the idea that ambiguity about race is certainly part of a larger conversation, but that it is ultimately irresolvable.", "analysis": ""}


Among the first of my fellow-passengers of whom I took any particular
notice was a tall, broad-shouldered, almost gigantic, colored man.
His dark-brown face was clean-shaven; he was well-dressed and bore a
decidedly distinguished air. In fact, if he was not handsome, he at
least compelled admiration for his fine physical proportions. He
attracted general attention as he strode the deck in a sort of
majestic loneliness. I became curious to know who he was and
determined to strike up an acquaintance with him at the first
opportune moment. The chance came a day or two later. He was sitting
in the smoking-room, with a cigar, which had gone out, in his mouth,
reading a novel. I sat down beside him and, offering him a fresh
cigar, said: "You don't mind my telling you something unpleasant, do
you?" He looked at me with a smile, accepted the proffered cigar,
and replied in a voice which comported perfectly with his size and
appearance: "I think my curiosity overcomes any objections I might
have." "Well," I said, "have you noticed that the man who sat at your
right in the saloon during the first meal has not sat there since?" He
frowned slightly without answering my question. "Well," I continued,
"he asked the steward to remove him; and not only that, he attempted
to persuade a number of the passengers to protest against your
presence in the dining-saloon." The big man at my side took a long
draw from his cigar, threw his head back, and slowly blew a great
cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. Then turning to me he said: "Do you
know, I don't object to anyone's having prejudices so long as those
prejudices don't interfere with my personal liberty. Now, the man you
are speaking of had a perfect right to change his seat if I in any way
interfered with his appetite or his digestion. I should have no reason
to complain if he removed to the farthest corner of the saloon, or
even if he got off the ship; but when his prejudice attempts to move
_me_ one foot, one inch, out of the place where I am comfortably
located, then I object." On the word "object" he brought his great
fist down on the table in front of us with such a crash that
everyone in the room turned to look. We both covered up the slight
embarrassment with a laugh and strolled out on the deck.

We walked the deck for an hour or more, discussing different phases
of the Negro question. In referring to the race I used the personal
pronoun "we"; my companion made no comment about it, nor evinced any
surprise, except to raise his eyebrows slightly the first time he
caught the significance of the word. He was the broadest-minded
colored man I have ever talked with on the Negro question. He even
went so far as to sympathize with and offer excuses for some white
Southern points of view. I asked him what were his main reasons for
being so hopeful. He replied: "In spite of all that is written, said,
and done, this great, big, incontrovertible fact stands out--the Negro
is progressing, and that disproves all the arguments in the world
that he is incapable of progress. I was born in slavery, and at
emancipation was set adrift a ragged, penniless bit of humanity. I
have seen the Negro in every grade, and I know what I am talking
about. Our detractors point to the increase of crime as evidence
against us; certainly we have progressed in crime as in other things;
what less could be expected? And yet, in this respect, we are far from
the point which has been reached by the more highly civilized white
race. As we continue to progress, crime among us will gradually lose
much of its brutal, vulgar, I might say healthy, aspect, and become
more delicate, refined, and subtle. Then it will be less shocking and
noticeable, although more dangerous to society." Then dropping his
tone of irony, he continued with some show of eloquence: "But, above
all, when I am discouraged and disheartened, I have this to fall back
on: if there is a principle of right in the world, which finally
prevails, and I believe that there is; if there is a merciful but
justice-loving God in heaven, and I believe that there is, we shall
win; for we have right on our side, while those who oppose us can
defend themselves by nothing in the moral law, nor even by anything in
the enlightened thought of the present age."

For several days, together with other topics, we discussed the race
problem, not only of the United States, but as it affected native
Africans and Jews. Finally, before we reached Boston, our conversation
had grown familiar and personal. I had told him something of my past
and much about my intentions for the future. I learned that he was a
physician, a graduate of Howard University, Washington, and had done
post-graduate work in Philadelphia; and this was his second trip
abroad to attend professional courses. He had practiced for some years
in the city of Washington, and though he did not say so, I gathered
that his practice was a lucrative one. Before we left the ship, he
had made me promise that I would stop two or three days in Washington
before going on south.

We put up at a hotel in Boston for a couple of days and visited
several of my new friend's acquaintances; they were all people of
education and culture and, apparently, of means. I could not help
being struck by the great difference between them and the same class
of colored people in the South. In speech and thought they were
genuine Yankees. The difference was especially noticeable in their
speech. There was none of that heavy-tongued enunciation which
characterizes even the best-educated colored people of the South. It
is remarkable, after all, what an adaptable creature the Negro is.
I have seen the black West Indian gentleman in London, and he is in
speech and manners a perfect Englishman. I have seen natives of Haiti
and Martinique in Paris, and they are more Frenchy than a Frenchman.
I have no doubt that the Negro would make a good Chinaman, with
exception of the pigtail.

My stay in Washington, instead of being two or three days, was two or
three weeks. This was my first visit to the national capital, and
I was, of course, interested in seeing the public buildings and
something of the working of the government; but most of my time I
spent with the doctor among his friends and acquaintances. The social
phase of life among colored people is more developed in Washington
than in any other city in the country. This is on account of the large
number of individuals earning good salaries and having a reasonable
amount of leisure time to draw from. There are dozens of physicians
and lawyers, scores of school teachers, and hundreds of clerks in the
departments. As to the colored department clerks, I think it fair to
say that in educational equipment they average above the white clerks
of the same grade; for, whereas a colored college graduate will seek
such a job, the white university man goes into one of the many higher
vocations which are open to him.

In a previous chapter I spoke of social life among colored people; so
there is no need to take it up again here. But there is one thing
I did not mention: among Negroes themselves there is the peculiar
inconsistency of a color question. Its existence is rarely admitted
and hardly ever mentioned; it may not be too strong a statement to say
that the greater portion of the race is unconscious of its influence;
yet this influence, though silent, is constant. It is evidenced most
plainly in marriage selection; thus the black men generally marry
women fairer than themselves; while, on the other hand, the dark
women of stronger mental endowment are very often married to
light-complexioned men; the effect is a tendency toward lighter
complexions, especially among the more active elements in the race.
Some might claim that this is a tacit admission of colored people
among themselves of their own inferiority judged by the color line. I
do not think so. What I have termed an inconsistency is, after all,
most natural; it is, in fact, a tendency in accordance with what might
be called an economic necessity. So far as racial differences go, the
United States puts a greater premium on color, or, better, lack of
color, than upon anything else in the world. To paraphrase, "Have a
white skin, and all things else may be added unto you." I have seen
advertisements in newspapers for waiters, bell-boys, or elevator men,
which read: "Light-colored man wanted." It is this tremendous pressure
which the sentiment of the country exerts that is operating on the
race. There is involved not only the question of higher opportunity,
but often the question of earning a livelihood; and so I say it is not
strange, but a natural tendency. Nor is it any more a sacrifice of
self-respect that a black man should give to his children every
advantage he can which complexion of the skin carries than that the
new or vulgar rich should purchase for their children the advantages
which ancestry, aristocracy, and social position carry. I once heard a
colored man sum it up in these words: "It's no disgrace to be black,
but it's often very inconvenient."

Washington shows the Negro not only at his best, but also at his
worst. As I drove around with the doctor, he commented rather harshly
on those of the latter class which we saw. He remarked: "You see those
lazy, loafing, good-for-nothing darkies; they're not worth digging
graves for; yet they are the ones who create impressions of the race
for the casual observer. It's because they are always in evidence on
the street corners, while the rest of us are hard at work, and
you know a dozen loafing darkies make a bigger crowd and a worse
impression in this country than fifty white men of the same class. But
they ought not to represent the race. We are the race, and the race
ought to be judged by us, not by them. Every race and every nation
should be judged by the best it has been able to produce, not by the
worst."

The recollection of my stay in Washington is a pleasure to me now.
In company with the doctor I visited Howard University, the public
schools, the excellent colored hospital, with which he was in some
way connected, if I remember correctly, and many comfortable and even
elegant homes. It was with some reluctance that I continued my journey
south. The doctor was very kind in giving me letters to people in
Richmond and Nashville when I told him that I intended to stop in
both of these cities. In Richmond a man who was then editing a very
creditable colored newspaper gave me a great deal of his time and made
my stay there of three or four days very pleasant. In Nashville
I spent a whole day at Fisk University, the home of the "Jubilee
Singers," and was more than repaid for my time. Among my letters of
introduction was one to a very prosperous physician. He drove me about
the city and introduced me to a number of people. From Nashville I
went to Atlanta, where I stayed long enough to gratify an old desire
to see Atlanta University again. I then continued my journey to Macon.

During the trip from Nashville to Atlanta I went into the
smoking-compartment of the car to smoke a cigar. I was traveling in a
Pullman, not because of an abundance of funds, but because through my
experience with my millionaire a certain amount of comfort and luxury
had become a necessity to me whenever it was obtainable. When I
entered the car, I found only a couple of men there; but in a
half-hour there were half a dozen or more. From the general
conversation I learned that a fat Jewish-looking man was a cigar
manufacturer, and was experimenting in growing Havana tobacco in
Florida; that a slender bespectacled young man was from Ohio and
a professor in some State institution in Alabama; that a
white-mustached, well-dressed man was an old Union soldier who had
fought through the Civil War; and that a tall, raw-boned, red-faced
man, who seemed bent on leaving nobody in ignorance of the fact that
he was from Texas, was a cotton planter.

In the North men may ride together for hours in a "smoker" and unless
they are acquainted with each other never exchange a word; in the
South men thrown together in such manner are friends in fifteen
minutes. There is always present a warm-hearted cordiality which will
melt down the most frigid reserve. It may be because Southerners are
very much like Frenchmen in that they must talk; and not only must
they talk, but they must express their opinions.

The talk in the car was for a while miscellaneous--on the weather,
crops, business prospects; the old Union soldier had invested capital
in Atlanta, and he predicted that that city would soon be one of the
greatest in the country. Finally the conversation drifted to politics;
then, as a natural sequence, turned upon the Negro question.

In the discussion of the race question the diplomacy of the Jew was
something to be admired; he had the faculty of agreeing with everybody
without losing his allegiance to any side. He knew that to sanction
Negro oppression would be to sanction Jewish oppression and would
expose him to a shot along that line from the old soldier, who stood
firmly on the ground of equal rights and opportunity to all men; long
traditions and business instincts told him when in Rome to act as a
Roman. Altogether his position was a delicate one, and I gave him
credit for the skill he displayed in maintaining it. The young
professor was apologetic. He had had the same views as the G.A.R. man;
but a year in the South had opened his eyes, and he had to confess
that the problem could hardly be handled any better than it was being
handled by the Southern whites. To which the G.A.R. man responded
somewhat rudely that he had spent ten times as many years in the South
as his young friend and that he could easily understand how holding a
position in a State institution in Alabama would bring about a change
of views. The professor turned very red and had very little more to
say. The Texan was fierce, eloquent, and profane in his argument, and,
in a lower sense, there was a direct logic in what he said, which was
convincing; it was only by taking higher ground, by dealing in what
Southerners call "theories," that he could be combated. Occasionally
some one of the several other men in the "smoker" would throw in a
remark to reinforce what he said, but he really didn't need any help;
he was sufficient in himself.

In the course of a short time the controversy narrowed itself down
to an argument between the old soldier and the Texan. The latter
maintained hotly that the Civil War was a criminal mistake on the part
of the North and that the humiliation which the South suffered during
Reconstruction could never be forgotten. The Union man retorted just
as hotly that the South was responsible for the war and that the
spirit of unforgetfulness on its part was the greatest cause of
present friction; that it seemed to be the one great aim of the South
to convince the North that the latter made a mistake in fighting to
preserve the Union and liberate the slaves. "Can you imagine," he went
on to say, "what would have been the condition of things eventually if
there had been no war, and the South had been allowed to follow its
course? Instead of one great, prosperous country with nothing before
it but the conquests of peace, a score of petty republics, as in
Central and South America, wasting their energies in war with each
other or in revolutions."

"Well," replied the Texan, "anything--no country at all--is better
than having niggers over you. But anyhow, the war was fought and the
niggers were freed; for it's no use beating around the bush, the
niggers, and not the Union, was the cause of it; and now do you
believe that all the niggers on earth are worth the good white blood
that was spilt? You freed the nigger and you gave him the ballot, but
you couldn't make a citizen out of him. He don't know what he's voting
for, and we buy 'em like so many hogs. You're giving 'em education,
but that only makes slick rascals out of 'em."

"Don't fancy for a moment," said the Northern man, "that you have any
monopoly in buying ignorant votes. The same thing is done on a larger
scale in New York and Boston, and in Chicago and San Francisco; and
they are not black votes either. As to education's making the Negro
worse, you might just as well tell me that religion does the same
thing. And, by the way, how many educated colored men do you know
personally?"

The Texan admitted that he knew only one, and added that he was in
the penitentiary. "But," he said, "do you mean to claim, ballot or
no ballot, education or no education, that niggers are the equals of
white men?"

"That's not the question," answered the other, "but if the Negro is so
distinctly inferior, it is a strange thing to me that it takes such
tremendous effort on the part of the white man to make him realize it,
and to keep him in the same place into which inferior men naturally
fall. However, let us grant for sake of argument that the Negro is
inferior in every respect to the white man; that fact only increases
our moral responsibility in regard to our actions toward him.
Inequalities of numbers, wealth, and power, even of intelligence and
morals, should make no difference in the essential rights of men."

"If he's inferior and weaker, and is shoved to the wall, that's his
own look-out," said the Texan. "That's the law of nature; and he's
bound to go to the wall; for no race in the world has ever been able
to stand competition with the Anglo-Saxon. The Anglo-Saxon race has
always been and always will be the masters of the world, and the
niggers in the South ain't going to change all the records of
history."

"My friend," said the old soldier slowly, "if you have studied
history, will you tell me, as confidentially between white men, what
the Anglo-Saxon has ever done?"

The Texan was too much astonished by the question to venture any
reply.

His opponent continued: "Can you name a single one of the great
fundamental and original intellectual achievements which have
raised man in the scale of civilization that may be credited to the
Anglo-Saxon? The art of letters, of poetry, of music, of sculpture, of
painting, of the drama, of architecture; the science of mathematics,
of astronomy, of philosophy, of logic, of physics, of chemistry, the
use of the metals, and the principles of mechanics, were all invented
or discovered by darker and what we now call inferior races and
nations. We have carried many of these to their highest point of
perfection, but the foundation was laid by others. Do you know the
only original contribution to civilization we can claim is what we
have done in steam and electricity and in making implements of war
more deadly? And there we worked largely on principles which we did
not discover. Why, we didn't even originate the religion we use. We
are a great race, the greatest in the world today, but we ought to
remember that we are standing on a pile of past races, and enjoy our
position with a little less show of arrogance. We are simply having
our turn at the game, and we were a long time getting to it. After
all, racial supremacy is merely a matter of dates in history. The man
here who belongs to what is, all in all, the greatest race the world
ever produced, is almost ashamed to own it. If the Anglo-Saxon is
the source of everything good and great in the human race from
the beginning, why wasn't the German forest the birthplace of
civilization, rather than the valley of the Nile?"

The Texan was somewhat disconcerted, for the argument had passed a
little beyond his limits, but he swung it back to where he was sure of
his ground by saying: "All that may be true, but it hasn't got much to
do with us and the niggers here in the South. We've got 'em here,
and we've got 'em to live with, and it's a question of white man or
nigger, no middle ground. You want us to treat niggers as equals. Do
you want to see 'em sitting around in our parlors? Do you want to see
a mulatto South? To bring it right home to you, would you let your
daughter marry a nigger?"

"No, I wouldn't consent to my daughter's marrying a nigger, but that
doesn't prevent my treating a black man fairly. And I don't see what
fair treatment has to do with niggers sitting around in your parlors;
they can't come there unless they're invited. Out of all the white men
I know, only a hundred or so have the privilege of sitting around in
my parlor. As to the mulatto South, if you Southerners have one boast
that is stronger than another, it is your women; you put them on a
pinnacle of purity and virtue and bow down in a chivalric worship
before them; yet you talk and act as though, should you treat the
Negro fairly and take the anti-inter-marriage laws off your statute
books, these same women would rush into the arms of black lovers and
husbands. It's a wonder to me that they don't rise up and resent the
insult."

"Colonel," said the Texan, as he reached into his handbag and brought
out a large flask of whisky, "you might argue from now until hell
freezes over, and you might convince me that you're right, but you'll
never convince me that I'm wrong. All you say sounds very good, but
it's got nothing to do with facts. You can say what men ought to be,
but they ain't that; so there you are. Down here in the South we're up
against facts, and we're meeting 'em like facts. We don't believe the
nigger is or ever will be the equal of the white man, and we ain't
going to treat him as an equal; I'll be damned if we will. Have a
drink." Everybody except the professor partook of the generous Texan's
flask, and the argument closed in a general laugh and good feeling.

I went back into the main part of the car with the conversation on my
mind. Here I had before me the bald, raw, naked aspects of the race
question in the South; and, in consideration of the step I was just
taking, it was far from encouraging. The sentiments of the Texan--and
he expressed the sentiments of the South--fell upon me like a chill. I
was sick at heart. Yet I must confess that underneath it all I felt a
certain sort of admiration for the man who could not be swayed from
what he held as his principles. Contrasted with him, the young Ohio
professor was indeed a pitiable character. And all along, in spite of
myself, I have been compelled to accord the same kind of admiration to
the Southern white man for the manner in which he defends not only his
virtues, but his vices. He knows that, judged by a high standard, he
is narrow and prejudiced, that he is guilty of unfairness, oppression,
and cruelty, but this he defends as stoutly as he would his better
qualities. This same spirit obtains in a great degree among the
blacks; they, too, defend their faults and failings. This they
generally do whenever white people are concerned. And yet among
themselves they are their own most merciless critics. I have never
heard the race so terribly arraigned as I have by colored speakers to
strictly colored audiences. It is the spirit of the South to defend
everything belonging to it. The North is too cosmopolitan and tolerant
for such a spirit. If you should say to an Easterner that Paris is a
gayer city than New York, he would be likely to agree with you, or
at least to let you have your own way; but to suggest to a South
Carolinian that Boston is a nicer city to live in than Charleston
would be to stir his greatest depths of argument and eloquence.

But to-day, as I think over that smoking-car argument, I can see it
in a different light. The Texan's position does not render things
so hopeless, for it indicates that the main difficulty of the race
question does not lie so much in the actual condition of the blacks as
it does in the mental attitude of the whites; and a mental attitude,
especially one not based on truth, can be changed more easily than
actual conditions. That is to say, the burden of the question is not
that the whites are struggling to save ten million despondent and
moribund people from sinking into a hopeless slough of ignorance,
poverty, and barbarity in their very midst, but that they are
unwilling to open certain doors of opportunity and to accord certain
treatment to ten million aspiring, education-and-property-acquiring
people. In a word, the difficulty of the problem is not so much due to
the facts presented as to the hypothesis assumed for its solution. In
this it is similar to the problem of the solar system. By a complex,
confusing, and almost contradictory mathematical process, by the use
of zigzags instead of straight lines, the earth can be proved to be
the center of things celestial; but by an operation so simple that it
can be comprehended by a schoolboy, its position can be verified
among the other worlds which revolve about the sun, and its movements
harmonized with the laws of the universe. So, when the white race
assumes as a hypothesis that it is the main object of creation and
that all things else are merely subsidiary to its well-being,
sophism, subterfuge, perversion of conscience, arrogance, injustice,
oppression, cruelty, sacrifice of human blood, all are required to
maintain the position, and its dealings with other races become
indeed a problem, a problem which, if based on a hypothesis of common
humanity, could be solved by the simple rules of justice.

When I reached Macon, I decided to leave my trunk and all my surplus
belongings, to pack my bag, and strike out into the interior. This
I did; and by train, by mule and ox-cart, I traveled through many
counties. This was my first real experience among rural colored
people, and all that I saw was interesting to me; but there was a
great deal which does not require description at my hands; for log
cabins and plantations and dialect-speaking "darkies" are perhaps
better known in American literature than any other single picture of
our national life. Indeed, they form an ideal and exclusive literary
concept of the American Negro to such an extent that it is almost
impossible to get the reading public to recognize him in any other
setting; so I shall endeavor to avoid giving the reader any already
overworked and hackneyed descriptions. This generally accepted
literary ideal of the American Negro constitutes what is really an
obstacle in the way of the thoughtful and progressive element of
the race. His character has been established as a happy-go-lucky,
laughing, shuffling, banjo-picking being, and the reading public has
not yet been prevailed upon to take him seriously. His efforts
to elevate himself socially are looked upon as a sort of absurd
caricature of "white civilization." A novel dealing with colored
people who lived in respectable homes and amidst a fair degree of
culture and who naturally acted "just like white folks" would be taken
in a comic-opera sense. In this respect the Negro is much in the
position of a great comedian who gives up the lighter roles to play
tragedy. No matter how well he may portray the deeper passions,
the public is loath to give him up in his old character; they even
conspire to make him a failure in serious work, in order to force him
back into comedy. In the same respect, the public is not too much
to be blamed, for great comedians are far more scarce than mediocre
tragedians; every amateur actor is a tragedian. However, this very
fact constitutes the opportunity of the future Negro novelist and poet
to give the country something new and unknown, in depicting the life,
the ambitions, the struggles, and the passions of those of their race
who are striving to break the narrow limits of traditions. A beginning
has already been made in that remarkable book by Dr. Du Bois, _The
Souls of Black Folk_.

Much, too, that I saw while on this trip, in spite of my enthusiasm,
was disheartening. Often I thought of what my millionaire had said to
me, and wished myself back in Europe. The houses in which I had to
stay were generally uncomfortable, sometimes worse. I often had to
sleep in a division or compartment with several other people. Once or
twice I was not so fortunate as to find divisions; everybody slept
on pallets on the floor. Frequently I was able to lie down and
contemplate the stars which were in their zenith. The food was at
times so distasteful and poorly cooked that I could not eat it. I
remember that once I lived for a week or more on buttermilk, on
account of not being able to stomach the fat bacon, the rank
turnip-tops, and the heavy damp mixture of meal, salt, and water which
was called corn bread. It was only my ambition to do the work which I
had planned that kept me steadfast to my purpose. Occasionally I would
meet with some signs of progress and uplift in even one of these
back-wood settlements--houses built of boards, with windows, and
divided into rooms; decent food, and a fair standard of living. This
condition was due to the fact that there was in the community some
exceptionally capable Negro farmer whose thrift served as an example.
As I went about among these dull, simple people--the great majority
of them hard working, in their relations with the whites submissive,
faithful, and often affectionate, negatively content with their
lot--and contrasted them with those of the race who had been quickened
by the forces of thought, I could not but appreciate the logic of the
position held by those Southern leaders who have been bold enough to
proclaim against the education of the Negro. They are consistent in
their public speech with Southern sentiment and desires. Those public
men of the South who have not been daring or heedless enough to
defy the ideals of twentieth-century civilization and of modern
humanitarianism and philanthropy, find themselves in the embarrassing
situation of preaching one thing and praying for another. They are in
the position of the fashionable woman who is compelled by the laws of
polite society to say to her dearest enemy: "How happy I am to see
you!"

And yet in this respect how perplexing is Southern character; for, in
opposition to the above, it may be said that the claim of the Southern
whites that they love the Negro better than the Northern whites do is
in a manner true. Northern white people love the Negro in a sort of
abstract way, as a race; through a sense of justice, charity, and
philanthropy, they will liberally assist in his elevation. A number of
them have heroically spent their lives in this effort (and just here I
wish to say that when the colored people reach the monument-building
stage, they should not forget the men and women who went South after
the war and founded schools for them). Yet, generally speaking, they
have no particular liking for individuals of the race. Southern white
people despise the Negro as a race, and will do nothing to aid in his
elevation as such; but for certain individuals they have a strong
affection, and are helpful to them in many ways. With these individual
members of the race they live on terms of the greatest intimacy; they
entrust to them their children, their family treasures, and their
family secrets; in trouble they often go to them for comfort
and counsel; in sickness they often rely upon their care. This
affectionate relation between the Southern whites and those blacks
who come into close touch with them has not been overdrawn even in
fiction.

This perplexity of Southern character extends even to the intermixture
of the races. That is spoken of as though it were dreaded worse than
smallpox, leprosy, or the plague. Yet, when I was in Jacksonville, I
knew several prominent families there with large colored branches,
which went by the same name and were known and acknowledged as blood
relatives. And what is more, there seemed to exist between these
black brothers and sisters and uncles and aunts a decidedly friendly
feeling.

I said above that Southern whites would do nothing for the Negro as
a race. I know the South claims that it has spent millions for
the education of the blacks, and that it has of its own free will
shouldered this awful burden. It seems to be forgetful of the fact
that these millions have been taken from the public tax funds for
education, and that the law of political economy which recognizes the
land owner as the one who really pays the taxes is not tenable. It
would be just as reasonable for the relatively few land owners of
Manhattan to complain that they had to stand the financial burden of
the education of the thousands and thousands of children whose parents
pay rent for tenements and flats. Let the millions of producing and
consuming Negroes be taken out of the South, and it would be quickly
seen how much less of public funds there would be to appropriate for
education or any other purpose.

In thus traveling about through the country I was sometimes amused
on arriving at some little railroad-station town to be taken for and
treated as a white man, and six hours later, when it was learned that
I was stopping at the house of the colored preacher or school teacher,
to note the attitude of the whole town change. At times this led even
to embarrassment. Yet it cannot be so embarrassing for a colored man
to be taken for white as for a white man to be taken for colored; and
I have heard of several cases of the latter kind.

All this while I was gathering material for work, jotting down in my
note-book themes and melodies, and trying to catch the spirit of the
Negro in his relatively primitive state. I began to feel the necessity
of hurrying so that I might get back to some city like Nashville to
begin my compositions and at the same time earn at least a living
by teaching and performing before my funds gave out. At the last
settlement in which I stopped I found a mine of material. This was due
to the fact that "big meeting" was in progress. "Big meeting" is an
institution something like camp-meeting, the difference being that it
is held in a permanent church, and not in a temporary structure. All
the churches of some one denomination--of course, either Methodist or
Baptist--in a county, or, perhaps, in several adjoining counties, are
closed, and the congregations unite at some centrally located church
for a series of meetings lasting a week. It is really a social as well
as a religious function. The people come in great numbers, making the
trip, according to their financial status, in buggies drawn by sleek,
fleet-footed mules, in ox-carts, or on foot. It was amusing to see
some of the latter class trudging down the hot and dusty road, with
their shoes, which were brand-new, strung across their shoulders. When
they got near the church, they sat on the side of the road and, with
many grimaces, tenderly packed their feet into those instruments of
torture. This furnished, indeed, a trying test of their religion. The
famous preachers come from near and far and take turns in warning
sinners of the day of wrath. Food, in the form of those two Southern
luxuries, fried chicken and roast pork, is plentiful, and no one need
go hungry. On the opening Sunday the women are immaculate in starched
stiff white dresses adorned with ribbons, either red or blue. Even a
great many of the men wear streamers of vari-colored ribbons in the
buttonholes of their coats. A few of them carefully cultivate a
forelock of hair by wrapping it in twine, and on such festive
occasions decorate it with a narrow ribbon streamer. Big meetings
afford a fine opportunity to the younger people to meet each other
dressed in their Sunday clothes, and much rustic courting, which is as
enjoyable as any other kind, is indulged in.

This big meeting which I was lucky enough to catch was particularly
well attended; the extra large attendance was due principally to two
attractions, a man by the name of John Brown, who was renowned as the
most powerful preacher for miles around; and a wonderful leader of
singing, who was known as "Singing Johnson." These two men were a
study and a revelation to me. They caused me to reflect upon how great
an influence their types have been in the development of the Negro
in America. Both these types are now looked upon generally with
condescension or contempt by the progressive element among the colored
people; but it should never be forgotten that it was they who led the
race from paganism and kept it steadfast to Christianity through all
the long, dark years of slavery.

John Brown was a jet-black man of medium size, with a strikingly
intelligent head and face, and a voice like an organ peal. He preached
each night after several lesser lights had successively held the
pulpit during an hour or so. As far as subject-matter is concerned,
all of the sermons were alike: each began with the fall of man, ran
through various trials and tribulations of the Hebrew children, on
to the redemption by Christ, and ended with a fervid picture of the
judgment day and the fate of the damned. But John Brown possessed
magnetism and an imagination so free and daring that he was able to
carry through what the other preachers would not attempt. He knew all
the arts and tricks of oratory, the modulation of the voice to almost
a whisper, the pause for effect, the rise through light, rapid-fire
sentences to the terrific, thundering outburst of an electrifying
climax. In addition, he had the intuition of a born theatrical
manager. Night after night this man held me fascinated. He convinced
me that, after all, eloquence consists more in the manner of saying
than in what is said. It is largely a matter of tone pictures.

The most striking example of John Brown's magnetism and imagination
was his "heavenly march"; I shall never forget how it impressed
me when I heard it. He opened his sermon in the usual way; then,
proclaiming to his listeners that he was going to take them on the
heavenly march, he seized the Bible under his arm and began to pace up
and down the pulpit platform. The congregation immediately began with
their feet a tramp, tramp, tramp, in time with the preacher's march
in the pulpit, all the while singing in an undertone a hymn about
marching to Zion. Suddenly he cried: "Halt!" Every foot stopped with
the precision of a company of well-drilled soldiers, and the singing
ceased. The morning star had been reached. Here the preacher described
the beauties of that celestial body. Then the march, the tramp, tramp,
tramp, and the singing were again taken up. Another "Halt!" They
had reached the evening star. And so on, past the sun and moon--the
intensity of religious emotion all the time increasing--along the
milky way, on up to the gates of heaven. Here the halt was longer,
and the preacher described at length the gates and walls of the New
Jerusalem. Then he took his hearers through the pearly gates, along
the golden streets, pointing out the glories of the city, pausing
occasionally to greet some patriarchal members of the church,
well-known to most of his listeners in life, who had had "the tears
wiped from their eyes, were clad in robes of spotless white, with
crowns of gold upon their heads and harps within their hands," and
ended his march before the great white throne. To the reader this may
sound ridiculous, but listened to under the circumstances, it was
highly and effectively dramatic. I was a more or less sophisticated
and non-religious man of the world, but the torrent of the preacher's
words, moving with the rhythm and glowing with the eloquence of
primitive poetry, swept me along, and I, too, felt like joining in the
shouts of "Amen! Hallelujah!"

John Brown's powers in describing the delights of heaven were no
greater than those in depicting the horrors of hell. I saw great,
strapping fellows trembling and weeping like children at the
"mourners' bench." His warnings to sinners were truly terrible. I
shall never forget one expression that he used, which for originality
and aptness could not be excelled. In my opinion, it is more graphic
and, for us, far more expressive than St. Paul's "It is hard to
kick against the pricks." He struck the attitude of a pugilist and
thundered out: "Young man, your arm's too short to box with God!"

Interesting as was John Brown to me, the other man, "Singing Johnson,"
was more so. He was a small, dark-brown, one-eyed man, with a clear,
strong, high-pitched voice, a leader of singing, a maker of songs, a
man who could improvise at the moment lines to fit the occasion. Not
so striking a figure as John Brown, but, at "big meetings," equally
important. It is indispensable to the success of the singing, when
the congregation is a large one made up of people from different
communities, to have someone with a strong voice who knows just what
hymn to sing and when to sing it, who can pitch it in the right key,
and who has all the leading lines committed to memory. Sometimes it
devolves upon the leader to "sing down" a long-winded or uninteresting
speaker. Committing to memory the leading lines of all the Negro
spiritual songs is no easy task, for they run up into the hundreds.
But the accomplished leader must know them all, because the
congregation sings only the refrains and repeats; every ear in the
church is fixed upon him, and if he becomes mixed in his lines or
forgets them, the responsibility falls directly on his shoulders.

For example, most of these hymns are constructed to be sung in the
following manner:

  Leader. _Swing low, sweet chariot._
  Congregation. _Coming for to carry me home._
  Leader. _Swing low, sweet chariot._
  Congregation. _Coming for to carry me home._
  Leader. _I look over yonder, what do I see?_
  Congregation. _Coming for to carry me home._
  Leader. _Two little angels coming after me._
  Congregation. _Coming for to carry me home...._

The solitary and plaintive voice of the leader is answered by a sound
like the roll of the sea, producing a most curious effect.

In only a few of these songs do the leader and the congregation start
off together. Such a song is the well-known "Steal away to Jesus."

The leader and the congregation begin with part-singing:

  _Steal away, steal away,
  Steal away to Jesus;
  Steal away, steal away home,
  I ain't got long to stay here._

Then the leader alone or the congregation in unison:

  _My Lord he calls me,
  He calls me by the thunder,
  The trumpet sounds within-a my soul._

Then all together:

  _I ain't got long to stay here._

The leader and the congregation again take up the opening refrain;
then the leader sings three more leading lines alone, and so on almost
_ad infinitum_. It will be seen that even here most of the work falls
upon the leader, for the congregation sings the same lines over and
over, while his memory and ingenuity are taxed to keep the songs
going.

Generally the parts taken up by the congregation are sung in a
three-part harmony, the women singing the soprano and a transposed
tenor, the men with high voices singing the melody, and those with
low voices a thundering bass. In a few of these songs, however, the
leading part is sung in unison by the whole congregation, down to
the last line, which is harmonized. The effect of this is intensely
thrilling. Such a hymn is "Go down, Moses." It stirs the heart like a
trumpet call.

"Singing Johnson" was an ideal leader, and his services were in great
demand. He spent his time going about the country from one church
to another. He received his support in much the same way as the
preachers--part of a collection, food and lodging. All of his leisure
time he devoted to originating new words and melodies and new lines
for old songs. He always sang with his eyes--or, to be more exact, his
eye--closed, indicating the _tempo_ by swinging his head to and fro.
He was a great judge of the proper hymn to sing at a particular
moment; and I noticed several times, when the preacher reached a
certain climax, or expressed a certain sentiment, that Johnson broke
in with a line or two of some appropriate hymn. The speaker understood
and would pause until the singing ceased.

As I listened to the singing of these songs, the wonder of their
production grew upon me more and more. How did the men who originated
them manage to do it? The sentiments are easily accounted for; they
are mostly taken from the Bible; but the melodies, where did they come
from? Some of them so weirdly sweet, and others so wonderfully strong.
Take, for instance, "Go down, Moses." I doubt that there is a stronger
theme in the whole musical literature of the world. And so many of
these songs contain more than mere melody; there is sounded in them
that elusive undertone, the note in music which is not heard with the
ears. I sat often with the tears rolling down my cheeks and my heart
melted within me. Any musical person who has never heard a Negro
congregation under the spell of religious fervor sing these old songs
has missed one of the most thrilling emotions which the human heart
may experience. Anyone who without shedding tears can listen to
Negroes sing "Nobody knows de trouble I see, Nobody knows but Jesus"
must indeed have a heart of stone.

As yet, the Negroes themselves do not fully appreciate these old slave
songs. The educated classes are rather ashamed of them and prefer to
sing hymns from books. This feeling is natural; they are still too
close to the conditions under which the songs were produced; but
the day will come when this slave music will be the most treasured
heritage of the American Negro.

At the close of the "big meeting" I left the settlement where it was
being held, full of enthusiasm. I was in that frame of mind which, in
the artistic temperament, amounts to inspiration. I was now ready and
anxious to get to some place where I might settle down to work, and
give expression to the ideas which were teeming in my head; but I
strayed into another deviation from my path of life as I had it marked
out, which led me upon an entirely different road. Instead of going
to the nearest and most convenient railroad station, I accepted the
invitation of a young man who had been present the closing Sunday at
the meeting to drive with him some miles farther to the town in which
he taught school, and there take the train. My conversation with
this young man as we drove along through the country was
extremely interesting. He had been a student in one of the Negro
colleges--strange coincidence, in the very college, as I learned
through him, in which "Shiny" was now a professor. I was, of course,
curious to hear about my boyhood friend; and had it not been vacation
time, and that I was not sure that I should find him, I should have
gone out of my way to pay him a visit; but I determined to write to
him as soon as the school opened. My companion talked to me about his
work among the people, of his hopes and his discouragements. He was
tremendously in earnest; I might say, too much so. In fact, it may
be said that the majority of intelligent colored people are, in some
degree, too much in earnest over the race question. They assume and
carry so much that their progress is at times impeded and they are
unable to see things in their proper proportions. In many instances a
slight exercise of the sense of humor would save much anxiety of soul.
Anyone who marks the general tone of editorials in colored newspapers
is apt to be impressed with this idea. If the mass of Negroes took
their present and future as seriously as do the most of their leaders,
the race would be in no mental condition to sustain the terrible
pressure which it undergoes; it would sink of its own weight. Yet it
must be acknowledged that in the making of a race overseriousness is
a far lesser failing than its reverse, and even the faults resulting
from it lean toward the right.

We drove into the town just before dark. As we passed a large,
unpainted church, my companion pointed it out as the place where he
held his school. I promised that I would go there with him the next
morning and visit awhile. The town was of that kind which hardly
requires or deserves description; a straggling line of brick and
wooden stores on one side of the railroad track and some cottages of
various sizes on the other side constituted about the whole of it. The
young school teacher boarded at the best house in the place owned by
a colored man. It was painted, had glass windows, contained "store
bought" furniture, an organ, and lamps with chimneys. The owner held a
job of some kind on the railroad. After supper it was not long before
everybody was sleepy. I occupied the room with the school teacher. In
a few minutes after we got into the room he was in bed and asleep; but
I took advantage of the unusual luxury of a lamp which gave light, and
sat looking over my notes and jotting down some ideas which were still
fresh in my mind. Suddenly I became conscious of that sense of alarm
which is always aroused by the sound of hurrying footsteps on the
silence of the night. I stopped work and looked at my watch. It was
after eleven. I listened, straining every nerve to hear above the
tumult of my quickening pulse. I caught the murmur of voices, then
the gallop of a horse, then of another and another. Now thoroughly
alarmed, I woke my companion, and together we both listened. After a
moment he put out the light and softly opened the window-blind, and we
cautiously peeped out. We saw men moving in one direction, and from
the mutterings we vaguely caught the rumor that some terrible crime
had been committed. I put on my coat and hat. My friend did all in his
power to dissuade me from venturing out, but it was impossible for me
to remain in the house under such tense excitement. My nerves would
not have stood it. Perhaps what bravery I exercised in going out was
due to the fact that I felt sure my identity as a colored man had not
yet become known in the town.

I went out and, following the drift, reached the railroad station.
There was gathered there a crowd of men, all white, and others were
steadily arriving, seemingly from all the surrounding country. How
did the news spread so quickly? I watched these men moving under
the yellow glare of the kerosene lamps about the station, stern,
comparatively silent, all of them armed, some of them in boots and
spurs; fierce, determined men. I had come to know the type well,
blond, tall, and lean, with ragged mustache and beard, and glittering
gray eyes. At the first suggestion of daylight they began to disperse
in groups, going in several directions. There was no extra noise or
excitement, no loud talking, only swift, sharp words of command given
by those who seemed to be accepted as leaders by mutual understanding.
In fact, the impression made upon me was that everything was being
done in quite an orderly manner. In spite of so many leaving, the
crowd around the station continued to grow; at sunrise there were
a great many women and children. By this time I also noticed some
colored people; a few seemed to be going about customary tasks;
several were standing on the outskirts of the crowd; but the gathering
of Negroes usually seen in such towns was missing.

Before noon they brought him in. Two horsemen rode abreast; between
them, half dragged, the poor wretch made his way through the dust. His
hands were tied behind him, and ropes around his body were fastened to
the saddle horns of his double guard. The men who at midnight had been
stern and silent were now emitting that terror-instilling sound known
as the "rebel yell." A space was quickly cleared in the crowd, and a
rope placed about his neck, when from somewhere came the suggestion,
"Burn him!" It ran like an electric current. Have you ever witnessed
the transformation of human beings into savage beasts? Nothing can be
more terrible. A railroad tie was sunk into the ground, the rope was
removed, and a chain brought and securely coiled around the victim and
the stake. There he stood, a man only in form and stature, every sign
of degeneracy stamped upon his countenance. His eyes were dull
and vacant, indicating not a single ray of thought. Evidently the
realization of his fearful fate had robbed him of whatever reasoning
power he had ever possessed. He was too stunned and stupefied even to
tremble. Fuel was brought from everywhere, oil, the torch; the flames
crouched for an instant as though to gather strength, then leaped up
as high as their victim's head. He squirmed, he writhed, strained at
his chains, then gave out cries and groans that I shall always hear.
The cries and groans were choked off by the fire and smoke; but his
eyes, bulging from their sockets, rolled from side to side, appealing
in vain for help. Some of the crowd yelled and cheered, others seemed
appalled at what they had done, and there were those who turned
away sickened at the sight. I was fixed to the spot where I stood,
powerless to take my eyes from what I did not want to see.

It was over before I realized that time had elapsed. Before I could
make myself believe that what I saw was really happening, I was
looking at a scorched post, a smoldering fire, blackened bones,
charred fragments sifting down through coils of chain; and the smell
of burnt flesh--human flesh--was in my nostrils.

I walked a short distance away and sat down in order to clear my dazed
mind. A great wave of humiliation and shame swept over me. Shame that
I belonged to a race that could be so dealt with; and shame for my
country, that it, the great example of democracy to the world, should
be the only civilized, if not the only state on earth, where a human
being would be burned alive. My heart turned bitter within me. I could
understand why Negroes are led to sympathize with even their worst
criminals and to protect them when possible. By all the impulses of
normal human nature they can and should do nothing less.

Whenever I hear protests from the South that it should be left alone
to deal with the Negro question, my thoughts go back to that scene of
brutality and savagery. I do not see how a people that can find in its
conscience any excuse whatever for slowly burning to death a human
being, or for tolerating such an act, can be entrusted with the
salvation of a race. Of course, there are in the South men of liberal
thought who do not approve lynching, but I wonder how long they will
endure the limits which are placed upon free speech. They still cower
and tremble before "Southern opinion." Even so late as the recent
Atlanta riot those men who were brave enough to speak a word in behalf
of justice and humanity felt called upon, by way of apology, to
preface what they said with a glowing rhetorical tribute to the
Anglo-Saxon's superiority and to refer to the "great and impassable
gulf" between the races "fixed by the Creator at the foundation of the
world." The question of the relative qualities of the two races is
still an open one. The reference to the "great gulf" loses force in
face of the fact that there are in this country perhaps three or four
million people with the blood of both races in their veins; but I fail
to see the pertinency of either statement subsequent to the beating
and murdering of scores of innocent people in the streets of a
civilized and Christian city.

The Southern whites are in many respects a great people. Looked at
from a certain point of view, they are picturesque. If one will put
oneself in a romantic frame of mind, one can admire their notions
of chivalry and bravery and justice. In this same frame of mind an
intelligent man can go to the theatre and applaud the impossible hero,
who with his single sword slays everybody in the play except the
equally impossible heroine. So can an ordinary peace-loving citizen
sit by a comfortable fire and read with enjoyment of the bloody deeds
of pirates and the fierce brutality of Vikings. This is the way in
which we gratify the old, underlying animal instincts and passions;
but we should shudder with horror at the mere idea of such practices
being realities in this day of enlightened and humanitarianized
thought. The Southern whites are not yet living quite in the present
age; many of their general ideas hark back to a former century,
some of them to the Dark Ages. In the light of other days they are
sometimes magnificent. Today they are often cruel and ludicrous.

How long I sat with bitter thoughts running through my mind I do not
know; perhaps an hour or more. When I decided to get up and go back to
the house, I found that I could hardly stand on my feet. I was as weak
as a man who had lost blood. However, I dragged myself along, with the
central idea of a general plan well fixed in my mind. I did not find
my school teacher friend at home, so I did not see him again. I
swallowed a few mouthfuls of food, packed my bag, and caught the
afternoon train.

When I reached Macon, I stopped only long enough to get the main part
of my luggage and to buy a ticket for New York.


All along the journey I was occupied in debating with myself the step
which I had decided to take. I argued that to forsake one's race to
better one's condition was no less worthy an action than to forsake
one's country for the same purpose. I finally made up my mind that I
would neither disclaim the black race nor claim the white race; but
that I would change my name, raise a mustache, and let the world take
me for what it would; that it was not necessary for me to go about
with a label of inferiority pasted across my forehead. All the while
I understood that it was not discouragement or fear or search for a
larger field of action and opportunity that was driving me out of the
Negro race. I knew that it was shame, unbearable shame. Shame at being
identified with a people that could with impunity be treated worse
than animals. For certainly the law would restrain and punish the
malicious burning alive of animals.

So once again I found myself gazing at the towers of New York and
wondering what future that city held in store for me.





I have now reached that part of my narrative where I must be brief and
touch only on important facts; therefore the reader must make up his
mind to pardon skips and jumps and meager details.

When I reached New York, I was completely lost. I could not have felt
more a stranger had I been suddenly dropped into Constantinople. I
knew not where to turn or how to strike out. I was so oppressed by
a feeling of loneliness that the temptation to visit my old home in
Connecticut was well-nigh irresistible. I reasoned, however, that
unless I found my old music teacher, I should be, after so many
years of absence, as much of a stranger there as in New York; and,
furthermore, that in view of the step which I had decided to take,
such a visit would be injudicious. I remembered, too, that I had some
property there in the shape of a piano and a few books, but decided
that it would not be worth what it might cost me to take possession.

By reason of the fact that my living expenses in the South had been
very small, I still had nearly four hundred dollars of my capital
left. In contemplation of this, my natural and acquired Bohemian
tastes asserted themselves, and I decided to have a couple of weeks'
good time before worrying seriously about the future. I went to Coney
Island and the other resorts, took in the pre-season shows along
Broadway, and ate at first-class restaurants; but I shunned the old
Sixth Avenue district as though it were pest-infected. My few days of
pleasure made appalling inroads upon what cash I had, and caused me
to see that it required a good deal of money to live in New York as I
wished to live and that I should have to find, very soon, some more or
less profitable employment. I was sure that unknown, without friends
or prestige, it would be useless to try to establish myself as a
teacher of music; so I gave that means of earning a livelihood
scarcely any consideration. And even had I considered it possible to
secure pupils, as I then felt, I should have hesitated about taking up
a work in which the chances for any considerable financial success are
necessarily so small. I had made up my mind that since I was not going
to be a Negro, I would avail myself of every possible opportunity to
make a white man's success; and that, if it can be summed up in any
one word, means "money."

I watched the "want" columns in the newspapers and answered a number
of advertisements, but in each case found the positions were such as I
could not fill or did not want. I also spent several dollars for "ads"
which brought me no replies. In this way I came to know the hopes and
disappointments of a large and pitiable class of humanity in this
great city, the people who look for work through the newspapers.
After some days of this sort of experience I concluded that the main
difficulty with me was that I was not prepared for what I wanted to
do. I then decided upon a course which, for an artist, showed an
uncommon amount of practical sense and judgment. I made up my mind to
enter a business college. I took a small room, ate at lunch counters,
in order to economize, and pursued my studies with the zeal that I
have always been able to put into any work upon which I set my heart.
Yet, in spite of all my economy, when I had been at the school for
several months, my funds gave out completely. I reached the point
where I could not afford sufficient food for each day. In this plight
I was glad to get, through one of the teachers, a job as an ordinary
clerk in a downtown wholesale house. I did my work faithfully, and
received a raise of salary before I expected it. I even managed to
save a little money out of my modest earnings. In fact, I began then
to contract the money fever, which later took strong possession of me.
I kept my eyes open, watching for a chance to better my condition. It
finally came in the form of a position with a house which was at the
time establishing a South American department. My knowledge of Spanish
was, of course, the principal cause of my good luck; and it did more
for me: it placed me where the other clerks were practically put out
of competition with me. I was not slow in taking advantage of the
opportunity to make myself indispensable to the firm.

What an interesting and absorbing game is money-making! After each
deposit at my savings-bank I used to sit and figure out, all over
again, my principal and interest, and make calculations on what the
increase would be in such and such time. Out of this I derived a great
deal of pleasure. I denied myself as much as possible in order to
swell my savings. As much as I enjoyed smoking, I limited myself to an
occasional cigar, and that was generally of a variety which in my old
days at the "Club" was known as a "Henry Mud." Drinking I cut out
altogether, but that was no great sacrifice.

The day on which I was able to figure up a thousand dollars marked
an epoch in my life. And this was not because I had never before had
money. In my gambling days and while I was with my millionaire I
handled sums running high up into the hundreds; but they had come to
me like fairy godmother's gifts, and at a time when my conception of
money was that it was made only to spend. Here, on the other hand, was
a thousand dollars which I had earned by days of honest and patient
work, a thousand dollars which I had carefully watched grow from
the first dollar; and I experienced, in owning them, a pride and
satisfaction which to me was an entirely new sensation. As my capital
went over the thousand-dollar mark, I was puzzled to know what to do
with it, how to put it to the most advantageous use. I turned down
first one scheme and then another, as though they had been devised
for the sole purpose of gobbling up my money. I finally listened to a
friend who advised me to put all I had in New York real estate; and
under his guidance I took equity in a piece of property on which stood
a rickety old tenement-house. I did not regret following this friend's
advice, for in something like six months I disposed of my equity for
more than double my investment. From that time on I devoted myself to
the study of New York real estate and watched for opportunities to
make similar investments. In spite of two or three speculations which
did not turn out well, I have been remarkably successful. Today I am
the owner and part-owner of several flat-houses. I have changed my
place of employment four times since returning to New York, and each
change has been a decided advancement. Concerning the position which I
now hold I shall say nothing except that it pays extremely well.

As my outlook on the world grew brighter, I began to mingle in the
social circles of the men with whom I came in contact; and gradually,
by a process of elimination, I reached a grade of society of no small
degree of culture. My appearance was always good and my ability to
play on the piano, especially ragtime, which was then at the height of
its vogue, made me a welcome guest. The anomaly of my social position
often appealed strongly to my sense of humor. I frequently smiled
inwardly at some remark not altogether complimentary to people of
color; and more than once I felt like declaiming: "I am a colored man.
Do I not disprove the theory that one drop of Negro blood renders a
man unfit?" Many a night when I returned to my room after an enjoyable
evening, I laughed heartily over what struck me as the capital joke I
was playing.

Then I met her, and what I had regarded as a joke was gradually
changed into the most serious question of my life. I first saw her
at a musical which was given one evening at a house to which I was
frequently invited. I did not notice her among the other guests before
she came forward and sang two sad little songs. When she began, I was
out in the hallway, where many of the men were gathered; but with the
first few notes I crowded with others into the doorway to see who the
singer was. When I saw the girl, the surprise which I had felt at the
first sound of her voice was heightened; she was almost tall and quite
slender, with lustrous yellow hair and eyes so blue as to appear
almost black. She was as white as a lily, and she was dressed in
white. Indeed, she seemed to me the most dazzlingly white thing I had
ever seen. But it was not her delicate beauty which attracted me most;
it was her voice, a voice which made one wonder how tones of such
passionate color could come from so fragile a body.

I determined that when the program was over, I would seek an
introduction to her; but at the moment, instead of being the easy
man of the world, I became again the bashful boy of fourteen, and my
courage failed me. I contented myself with hovering as near her as
politeness would permit; near enough to hear her voice, which in
conversation was low, yet thrilling, like the deeper middle tones of a
flute. I watched the men gather round her talking and laughing in an
easy manner, and wondered how it was possible for them to do it. But
destiny, my special destiny, was at work. I was standing near, talking
with affected gaiety to several young ladies, who, however, must have
remarked my preoccupation; for my second sense of hearing was alert to
what was being said by the group of which the girl in white was the
center, when I heard her say: "I think his playing of Chopin is
exquisite." And one of my friends in the group replied: "You haven't
met him? Allow me----" Then turning to me, "Old man, when you have a
moment I wish you to meet Miss ----." I don't know what she said to me
or what I said to her. I can remember that I tried to be clever, and
experienced a growing conviction that I was making myself appear more
and more idiotic. I am certain, too, that, in spite of my Italian-like
complexion, I was as red as a beet.

Instead of taking the car, I walked home. I needed the air and
exercise as a sort of sedative. I am not sure whether my troubled
condition of mind was due to the fact that I had been struck by love
or to the feeling that I had made a bad impression upon her.

As the weeks went by, and when I had met her several more times, I
came to know that I was seriously in love; and then began for me days
of worry, for I had more than the usual doubts and fears of a young
man in love to contend with.

Up to this time I had assumed and played my role as a white man with a
certain degree of nonchalance, a carelessness as to the outcome, which
made the whole thing more amusing to me than serious; but now I ceased
to regard "being a white man" as a sort of practical joke. My acting
had called for mere external effects. Now I began to doubt my ability
to play the part. I watched her to see if she was scrutinizing me, to
see if she was looking for anything in me which made me differ
from the other men she knew. In place of an old inward feeling of
superiority over many of my friends I began to doubt myself. I began
even to wonder if I really was like the men I associated with; if
there was not, after all, an indefinable something which marked a
difference.

But, in spite of my doubts and timidity, my affair progressed, and I
finally felt sufficiently encouraged to decide to ask her to marry
me. Then began the hardest struggle of my life, whether to ask her to
marry me under false colors or to tell her the whole truth. My sense
of what was exigent made me feel there was no necessity of saying
anything; but my inborn sense of honor rebelled at even indirect
deception in this case. But however much I moralized on the question,
I found it more and more difficult to reach the point of confession.
The dread that I might lose her took possession of me each time I
sought to speak, and rendered it impossible for me to do so. That
moral courage requires more than physical courage is no mere poetic
fancy. I am sure I should have found it easier to take the place of a
gladiator, no matter how fierce the Numidian lion, than to tell that
slender girl that I had Negro blood in my veins. The fact which I had
at times wished to cry out, I now wished to hide forever.

During this time we were drawn together a great deal by the mutual
bond of music. She loved to hear me play Chopin and was herself far
from being a poor performer of his compositions. I think I carried
her every new song that was published which I thought suitable to her
voice, and played the accompaniment for her. Over these songs we were
like two innocent children with new toys. She had never been anything
but innocent; but my innocence was a transformation wrought by my love
for her, love which melted away my cynicism and whitened my sullied
soul and gave me back the wholesome dreams of my boyhood.

My artistic temperament also underwent an awakening. I spent many
hours at my piano, playing over old and new composers. I also wrote
several little pieces in a more or less Chopinesque style, which I
dedicated to her. And so the weeks and months went by. Often words of
love trembled on my lips, but I dared not utter them, because I knew
they would have to be followed by other words which I had not the
courage to frame. There might have been some other woman in my set
whom I could have fallen in love with and asked to marry me without a
word of explanation; but the more I knew this girl, the less could I
find it in my heart to deceive her. And yet, in spite of this specter
that was constantly looming up before me, I could never have believed
that life held such happiness as was contained in those dream days of
love.

One Saturday afternoon, in early June, I was coming up Fifth Avenue,
and at the corner of Twenty-third Street I met her. She had been
shopping. We stopped to chat for a moment, and I suggested that we
spend half an hour at the Eden Musee. We were standing leaning on the
rail in front of a group of figures, more interested in what we had to
say to each other than in the group, when my attention became fixed
upon a man who stood at my side studying his catalogue. It took me
only an instant to recognize in him my old friend "Shiny." My first
impulse was to change my position at once. As quick as a flash I
considered all the risks I might run in speaking to him, and most
especially the delicate question of introducing him to her. I confess
that in my embarrassment and confusion I felt small and mean. But
before I could decide what to do, he looked around at me and, after an
instant, quietly asked: "Pardon me; but isn't this----?" The nobler
part in me responded to the sound of his voice and I took his hand in a
hearty clasp. Whatever fears I had felt were quickly banished, for he
seemed, at a glance, to divine my situation, and let drop no word that
would have aroused suspicion as to the truth. With a slight misgiving
I presented him to her and was again relieved of fear. She received
the introduction in her usual gracious manner, and without the least
hesitancy or embarrassment joined in the conversation. An amusing part
about the introduction was that I was upon the point of introducing
him as "Shiny," and stammered a second or two before I could recall
his name. We chatted for some fifteen minutes. He was spending his
vacation north, with the intention of doing four or six weeks' work in
one of the summer schools; he was also going to take a bride back with
him in the fall. He asked me about myself, but in so diplomatic a
way that I found no difficulty in answering him. The polish of his
language and he unpedantic manner in which he revealed his culture
greatly impressed her; and after we had left the Musee she showed it
by questioning me about him. I was surprised at the amount of
interest a refined black man could arouse. Even after changes in the
conversation she reverted several times to the subject of "Shiny."
Whether it was more than mere curiosity I could not tell, but I was
convinced that she herself knew very little about prejudice.

Just why it should have done so I do not know, but somehow the "Shiny"
incident gave me encouragement and confidence to cast the die of my
fate. I reasoned, however, that since I wanted to marry her only, and
since it concerned her alone, I would divulge my secret to no one
else, not even her parents.

One evening, a few days afterwards, at her home we were going over
some new songs and compositions when she asked me, as she often did,
to play the Thirteenth Nocturne. When I began, she drew a chair near
to my right and sat leaning with her elbow on the end of the piano,
her chin resting on her hand, and her eyes reflecting the emotions
which the music awoke in her. An impulse which I could not control
rushed over me, a wave of exultation, the music under my fingers
sank almost to a whisper, and calling her for the first time by her
Christian name, but without daring to look at her, I said: "I love
you, I love you, I love you." My fingers were trembling so that I
ceased playing. I felt her hand creep to mine, and when I looked at
her, her eyes were glistening with tears. I understood, and could
scarcely resist the longing to take her in my arms; but I remembered,
remembered that which has been the sacrificial altar of so much
happiness--Duty; and bending over her hand in mine, I said: "Yes, I
love you; but there is something more, too, that I must tell you."
Then I told her, in what words I do not know, the truth. I felt her
hand grow cold, and when I looked up, she was gazing at me with a
wild, fixed stare as though I was some object she had never seen.
Under the strange light in her eyes I felt that I was growing black
and thick-featured and crimp-haired. She appeared not to have
comprehended what I had said. Her lips trembled and she attempted to
say something to me, but the words stuck in her throat. Then, dropping
her head on the piano, she began to weep with great sobs that shook
her frail body. I tried to console her, and blurted out incoherent
words of love, but this seemed only to increase her distress, and when
I left her, she was still weeping.

When I got into the street, I felt very much as I did the night after
meeting my father and sister at the opera in Paris, even a similar
desperate inclination to get drunk; but my self-control was stronger.
This was the only time in my life that I ever felt absolute regret at
being colored, that I cursed the drops of African blood in my veins
and wished that I were really white. When I reached my rooms, I sat
and smoked several cigars while I tried to think out the significance
of what had occurred. I reviewed the whole history of our
acquaintance, recalled each smile she had given me, each word she had
said to me that nourished my hope. I went over the scene we had just
gone through, trying to draw from it what was in my favor and what was
against me. I was rewarded by feeling confident that she loved me, but
I could not estimate what was the effect upon her of my confession. At
last, nervous and unhappy, I wrote her a letter, which I dropped into
the mail-box before going to bed, in which I said:

  I understand, understand even better than you, and so
  I suffer even more than you. But why should either of us
  suffer for what neither of us is to blame for? If there is
  any blame, it belongs to me and I can only make the old,
  yet strongest plea that can be offered, I love you; and I
  know that my love, my great love, infinitely overbalances
  that blame and blots it out. What is it that stands in the
  way of our happiness? It is not what you feel or what I
  feel; it is not what you are or what I am. It is what others
  feel and are. But, oh! is that a fair price? In all the
  endeavors and struggles of life, in all our strivings and
  longings, there is only one thing worth seeking, only one
  thing worth winning, and that is love. It is not always
  found; but when it is, there is nothing in all the world for
  which it can be profitably exchanged.

The second morning after, I received a note from her which stated
briefly that she was going up into New Hampshire to spend the summer
with relatives there. She made no reference to what had passed between
us; nor did she say exactly when she would leave the city. The note
contained no single word that gave me any clue to her feelings. I
could gather hope only from the fact that she had written at all.
On the same evening, with a degree of trepidation which rendered me
almost frightened, I went to her house.

I met her mother, who told me that she had left for the country that
very afternoon. Her mother treated me in her usual pleasant manner,
which fact greatly reassured me; and I left the house with a vague
sense of hope stirring in my breast, which sprang from the conviction
that she had not yet divulged my secret. But that hope did not remain
with me long. I waited one, two, three weeks, nervously examining my
mail every day, looking for some word from her. All of the letters
received by me seemed so insignificant, so worthless, because there
was none from her. The slight buoyancy of spirit which I had felt
gradually dissolved into gloomy heart-sickness. I became preoccupied;
I lost appetite, lost sleep, and lost ambition. Several of my friends
intimated to me that perhaps I was working too hard.

She stayed away the whole summer. I did not go to the house, but saw
her father at various times, and he was as friendly as ever. Even
after I knew that she was back in town, I did not go to see her. I
determined to wait for some word or sign. I had finally taken refuge
and comfort in my pride, pride which, I suppose, I came by naturally
enough.

The first time I saw her after her return was one night at the
theatre. She and her mother sat in company with a young man whom I
knew slightly, not many seats away from me. Never did she appear more
beautiful; and yet, it may have been my fancy, she seemed a trifle
paler, and there was a suggestion of haggardness in her countenance.
But that only heightened her beauty; the very delicacy of her charm
melted down the strength of my pride. My situation made me feel weak
and powerless, like a man trying with his bare hands to break the iron
bars of his prison cell. When the performance was over, I hurried out
and placed myself where, unobserved, I could see her as she passed
out. The haughtiness of spirit in which I had sought relief was all
gone, and I was willing and ready to undergo any humiliation.

Shortly afterward we met at a progressive card party, and during the
evening we were thrown together at one of the tables as partners. This
was really our first meeting since the eventful night at her house.
Strangely enough, in spite of our mutual nervousness, we won every
trick of the game, and one of our opponents jokingly quoted the old
saw: "Lucky at cards, unlucky in love." Our eyes met and I am sure
that in the momentary glance my whole soul went out to her in one
great plea. She lowered her eyes and uttered a nervous little laugh.
During the rest of the game I fully merited the unexpressed and
expressed abuse of my various partners; for my eyes followed her
wherever she was and I played whatever card my fingers happened to
touch.

Later in the evening she went to the piano and began to play very
softly, as to herself, the opening bars of the Thirteenth Nocturne. I
felt that the psychic moment of my life had come, a moment which, if
lost, could never be called back; and, in as careless a manner as I
could assume, I sauntered over to the piano and stood almost bending
over her. She continued playing, but, in a voice that was almost a
whisper, she called me by my Christian name and said: "I love you, I
love you, I love you." I took her place at the piano and played the
Nocturne in a manner that silenced the chatter of the company both in
and out of the room, involuntarily closing it with the major triad.

We were married the following spring, and went to Europe for several
months. It was a double joy for me to be in France again under such
conditions.

First there came to us a little girl, with hair and eyes dark like
mine, but who is growing to have ways like her mother. Two years later
there came a boy, who has my temperament, but is fair like his mother,
a little golden-headed god, with a face and head that would have
delighted the heart of an old Italian master. And this boy, with his
mother's eyes and features, occupies an inner sanctuary of my heart;
for it was for him that she gave all; and that is the second sacred
sorrow of my life.

The few years of our married life were supremely happy, and perhaps
she was even happier than I; for after our marriage, in spite of all
the wealth of her love which she lavished upon me, there came a new
dread to haunt me, a dread which I cannot explain and which was
unfounded, but one that never left me. I was in constant fear that she
would discover in me some shortcoming which she would unconsciously
attribute to my blood rather than to a failing of human nature. But
no cloud ever came to mar our life together; her loss to me is
irreparable. My children need a mother's care, but I shall never marry
again. It is to my children that I have devoted my life. I no longer
have the same fear for myself of my secret's being found out, for
since my wife's death I have gradually dropped out of social life;
but there is nothing I would not suffer to keep the brand from being
placed upon them.

It is difficult for me to analyze my feelings concerning my present
position in the world. Sometimes it seems to me that I have never
really been a Negro, that I have been only a privileged spectator of
their inner life; at other times I feel that I have been a coward,
a deserter, and I am possessed by a strange longing for my mother's
people.

Several years ago I attended a great meeting in the interest of
Hampton Institute at Carnegie Hall. The Hampton students sang the old
songs and awoke memories that left me sad. Among the speakers were
R.C. Ogden, ex-Ambassador Choate, and Mark Twain; but the greatest
interest of the audience was centered in Booker T. Washington, and not
because he so much surpassed the others in eloquence, but because of
what he represented with so much earnestness and faith. And it is
this that all of that small but gallant band of colored men who are
publicly fighting the cause of their race have behind them. Even those
who oppose them know that these men have the eternal principles of
right on their side, and they will be victors even though they should
go down in defeat. Beside them I feel small and selfish. I am an
ordinarily successful white man who has made a little money. They are
men who are making history and a race. I, too, might have taken part
in a work so glorious.

My love for my children makes me glad that I am what I am and keeps me
from desiring to be otherwise; and yet, when I sometimes open a little
box in which I still keep my fast yellowing manuscripts, the only
tangible remnants of a vanished dream, a dead ambition, a sacrificed
talent, I cannot repress the thought that, after all, I have chosen
the lesser part, that I have sold my birthright for a mess of pottage.





Chapters X-XI
On the boat back to America, the narrator meets a large, dignified African American man, , a graduate of Howard University. They strike up a friendship and discuss the race question. The doctor is "broad-minded" and believes that "Negroes" are progressing, although he sympathizes with certain aspects of the white, Southern perspective. The narrator stays with his new friend in Boston for a few days and then accompanies him to Washington D.C., where the doctor lives. The narrator becomes quickly acquainted with the doctor's friends, all educated African Americans, who earn "good salaries and a reasonable amount of leisure time to draw from" . The doctor, meanwhile, is very critical of who he deems "the worst" of the race. The narrator reflects positively on his time in Washington but then moves on to Macon, Georgia. On the way, he ends up in the smoking car of the train. The men gathered there are cordial and convivial; they include a Jewish cigar maker, a white professor, an ex-Union soldier, and a boisterous Texan planter. The race question comes up. The Jewish man takes neither side but listens and comments politely. The professor is flustered and does not participate. The argument is mostly between the old soldier and the Texan. The Texan does not believe in racial equality at all while the Union soldier argues for it. The Texan tries to claim the superiority of the Anglo-Saxon race, but the soldier ably and eloquently explains that all of the accomplishments of the Anglo-Saxons are built on discoveries made by other races. The Texan is impressed, but jovially says his mind will never be changed. The narrator cannot help but admire his steadfastness, but also hopes that the mental attitudes of Southerners can be changed one day. In Macon, the narrator decides to leave his things behind and travel through the country. He sees rural African Americans for the first time and is not impressed. He is also annoyed with the poor cooking and accommodations of the South, wondering if his millionaire friend was right. He discourses for some time on the differences between the North and the South in their feelings on "the colored man". While he is in the South, the narrator also attends a "big meeting", which is a large religious gathering. It is a boisterous and exciting atmosphere. The narrator observes one impressive preacher, John Brown, and a music leader, Singing Johnson. Brown demonstrates "all the arts and tricks of oratory" and holds his listeners spellbound with his sermons about heaven and hell. Meanwhile, Johnson knows all of the spiritual songs and is a master at leading the congregation. The narrator marvels at the wonder of his songs' production. He feels inspired by this meeting. The narrator decides to stay with a young African American schoolteacher for a few days. This man strikes the narrator as being too earnest about the race question, but intelligent and ambitious nonetheless. They retire to a boarding house but the narrator is stirred awake by a frantic sounds outside. He hears a rumor from the people flowing past the house that a crime has been committed. Defying the schoolteacher's warnings, the narrator leaves the house and joins a crowd at the station. It is mostly white people with some black people at the fringes. A "poor wretch", a black man, is dragged into the circle. The white people throw up a fiendish "rebel yell", resembling "savage beasts". They tie the man to a stake and burn him alive. The narrator is horrified and dazed, but he is also humiliated that he is part of a race that can be victim to such horrible crimes. He is also in disbelief at how "a people that can find in its conscience any excuse whatever for slowly burning to death a human being, or for tolerating such an act, can be entrusted with the salvation of a race". He ultimately decides that he will not claim or declaim his blackness and will simply pass for whatever people assume his race to be. He departs for New York. Back in New York, the narrator feels lost but decides to amuse himself for a few days before looking for a job. This endeavor is depressing and he decides to enroll in business school. It is not long before he becomes a clerk in a wholesale house. He lives frugally and then begins investing in real estate, at which he is extremely successful. He passes for white and is content with this until the day he falls in love with a woman. She is a singer and the narrator describes her as "the most dazzlingly white thing I have ever seen". They begin courting and he decides he wants to marry her; this makes him wonder if he should tell her the truth about his face. He agonizes over this decision for some time. One Sunday afternoon the narrator and the girl run into Shiny on the street. Now a professor, Shiny is in town to work in a summer school before getting married. The girl is very kind to Shiny and interested in him after he leaves, and the narrator therefore feels comfortable that she will accept his secret. He tells her and she is shocked into silence until she begins weeping. This, the narrator says, is the only moment he ever feels "absolute regret at being colored". The girl goes away for the summer and they do not have any communication. The narrator is heart-sick. A few months later, he learns she is back in town and they run into each other at the theater. They meet again at another party and there she confesses that she loves him too. The two are married and have two children; unfortunately, the girl dies in the second childbirth. The narrator claims he will never marry again and devotes his life to his children. He expresses ambivalence about his "present position in the world". On the one hand, he is glad he passes as white for his children's sake. On the other hand, he sees prominent African Americans like Booker T. Washington and feels like an insignificant white man who has managed to make some money, a choice which deprived him of standing up for his race. He ends the novel by wondering if "I have chosen the lesser part...I have sold my birthright for a mess of pottage". In this section, the narrator travels to Europe and falls in love with Paris. However, he realizes that he needs to get back to his musical career and become a composer. He decides that the best place to do this is in the South, where he can be inspired by the African American music scene. The narrator's confusion and vacillation between being black or white permeates all of his decisions; his ambivalence suggests that he will not ever achieve a hegemonic racial identity. In these last two chapters of the novel, there are multiple depictions of African Americans. The narrator meets the doctor, who the narrator believes represents the best of the race, but back in the South, he is embarrassed by the downtrodden African Americans who populate the streets. He is inspired by the magnetic, impassioned, and authentic personages of Singing Johnson and John Brown, but is disgusted by the absolute debasement of a poor black man who is lynched by a white crowd. In this climactic moment, the anguished narrator comes to the conclusion that he can no longer live openly as a biracial man and that he will be content to pass for white. He decidedly rejects his heritage and embraces a life based on earning money and avoiding the difficulties and indignities that arise from being biracial. It is a willful self-denial seems to haunt him by the end of his story. By the end of the novel, the narrator's goals of making music that represents the traditions of his people and embracing his dual heritage are a distant memory. He is heavy with isolation and remorse. Because the narrator is biracial, he is able to critique both races according to Du Bois's theory of double consciousness. However, he rejects that potential source of power. He is ashamed of his blackness and wants to hide it. The critic Donald Goellnicht writes, "so complete is the obliteration of an African heritage, so complete is the cultural assimilation to Euro-American values, that psychical bondage is obviated; the compliant subject policies himself." The narrative is destabilized by the inversion of what the reader assumes will occur -the narrator's becoming a "race man", a man like the doctor on the ship. His ultimate choice to pass as white is unpredictable and disappointing to many readers. On the other hand, it is possible to view the narrator's choice to pass as a veritable slap in the face to fixed notions of the racial divide. The narrator has an African American parent but is able to live and make money in a society dominated by white people without their even knowing it. This begs the question - does it even matter that the narrator is half-black? The marriage between the narrator and his wife would have fallen under the category of miscegenation if he revealed his racial background. The mere fact that the narrator chooses to pass as white may be viewed as a profound example of power and autonomy. He is an individual who chooses the path that he believes is right for himself and, later, for his family. Many critics have claimed that the novel is "ironic", but if it is, it is better viewed as a postmodern form of irony that does not rely on a stable referent. The act of "passing" can be held up to this standard as well. Passing implies that a person must be racially homogenous, but most cases do not fall neatly on one side of the racial divide. Passing could be intentional or unintentional; it was not just an imposter trying to cross the color line. As critic Neil Brooks explains, "the physical manifestation of a psychological quest to understand oneself in a society where to be black was often not to have one consistent self, but to have a double self." The narrator's multiple identities and contradictions end up becoming his identity. He chooses the easier path but as a result, he cannot achieve any closure. This closure is a trope of the modernist reading of literature, but here is precisely why a postmodernist reading is more appropriate: "the narrator has created a world where all is organized around himself, but it can never truly be organized because the self he has placed at the center is as unstable as the external world he seeks to control." The narrator's lack of a name also underscores his lack of a stable identity. This may indicate that he does not want to be labeled and participate in social classifications. Having always touted himself as the best at whatever he does, his namelessness is one further way for the narrator to overcome society's barriers and achieve material success. The tragedy of his choice is that he can be neither black nor white, and society still propagates arbitrary categorizations that, Brooks writes, "cannot be applied adequately to the personal narratives of its individual members." Since the narrator never embraces a stable identity, the act of passing becomes that identity. His "freedom from the societal meta-narratives of race" brings with it "the chaos of a disordered universe, which is also central to postmodern theory." Try as he might, the narrator can never bring closure to his own story. Overall, the novel proffers the idea that ambiguity about race is certainly part of a larger conversation, but that it is ultimately irresolvable.