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 I don't see any sense in writing about this, Byron protested, rather hotly, Mary thought. It's too much like Edith Wharton's set.

Well, the low life of your people is exotic. It has a splendid, fantastic quality. And the humour! How vital it is, how rich in idiom! Picturesque and fresh! I don't think the Negro has been touched in literature as yet.

I'm afraid I don't know very much about the low life of my people. Byron's tone was cold.

There's the college life. ..

I went to a white college. Byron turned away.

I seem to have offended your friend, Gareth said to Mary. I wonder how.

Oh, no you haven't. It's just because he's embarrassed at meeting a great author. Mary was surprised to find herself defending Byron. You see, he's probably never before faced a real novelist.

Shrugging his shoulders, Gareth lighted a cigarette.

I wonder, he said, if we could persuade Miss Waldeck to sing Stand still, Jordan?

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It was perhaps a striking coincidence that Mary should encounter Randolph Pettijohn the next day on her way to Craig's where she was accustomed to eat her lunch. Assuredly the incident caused her less embarrassment than she would have believed possible. Something had happened to give her a protective armour. What it was she did not attempt to discover. She only knew that she felt more secure, and when the King stopped to offer her his hand she grasped it almost sympathetically. She was sorry for Randolph Pettijohn and a little bit sorry for herself, too, because she was not ingenuous enough to accept what he only too evidently wanted to give her. It was plain to be seen that her rejection of his proposal had bewildered him; it had been a severe blow to his pride, had confused his previous estimate of mankind: she could sense that much. Not by what he said—as a matter of fact, he said nothing of any importance—but by his manner of saying it. It gave her a thrill of pleasure, made her self-consciously proud, to realize that this man respected her even more now that she had thwarted his desire. She passed on, feeling a trifle self-righteous, even vainglorious, until, analyzing her mood, her ultimate sense of humour got the better

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 of her, advising her thuswise: Take no credit to yourself for your actions. You've only done what you couldn't help doing. You did not resist temptation when you refused Randolph Pettijohn. Quite the contrary.

As a consequence of these revealing reflections, Mary felt more humble as she entered Craig's, and, after nodding to one or two acquaintances, sat down at an unoccupied table. She determined 'not to wait for her father, whom she had invited to join her. He was constitutionally incapable of keeping an engagement on time. In fact, he had no sense of time at all, but, in self-defence, he often laughingly assured her that this trait was so typical of his race that he almost regarded it in the light of a sacred obligation to encourage it in himself.

As Mary lifted a spoonful of soup to her mouth, she was conscious of voices behind her.

Sylvia had no business to take her in.

Sylvia's only getting what she deserves. Look how she's been carrying on with Rumsey Meadows. . . Mary recognized Sergia Sawyer's voice.

Do you think she notices?

No, if she did, she'd have Lasca's life. She's very handy with a gun. Didya ever hear about. . . ?

Why, Mary wondered, as the conversation became too low for her to catch its drift, was she for ever hearing this woman's name? She began to cherish a certain curiosity in regard to this exotic

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 figure. Why had she not met her? Would she like her when she did meet her?

Mary had finished her soup. Opening a book she had brought with her she began to read. Presently the waitress served her eggs. . . . She was almost through with her lunch when her father arrived.

I couldn't wait, dad, she apologized. Have to get back to the library.

I understand, he assured her. I didn't realize it was so late. I never know the time.

You carry a watch.

He smiled. Do you know, my dear, I never look at it. When I think of it at all it is as a piece of jewelry, a big diamond or something like that.

Dear old dad. She patted his hand. Then, What are you doing this afternoon?

I want to visit one or two of the schools, and I expect to see Professor Deakins of Howard. He's up here for the day.

What a time they're having at Howard! Mary sighed.

That's exactly what I want to discuss with him. I want to get his point of view about the muddle. It's hard enough, he continued, for us to get along among ourselves, but when white men are mixed up in our problems, it's well-nigh impossible. You're looking brighter, Mary. I thought you seemed a little tired last night.

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 Do you think so, dad? I'm feeling wonderful today. You know the old song:

That's me!

I like to hear you talk like that.

I was a little worried last night, she admitted.

What was the trouble, Mary?

I don't know. A mood, I guess. I threw it off.

Don't worry, Mary. It doesn't do any good. Just knocks the machine out of gear.

I know it does, but some days I get the blues and they stick. She glanced at the watch on her wrist. . . . It's nearly two o'clock. I'll have to go back. . . . Drawing on her cloak, she kissed her father. . . . Remember I'm going to Newark with you tonight, Othello!

An hour later she felt she couldn't bear it if she had another inquiry for A. S. M. Hutchinson or Zane Grey. She made it a point of honour to try to encourage the young patrons of the library to improve their taste in reading, but her efforts in this direction on this particular day had all proved futile. Again and again, she had suggested a volume by Sherwood Anderson or Norman Douglas, but her suggestions had been received with indifference, if not with open hostility. Patiently, for the tenth time within the hour, she recom-

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 mended Jean Toomer's Cane to a youth who listened to her with apparent sympathy, but who hardly waited for her to conclude before he said, Ah guess Ah wants Duh Mine Wid Duh Iron Do'.

It's out, she was delighted to be able to announce.

Well, ain't you got nothin' else by duh man dat wrote et?

She had. Stamping the boy's card, she passed him the well-worn volume.

As he turned away, she was aware, although she did not look up, that another figure had taken his place.

Hello! The tone was one of hearty diffidence, as if the speaker were pretending not to be quite sure of a welcome.

Oh, it's you! she exclaimed. I'm so glad to see you. I'm getting so tired of handing out trash that I'm in a frightfully bad temper. I need cheering up.

What do you want the public to read? Byron demanded.

Well, it would help my disposition some if I could send Jean Toomer's Cane out today.

I'll take it, Byron assured her. Ive always wanted to read it.

You haven't a card, Mary protested. It isn't my book. I can't lend it to you personally.

Well, I'll get a card. How often can I change books?

Every day, if you like.

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 Good! That'll give me a chance to see you every day.

Mary laughed. You don't have to come here to see me. Besides I don't always sit at the distributing desk. Why don't you call on me at home?

Nobody asked me, miss, he said. I was hankering for an invitation.

You don't strike me, Mary went on, as the kind of person who ever waits for anything.

Get me right, he urged. I'm really very shy, just a kid from the country up here in your great big Harlem.

It's the City of Refuge.

He grinned. The Mecca of the New Negro! You see, I know all the passwords. Do you think I'm a New Negro?

Newest one I've seen.

Hope so. But I don't want to appear fresh.

Stand aside, young man, and let me give this girl her Zane Grey.

I'll get my card, he announced.

In a little while he was back. I had to mention a couple of property owners, he informed her. It seems they've got to inquire into my integrity and financial responsibility.

What's your rating in Bradstreet? she inquired.

Two bits.

Are you kind to animals?

If you want to know, ask me around to meet yours.

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 Haven't got any.

Well, there are two children in the house where I'm staying, run by a regular old timer from the South. She calls 'em Locomotive Ataxia and Dementia Precox. They like me. They already call me Unc' Byron.

You're taking up a lot of my time. Good heavens, Mary added to herself, I'm becoming coy!

I want to take up a lot more. Mary, may I call you Miss Love?

Please do, Byron, she assured him, laughing.

When may I come to see you?

She considered her answer. Her father would not be leaving until the next day.

Tomorrow night, if you like.

He shook his head vigorously. I'll come around tonight and wait.

She was firm. Tomorrow night.

What time?

Oh, around nine.

I'll be there at six-thirty.

For the remainder of the afternoon Mary enjoyed an unaccustomed spirit of elation. Making no more uplifting suggestions to her clients, she passed out books automatically. About four-thirty Gareth Johns arrived with Campaspe Lorillard and it afforded her a special kind of pleasure to exhibit the collection of African wood-carvings to these appreciative people. Mrs. Lorillard, in departing, promised to return with Edith Dale.

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 The next evening found Mary in such a state of suppressed excitement that Olive spoke about it.

What in God's name is the matter with you, Mary? her friend demanded. It can't be possible that the new sheik that's coming tonight has upset you.

Mary denied the insinuation, but later, at dinner, with Howard present, Olive renewed the attack.

Mary's fallen at last, she announced. Her sheik is coming tonight. I think we'd better go out, she added significantly.

Who is he, Mary? Howard inquired.

Ollie's talking nonsense, Mary protested. It's a man I've known a long time. His name is Byron Kasson, she explained limpingly.

Never heard of him, Howard retorted. Where'd he come from?

Mary met him night before last at the Sumners', Olive explained. A long time, indeed!

Why, Ollie, how can you? I met him at Adora's last summer.

Well, this is really terrible! It must be serious. . . . Olive regarded her friend in amazement. . . . It's funny you never mentioned him to me.

I didn't know him very well then. Realizing that she was plunging deeper and deeper, Mary sought refuge in a change of subject. Have you seen Mamie Smith? she asked. She's at the Lincoln this week.

Whew! Howard tossed back his head and

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 laughed heartily. That's a pretty broad hint. Mary wants us to go to the Lincoln tonight.

I didn't mean that at all and you know it, Mary protested.

I can't get it, Olive mused, Mary falling for a sheik! Well, you'll never drive us out of this house till we've given him the once over.

I don't want you to go at all.

We'll decide what you want, Olive said severely. Howard, help me with the dishes. Mary's got to fix herself up.

I'm all ready now, Mary objected. Let me put on an apron and help you.

No you don't. Olive definitely rejected this proffer. You go back to your room and comb your hair some more. She's done her hair four times tonight already, she explained to Howard, and I know she's not satisfied yet.

Olive and Howard retired to the kitchen. Although they had closed the door, Mary could hear them talking and laughing. She knew they were discussing her and her affairs and it made her both furious and happy, furious because they were teasing her, happy to realize that there was some foundation for the teasing. She thought it might be just as well to make one more attempt to get her hair right.

An hour later she consulted her watch. It was nine-thirty. Almost simultaneously the bell rang, and she heard Olive open the kitchen door and cross

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 the room to answer it. She listened for the expected voice. She was disappointed. It was Dick Sill. He retired to the kitchen with Howard and Olive. Even from her own room she could hear them laughing. They were telling Dick now. She tried, unsuccessfully, to read. She lifted the shade, and peered out of the window. The street was deserted. She arranged her hair once more. Then, following an impulse, she went into Olive's room and borrowed a few drops of Narcisse Noir for her handkerchief and the little hollows behind her ears.

The bell did not ring again till ten-thirty. Mary ran to answer it, but Olive was beforehand.

So you're the new sheik, Olive greeted him.

Do I look like one? he laughed, and then cried, Hello, Mary.

How are you? Mary asked him. Rest your coat and hat and meet Mr. Allison and Mr. Sill.

The two young men stood grinning in the kitchen doorway.

Glad to know you both.

Are you any relation to Robert Kasson? Dick inquired.

He's my dad.

I've heard about him. I used to go down to Philadelphia a lot.

Sit down, Byron, Mary invited.

Yes, for heaven's sake, everybody sit down, Olive echoed.

Did you go to Howard? Dick queried.

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 No. Pennsylvania. I wanted to try a white college. I've got to get along in a white world, he went on, and I thought it might help.

Did it?

How should I know?

Byron's going to be a writer, Mary remarked.

I want to write, but I've got to earn my living while I'm learning.

What've you got on your mind? Howard asked.

Oh, nothing in particular. I just want to make a living until I get a start with my pen.

You'll have a fine time among the ofays, Dick asserted bitterly.

What do you mean? Byron demanded.

Sort o' kept you in your place at college, didn't they?

Byron was silent.

Did they ask you to their parties?

No, Byron responded, adding, It wasn't so bad.

Well, it won't be so bad here either, just so long as you're just another Nigger and know your place, Sill declared. They'll give you your choice too. You can run an elevator or lift pianos.

Dick! Mary implored him.

It's the truth, cried Olive. Let him talk.

Oh, I don't mind. I've heard it all before, Byron said. I guess I can find something better than that to do. If I can't I'll try Harlem. I only thought I could make more money downtown.

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 Try Harlem, will you? Dick's lip curled cynically. I guess you won't find that much easier. Howard here is a lawyer, but the race doesn't want coloured lawyers. If they're in trouble they go to white lawyers, and they go to white banks and white insurance companies. They shop on white One hundred and twenty-fifth Street. Most of 'em, he added fiercely, pray to a white God. You won't get much help from the race.

Don't believe him, Byron, Mary cried. You'll get along. I'm sure you will. . . Her tone trembled with indecision.

Olive's eyes flashed. Why, Mary, she protested. Do you get along? Don't you get less salary than white girls and aren't white girls without half your experience or ability promoted over you.

It's true, said Mary quietly, but don't discourage him, please.

They don't discourage me, Byron replied. I'm full of life and pep and I'll get something to do. You'll see. I don't care very much what it is. I'm not proud.

Well, old man, said Howard, I wish you luck. We'll do all we can, all of us, but the others. ..

Don't they want a member of the race to get on?

Say, Dick inquired, where have you been living? They do not. You'll have to fight your own race harder than you do the other. . . every step of the way. They're full of envy for every Negro that

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 makes a success. They hate it. It makes 'em wild. Why, more of us get on through the ofays than through the shines.

Now, Dick, you're laying it on pretty hard, Howard suggested.

Not a bit of it. I'll say more. Who supports Roland Hayes? Who supports Florence Mills? Is it white or black audiences?

After all, Dick, be fair, Olive objected. They've got more money, these others.

That's it, cried Howard, they've got more money. That's what I've always said: we've got to have money to fight the system and earn the respect of the world.

Where are we going to get it? Dick asked fiercely.

Bottle it, Dick, said Olive. You'd think this was a Marcus Garvey meeting. Let's not spoil the evening for Byron and Mary. Come along with Howard and me. We're going to the Lincoln to see Mamie Smith.

The show's over now, said Mary.

Well, anyway, Olive insisted, I want to go for a walk.

What about a cabaret? Howard suggested.

Great! cried Dick. Now you're talking. I'm dying to do the Black Bottom again with Ollie! She's the best dancer in Harlem.

Bottle it, Dick, Olive repeated, laughing.

As the door slammed behind the three departing, Mary sighed and settled back into the couch.

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 This is hard on you, she said. I'm sorry. You didn't come here to listen to a lecture.

Oh, that's all right, Byron assured her. I'm used to talk like this, only I haven't heard much of it lately. Since I've been going to college I'm sort of out of step with it, that's all. The boys I know at home, most of them, get on all right, he added frowning. Who was that fellow who was doing all the talking?

You mean Dick Sill?

Yes. Disgruntled, isn't he? What does he do?

He is a secretary for somebody or other downtown. He is disgruntled. He says he's going white.

Byron stared ahead of him. I couldn't do that. Could you?

No, I couldn't.

I wonder why they didn't ask us to go along with them to the cabaret?

They're engaged, Mary replied coldly. I suppose they want to be alone.

Engaged! I see. I don't wonder. . . . But the other fellow went along.

Wouldn't you like a cup of coffee? Mary asked him.

I'd love it, and I'll help you make it.

Pressing the burning tip of his cigarette against the surface of an ash-tray, he followed her into the kitchen.

It's a great place you've got here.

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 Mary was measuring the coffee. It is nice, isn't it?

Great! Luxury for me. I'm living in a dump.

Mary filled the pot with water. What kind of things do you want to write about? she inquired.

Oh, I don't know. You've got awfully pretty arms.

Have I? Haven't you anything definite in mind?

What everybody writes about, I guess. Love, and all that. I thought of writing a story about a coloured girl in love with a white boy and how he ditched her.

Madam Butterfly, Mary murmured. As she lighted the fire under the coffee-pot, she looked at him hard. Why don't you write about us? she demanded.

Us?

Yes, Negroes.

Why, we're not very different from any one else except in colour. I don't see any difference.

I suppose we aren't, Mary spoke thoughtfully. And yet figures stand out.

Figures?

Do you know anything about Christophe? It seems to me that the story of Christophe would make a gorgeous subject for a novel.

Who was Christophe?

They were seated on chairs in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to boil.

Born and raised in slavery on the Island of Saint

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 Christophe, later French General in Hayti, Christophe proclaimed himself Emperor in March 1811. He became Henry I, and was called the Black Napoleon. On a rising slope at the apex of a narrow ravine he built himself a palace—not unlike Louis's great palace at Versailles—which he named Sans Souci. He erected other dwellings and country-seats, Queen's Delight, The Glory, The King's Beautiful View, but his masterpiece was La Ferrière.

La Ferrière was a citadel constructed of blocks of stone thirty feet thick. Capable of harbouring thirty thousand soldiers, it raised its stern face at the top of a mountain on the border of a cliff that dropped sheer two thousand feet. At present the only approach to this citadel is an uncertain footpath. Christophe erected this fortress as a protection against a possible French invasion of his Empire. It was guarded by brass cannon. It is still guarded by these cannon. The Haytian government has been offered large sums for them, and it would be perfectly willing to sell them, but no way has yet been devised of getting them down the mountain.

Christophe's way of getting them up, of getting up the huge rocks of which the citadel was constructed, was ingenious and simple. They were dragged up the cliff-sides and steep mountain passes by human hands. One day he watched a hundred men trying to haul a cannon to its resting place. Now and again they stopped to rest. These pauses

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 were annoying to the Emperor. He dispatched a messenger to discover the reason for them. The labourers sent back word that the gun was too heavy for their strength and asked that they might be assisted by a hundred more men.

Commanding them brought into the royal presence, the Emperor ordered them to fall into line. Then he directed every fourth fellow to fall out. These were shot. He quietly informed the remaining seventy-five that he expected the cannon to be in its place before he had finished his luncheon.

Little progress was made. Two hours later they assured him that the task was impossible.

The Emperor laughed. Fall in, he commanded. . . . Every third man out. Guards, fire!

Now, he informed the cowering wretches, I will order every second man out next time. If the gun was too heavy for a hundred men, surely fifty will find it light.

They did.

On another occasion he grew cold to a former favourite. Strolling to the edge of the cliff with the fellow, he talked softly to him. Standing over the abyss, he bade the man leap. Reading no mercy in the Emperor's eyes, reading rather the horrible alternatives that awaited his refusal, he obeyed. By some chance the branch of a tree some twenty feet below broke his fall. With broken arm, his face bruised and bloody, he crept back to his master.

Sire, he said, I have done your bidding.

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 Christophe was laconic. Leap, he commanded.

Six feet tall, of pure African blood, black as coal, Christophe's nature was violent and impatient of all restraint. Loving splendour and power, he created a court and a nobility. Bravery and humility failed to touch him. He had no mercy. He ruled for fifteen years. When at the end of that period, during a revolution, his body-guard deserted him, he rose, bade farewell to his wife and family, retired to his own chamber and blew out his brains. . . . The coffee's boiling. Get some cups out of the cupboard.

Mary arranged the tray, setting the ejaculating percolator on a blue tile, and preceded Byron into the sitting-room. Seating herself, she poured out the coffee while he made himself comfortable in a chair and lighted a cigarette.

I couldn't write about things like that, Byron said.

What sort of things did you write about in college?

Oh, you know, the kind everybody else does.

Did your professors like your work?

Well, they encouraged me. They said it was pretty good for a coloured man.

I remember you told me that before. You said it wasn't enough.

Of course, I want to do better than that! I want to write as well as anybody.

Of course, you do. Why don't you choose a subject that you know all about? Something about our people? she asked him again.

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 I don't know so much about our people that is different. I told you that. We are born and we eat and we make love and we die. I suppose we're just like the others.

I suppose we are, Mary replied, only we don't eat where we want to or die where we want to.

But we make love where we want to. . . . Joining her on the couch, Byron seized her hand.

Mary felt a strange, tingling sensation. It was as though a mouse had raced up her arm from her captured hand to her shoulder and descended by way of her spine.

Don't do that, she adjured him faintly.

Why not, Mary? He caressed her hand softly with his lips and as she did not repeat her request to desist—all power of resistance seemed to have deserted her—he held her close in his arms. Mary could no longer control her will. It was delicious, this drifting feeling that came over her. As her head fell back against his shoulder, his moist lips met her mouth.

I love you, he whispered, beautiful golden-brown Mary!

You do love me, Byron? You do love me? She wanted to hear him say it again and again.

He stopped her mouth with kisses, and these, too, were the whole of his reply.

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When Olive came home, just as the grey dawn was spreading its pale, disagreeable light through the window, Mary was still awake, but she did not call out to her friend. She heard Olive tiptoe into her room and softly close the door. Later, she dozed a little. Before retiring, she had thought it safer to set the alarm-clock and she turned drowsily to its buzz at a quarter after eight. Then she tumbled out of bed to turn on her tub. Olive, she discovered, had already departed for the city.

As Mary started forth, the sun was shining brightly, and it seemed to her, walking rapidly down Edgecombe Avenue, that she descried happiness in every face. 'Tired as she was, after her sleepless night, her blood tingled with a warm glow of joy; she felt an uplifting, elating excitement. And Ollie had called her cold! Long in awakening, she had awakened vibrantly. Once from one of the high galleries of the Metropolitan Opera House she had listened to Siegfried, and she now recalled the glorious music that accompanied Brünnhilde's awakening in the last act. Like Brünnhilde, Mary too had been awakened by a kiss.

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 Nothing else mattered now; nothing else counted: she knew that. I'd steal for him; I'd kill for him! she admitted to herself. For him I'd give up my family, my friends, my position, everything!

At the library she had the sensation that every one was staring at her.

Why, Mary, what is the matter? Miss Langley, one of the white assistants demanded.

Realizing the implications of this query, Mary was slow to reply. Apparently, the world was aware when one was in love.

What do you mean, Alice? she parried.

You look as happy as a humming-bird who has found a new flower, Alice explained.

My Lord, what a morning! was the refrain which ran through Mary's head, a refrain with a new meaning. The stars, indeed, had begun to fall!

I am happy, Alice! she confessed. I am happy. I don't know why; I'm just happy.

Alice's glance, Mary noted, was quizzical. However, she took up her position behind the desk, and said nothing more.

Mary, too, began her morning's work. Automatically, without argument, she passed One Increasing Purpose over the counter to a young girl who had inquired for it. So far as Mary's present mood was concerned, it might just as well have been a copy of A Passage to India or Those Barren Leaves. She repeated this carefree gesture with many more books for which on another occasion

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 she would have felt slight respect. In her subconsciousness, as a matter of fact, Mary began to harbour a slight suspicion in regard to the reliability of the literature of disillusion.

Byron's name, sung over and over again in her mind, began also to weave contrapuntally a pattern of pain in her heart. He had promised to telephone. Why didn't he keep this promise? She could not tolerate the knowledge, she was beginning to realize, that he should be somewhere else while she was here. She wanted him near her always. Was love like this, that you began to suffer the moment you experienced it? Why didn't he telephone? Was he so indifferent that he could sleep? Several times she heard the bell tinkle in the adjoining room. Twice, she sped across the floor to answer it, in spite of the fact that the instrument was on the wall two steps from the principal librarian's desk.

You must be expecting a call, Mary, was Alice Langley's comment.

After this remark, although it cost her an agony of impatience, Mary permitted the bell to ring until some one in the inner office lifted the receiver, but this happened so frequently that it seemed incredible that not one of the calls should be for her. Presently a new anxiety beset her: considering the unisolated location of the telephone, she' would be unable to speak freely, to say what she wanted to say. What she principally wanted to say, she was now

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 aware, was in the nature of a complaint: she desired to upbraid Byron for not calling her earlier. Was he, her succeeding despairing inner voice demanded, going to call her at all?

At noon she was so completely occupied with the irksome requirements of an offensively precise youth—he had brought in a long typewritten list of obscure volumes dealing with tribal magic, and it was almost with shame that Mary had to confess, after considerable searching in the card-catalogue, that the library could not supply a single one of them—that when the bell rang again she did not hear it.

Alice Langley prompted her: Miss Silbert has been calling you for some time. Telephone.

Mary hastily returned the list to the obnoxious youth, gave a vicious stamp to a girl's card on the desk before her, and slipped from her stool. She walked, conscious that Alice's curious eyes were following her, the length of the room. Her brow was molten lava, her hands were ice. In Miss Silbert's room she lifted the receiver to her ear.

Hello!

Is that you, Mary?

Yes.

My adored one, can't you say any more than that?

No, not now.

What's the matter? The voice became more importunate, even a trifle petulant. Don't you feel the same way you did last night?

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text:
Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/143

 Yes.

Then, what's the matter? Don't you love me, Mary?

Yes.

Then, why don't you say something?

I can't.

At last he seemed to comprehend. You're not alone?

No. How she hated this! Never again would she permit him to telephone her at the library. She felt Miss Silbert's accusing eyes creeping up and down her back. She knew what Miss Silbert was thinking: she knew what white people thought about Negroes under such circumstances. I'm going to Craig's to lunch at one o'clock, she added.

I'll join you there, he promised. Good-bye.

Good— Wait a minute! . . . but he had already hung up the receiver.

She returned to her position behind the counter. Alice was frankly staring at her now, making no slightest effort at dissimulation. A little later she saw Alice whisper to one of the other girls. The girl listened, giggling. Mary believed she was about to faint. She loathed Byron. In her present mood she felt she never wanted to see him again.

Miss Silbert was passing her desk. You don't look well, Mary, the librarian remarked sympathetically.

I've got a headache.

Alice, overhearing, grinned.

title: Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/143


text:
Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/144

 It must be the air in here, Mary hurried on. It's very close. I felt fine when I came in.

Miss Silbert's glance sought the secret in Mary's eyes, searched deep into her soul, Mary felt, but the librarian said nothing more.

One o'clock at last. Craig's. The same crowd. The same gossip, but today it seemed to have a new and unpleasant significance. They seemed to be talking about her. She caught phrases without names:

He went to see her last night. . ..

. . . creeper. . ..

Some sheik! Ha! Ha!

One-fifteen. Still Mary waited. As Byron had not arrived at one-thirty, she ordered lunch, only to discover when it was served that she was not hungry. The food revolted her, choked her. The vague chorus continued to buzz around her. The laughter bubbled.

At a quarter of two, as she was arising from her seat preparing to draw on her cloak, he came in. Her expression reproached him.

Hello, Mary, he greeted her.

I thought you were coming to lunch with me.

He seemed bewildered.

I didn't understand it that way. I'msorry. Did you wait? I thought you meant for me to look in on you here.

You said you'd join me.

title: Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/144


text:
Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/145

 I couldn't eat anything. I only had my coffee about an hour ago.

She felt the tears rising, her gorge tightening. Here he stood before her, and yet she was not happy. She wanted. . . . What did she want?

I was talking from the librarian's room, she explained. It was difficult to say very much.

I got that after awhile, he said. At first I couldn't understand why you were so cold.

I must have sounded that way. I think, Byron, she went on, it would be just as well if you didn't telephone me at the library again.

All right, he replied. It was you who suggested It. Why didn't you call me up earlier? she demanded almost fiercely.

Why, I didn't think you'd be around earlier. It was so late when I left last night.

I was at the library at nine. I'm always there by nine.

I didn't get up at nine. Say, are we quarrelling already?

I'm sorry, Byron dear. I guess I'm tired. I'm feeling very nervous this morning.

You poor darling! He squeezed her arm affectionately.

Don't do that here, Byron, she begged.

Well, what can I do? When and where can I see you?

title: Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/145


text:
Page:JT International SA v Commonwealth of Australia.pdf/24

French CJ

The origin of patents for inventions can be traced back to the Statute of Monopolies of 1623, declaring all monopolies void, subject to the exception in s 6 of that Statute that:

"any letters patents and grants of privilege for the … making of any manner of new manufactures within this realm, to the true and first inventor and inventors of such manufactures, which others at the time of making such letters patents and grants shall not use".

That provision still forms part of the definition of "patentable invention" in the Patents Act 1990 (Cth). Its purpose was succinctly stated by Cornish, Llewellyn and Aplin :

"the terms of the section make it plain that an act of economic policy was intended: the objectives were the encouragement of industry, employment and growth, rather than justice to the 'inventor' for his intellectual percipience."

Copyright is defined by reference to exclusive rights of, inter alia, reproduction and publication of works and subject matter other than works. It is classified in the Copyright Act as "personal property" which is transmissible by "assignment, by will and by devolution by operation of law."

Registered trade marks, designs, patents and copyright in works and other subject matter give rise to, or constitute, exclusive rights which are property to which s 51(xxxi) of the Constitution can apply. They are all rights which are created by statute in order to serve public purposes. They differ in their histories, their character and the statutory schemes which make provision for them. It is important in that context to bear in mind the adoption by this Court in Campomar of the statement by Dixon J in Victoria Park Racing and Recreation Grounds Co Ltd v Taylor that:


text:
Page:English-Chinese-Japanese Lexicon of Bibliographical, Cataloging and Library Terms Pb4XAAAAMAAJ.pdf/19

{| class="wikitable" Rh
 * 書背
 * back of book
 * 書物の背
 * 耶蘇降世前第…年
 * before Christ
 * 紀元前…年
 * 文史家，書史專門家
 * bibliographer
 * 書誌學者
 * 文史的，書史的
 * bibliographical
 * 書誌學的
 * 書籍學，書史，書籍解題
 * bibliography
 * 參考書一覽，關係書誌
 * 完備書目
 * bibliography, complete
 * 完備書目
 * 總書目，書目大綱
 * bibliography, general
 * 總書目
 * 國內出版書目
 * bibliography, national
 * 國別書目
 * 選擇書目
 * bibliography, select
 * 選拔書目
 * 特別書目
 * bibliography, special
 * 特殊書目
 * 貿易書目錄
 * bibliography, trade
 * 販賣圖書目錄
 * 釘書者標題
 * binder's title
 * 製本所の付標題
 * 裝釘
 * binding
 * 裝釘，表裝，製本
 * 完備裝釘
 * binding, full
 * 丸裝釘
 * 半裝釘
 * binding, half
 * 半革裝釘
 * 一角裝釘
 * binding, quarter
 * 背革裝釘
 * 三角裝釘
 * binding, three quarter
 * 角背裝釘
 * 人名大辭典
 * biographical dictionary, encyclopedia
 * 人名辭典
 * 名人列傳，名人列傳言行錄
 * biography
 * 傳記
 * 雕刻印版
 * block, engraved
 * 畫版
 * }
 * 一角裝釘
 * binding, quarter
 * 背革裝釘
 * 三角裝釘
 * binding, three quarter
 * 角背裝釘
 * 人名大辭典
 * biographical dictionary, encyclopedia
 * 人名辭典
 * 名人列傳，名人列傳言行錄
 * biography
 * 傳記
 * 雕刻印版
 * block, engraved
 * 畫版
 * }
 * 雕刻印版
 * block, engraved
 * 畫版
 * }
 * }


text:
Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/146

 Mary smiled wanly. I must seem like a fool, Byron.

Can I come around tonight?

Oh, what will Ollie think?

Do you care what Ollie thinks?

No—oo. Yes, come around tonight, Byron.

What time?

Oh, about eight-thirty.

I'll be there.

Mary felt happy and warm again.

Are you looking for work yet, Byron? she inquired.

He laughed uneasily. Why, I just got up. How could I look for a job this morning? Besides I want to take a little time to look around. I don't want to take the first thing that offers.

Later, after he had left her at the door of the library, she was frightened. Her inexperience, her prior lack of desire for experience, had tricked her. She had been, she assured herself, too forthright. She had permitted him to know at once that she loved him. In this respect, at any rate, she had been perhaps a daughter of her race, but vague doubts clouded her mind, forcing her to be uncertain whether she had been wise to yield so easily to this warm emotion. Could she never be simple? Apparently not. This troublesome brain of hers, standing a little apart and judging with calm dispassionate logic all that she did, informed her that she had allowed him to know too soon that she loved

title: Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/146


text:
Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/147

 him; she had let him see her jealousy too soon, permitted him to learn how much she missed him when he was not with her. He must now, she mused, be fully aware of his power over her. Yet she understood that in the future she could hold herself no more in check. In yielding to her first passionate emotion, she had apparently forfeited her peace of spirit. She had been in love consciously less than twenty-four hours—she realized that although something important had happened to her the day she met Byron at Adora's it was nothing like what had happened to her now—and already she was tasting all the anguish and bitterness of this condition. She was no longer the mistress of her emotions. To all intents and purposes, she admitted, she was their slave.

Olive had not yet returned when Mary entered the flat that evening. Repairing to the kitchen she lifted the lid from several canisters—flour, sugar, spices, dried mushrooms, kidney beans: all mysterious ingredients. What did one do with them? In the ice-box she discovered half a cold roast of lamb reposing on a platter, a curious mixture with a pungent aroma in a bowl, a dish of pyrex glass twothirds full of cold, scalloped potatoes. Olive, she knew, would be able to convert these substances into an appetizing meal, while she, Mary, was helpless. Sinking into a chair, she sighed.

title: Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/147


text:
Page:English-Chinese-Japanese Lexicon of Bibliographical, Cataloging and Library Terms Pb4XAAAAMAAJ.pdf/20

{| class="wikitable" Rh
 * 印板，刻板
 * block printing
 * 木版印刷
 * 雕刻人
 * blocks cut by …
 * 雕刻家
 * 紙板裝
 * boards (covers)
 * 板紙表裝
 * 書籍，書，印本
 * book
 * 本，書，圖書
 * 麻莎本
 * book, badly printed, ancient
 * 殘本
 * book, imperfect
 * 不具備本
 * 大字本
 * book, large print
 * 珍本
 * book, rare
 * 珍本
 * 參考書
 * book, reference
 * 參考圖書
 * 細字本，小字本
 * book, small print
 * 小字本
 * 圖書目錄片
 * book card
 * 圖書カード
 * 藏書
 * book collection
 * 藏書
 * 藏書人
 * book collector
 * 藏書人
 * 通行本
 * book in print
 * 通行本
 * 書目箋
 * book label
 * 函架箋
 * 書目號嗎
 * book number
 * 函架番號
 * （刊）本
 * book printed at …
 * 監本
 * book printed at
 * 官本，官版
 * book printed by the government
 * 公文書
 * 活字本
 * book printed from movable type
 * 活字本
 * 墨本
 * book printed in black ink
 * 墨本
 * 內府刊本
 * book printed in the palace
 * }
 * 書目號嗎
 * book number
 * 函架番號
 * （刊）本
 * book printed at …
 * 監本
 * book printed at
 * 官本，官版
 * book printed by the government
 * 公文書
 * 活字本
 * book printed from movable type
 * 活字本
 * 墨本
 * book printed in black ink
 * 墨本
 * 內府刊本
 * book printed in the palace
 * }
 * 墨本
 * book printed in black ink
 * 墨本
 * 內府刊本
 * book printed in the palace
 * }
 * book printed in the palace
 * }
 * }


text:
Page:English-Chinese-Japanese Lexicon of Bibliographical, Cataloging and Library Terms Pb4XAAAAMAAJ.pdf/21

{| class="wikitable" Rh
 * 五色本
 * book printed in five colors
 * 五色本
 * 朱墨本
 * book printed in red and black
 * 赤墨本
 * 三色本
 * book printed in three colors
 * 三色本
 * 刊修本
 * book with missing parts supplied in print
 * 十行本（宋刊）
 * book with ten columns to the page
 * 書裝子
 * bookbinding
 * 製本
 * 書箱子
 * bookcase
 * 大箱，書棚
 * 藏書印
 * bookplate
 * 藏書票
 * 書鋪，書店
 * bookstore
 * 書店，本屋
 * 書蟲，書癡子
 * bookworm
 * 書蠹，讀書狂
 * 兩面
 * both sides (or surfaces)
 * 兩面
 * 全套共…卷
 * bound together in … V.
 * 合成書本
 * bound together in book form
 * 製本結ばれてゐる
 * 箱内，箱中
 * box, in a, boxes
 * 箱入
 * 括號
 * bracket
 * 挂弧
 * 分行，支店
 * branch (of shop)
 * 支店
 * 一面刷大紙
 * broadside
 * 片面刷大紙
 * 傳單
 * brochure
 * 小册子
 * 公報，公文
 * bulletin
 * 報，廣告，公示
 * }
 * box, in a, boxes
 * 箱入
 * 括號
 * bracket
 * 挂弧
 * 分行，支店
 * branch (of shop)
 * 支店
 * 一面刷大紙
 * broadside
 * 片面刷大紙
 * 傳單
 * brochure
 * 小册子
 * 公報，公文
 * bulletin
 * 報，廣告，公示
 * }
 * 公報，公文
 * bulletin
 * 報，廣告，公示
 * }
 * }


text:
Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/148

 The outer door opened and closed as Olive entered.

Mary! she called. Then, What on earth are you doing in the kitchen?

I thought I'd like to try to get dinner, but I don't seem to know what to do.

Olive regarded her silently for a moment: astonishment shone from her eyes. It was obvious, too, that she was amused.

You set the table, she commanded half-humorously, and I'll get dinner as usual.

But Ollie, I really want to learn how to cook. Please let me help.

Well, Olive remarked, as she tied an apron over her dress, the sheik is pretty good, I guess. Studying up on domestic science already, eh?

Mary could not resist a smile. The sheik is pretty good, she echoed, altering the stress. I thought that some night when he came here to dinner I'd like to prepare it.

You thought. . . ! Say, Mary, don't scare the man away. You prepare your first meal for him after you're married. It will be too late for him to leave you then.

Ollie, do you think I'll be as bad as all that?

I'll say you'll be rotten. . . . Olive's increased amazement was clearly written on her countenance. . . . When you get started, Mary, you're certainly a fast worker, unless you've been holding this sheik out on me. You haven't been meeting him in

title: Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/148


text:
Page:English-Chinese-Japanese Lexicon of Bibliographical, Cataloging and Library Terms Pb4XAAAAMAAJ.pdf/22

{| class="wikitable" ! colspan="3" | C Rh
 * 書法，善書
 * calligraphy
 * 能書術
 * 片，片子
 * card
 * カード
 * 分析目錄片
 * card, analytic
 * 分析題名記入
 * 著者目錄片
 * card, author
 * 著者カード
 * 目錄片
 * card, catalogue
 * 目錄カード
 * 參照片
 * card, cross reference
 * 參照カード
 * 索引片
 * card, index
 * 索引カード
 * 期報片，期刊片
 * card, periodical
 * 雜誌刊行カード
 * 對照參看片
 * card, “see also”
 * 參照カード
 * 書架目錄片
 * card, shelf list
 * 函架目錄カード
 * 標題目錄片
 * card, subject
 * 事項記入
 * 分析標題目錄片
 * card, subject, analytic
 * 分解的事項目錄カード
 * 書名目錄片
 * card, title
 * 標題カード
 * 製地圖法
 * cartography
 * 製圖學
 * 滑稽畫報
 * cartoon
 * 諷刺畫
 * 滑稽畫家
 * cartoonist
 * 剌畫家
 * 書套，外包
 * case for books (wrapper)
 * 書外套，外包
 * 目錄
 * catalogue (noun)
 * 目錄，カタログ
 * 作目錄
 * catalogue (verb)
 * 目録を作る
 * 依英文字母次序而分定之目錄
 * catalogue, alphabetically classified
 * ABC順分類目錄
 * }
 * 滑稽畫家
 * cartoonist
 * 剌畫家
 * 書套，外包
 * case for books (wrapper)
 * 書外套，外包
 * 目錄
 * catalogue (noun)
 * 目錄，カタログ
 * 作目錄
 * catalogue (verb)
 * 目録を作る
 * 依英文字母次序而分定之目錄
 * catalogue, alphabetically classified
 * ABC順分類目錄
 * }
 * 依英文字母次序而分定之目錄
 * catalogue, alphabetically classified
 * ABC順分類目錄
 * }


text:
Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/149

 the Park for the past few months, have you?

Ollie! You know I haven't.

How late did he stay last night?

Oh, he must have left right after you went out.

Well, if he did, he's a fast worker too! What time is he coming in tonight?

Why, how. . . ? Eight-thirty.

Well, run along and get ready. It will take you at least two hours.

Howard was dining 'with them again. He and Olive were going to the theatre. They were merciful to Mary, sparing her further references to the subject on which she was sensitive.

I wish you'd been with us last night, Mary, Howard said.

Where did you go?

Atlantic City Joe's. We felt like slumming.

I never heard of the place. You know I'm not very crazy about cabarets.

I'd never been there before, said Olive. It seems to be a favourite dive of Dick's. There's a loose dancer called Zebra.

What a belly-wobble! cried Howard with enthusiasm. She sang a song which goes:

The whole place is about as big as this room, Olive went on, but there's really more space for dancing than there is at the Black Venus because

title: Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/149


text:
Page:English-Chinese-Japanese Lexicon of Bibliographical, Cataloging and Library Terms Pb4XAAAAMAAJ.pdf/23

{| class="wikitable" Rh
 * 著者目錄
 * catalogue, author
 * 著者目錄
 * 書目片
 * catalogue, card
 * カード目錄
 * 分類目錄
 * catalogue, classed
 * 分類目錄
 * 字典類目錄
 * catalogue, dictionary
 * 辭書體目錄
 * 標題目錄
 * catalogue, subjects
 * 事項目錄
 * 圖書編目規則
 * cataloguing rules
 * 目錄の規則
 * 檢稿官
 * censor of books
 * 檢稿官
 * 檢稿官之職
 * censorship
 * 檢稿官之 [sic]職
 * 百分米特
 * centimeter
 * センチ
 * 世紀
 * century
 * 百年期
 * 章，篇，卷，囘
 * chapter
 * 章，篇，册
 * 章目
 * chapter headings
 * 章頭標目
 * 漢字
 * character, Chinese
 * 本字，漢字
 * 字
 * character, written
 * 字
 * 海圖
 * chart, ocean
 * 海圖
 * 賜準書
 * charter
 * 特許，證書
 * 年代記，歷代志略
 * chronicle
 * 年代記，歷代志
 * 按年代的
 * chronological
 * 年代順の
 * 大約，大概
 * circa
 * 大凡
 * 傳單，通知書
 * circular
 * 引札，同文の廣吿ビラ
 * 囘覽圖書館
 * circulating library
 * 貸出圖書館
 * 種類
 * class (in collection)
 * 分類
 * 班
 * class (in school, etc.)
 * 級
 * 分類目錄
 * class-catalogue
 * 分類目錄
 * 分類記號
 * class-mark
 * 分類記號
 * }
 * 大凡
 * 傳單，通知書
 * circular
 * 引札，同文の廣吿ビラ
 * 囘覽圖書館
 * circulating library
 * 貸出圖書館
 * 種類
 * class (in collection)
 * 分類
 * 班
 * class (in school, etc.)
 * 級
 * 分類目錄
 * class-catalogue
 * 分類目錄
 * 分類記號
 * class-mark
 * 分類記號
 * }
 * 分類目錄
 * 分類記號
 * class-mark
 * 分類記號
 * }
 * }


text:
Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/150

 they keep more of the floor clear. Dick is certainly a bear at the Black Bottom.

When, some time later, they arose from the table, Mary suggested to Olive, Please leave the coffee in the pot. I'll warm it up when I want it.

Company, eh? Howard murmured interrogatively.

Yes, Olive replied, in a tone that prohibited further inquiry.

After they had departed, Mary returned to her room to put on a clinging, blue silk dress, with no sleeves, and a skirt that fell only to her knees. She rearranged her hair. She made up her face and lips more carefully. Seeking the bottle of carbona from the bathroom cupboard, she removed a minute spot from one of her satin shoes. Then she looked at the clock. It was quarter to nine.

Mary discovered that she was sleepy. She had enjoyed so little rest the preceding night. She went to the kitchen and lit the fire under the coffee-percolator. Fancying the place was too warm, she opened the kitchen window. Then she lounged rather listlessly in a chair until the brown bubbles began to dance merrily in the glass dome of the percolator when she poured herself out a large cup of the stimulant and returned with it to the sitting-room.

She sipped the hot liquid with a spoon. Still restless, she went back to her room in search of cigarettes and a book. She examined the labels of many

title: Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/150


text:
Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/151

 volumes on her table before she eventually chose David Garnett's The Sailor's Return. Back in the sitting-room, she slowly sipped her coffee, lighted a cigarette, and opened the book. Perfection is in unity; prefer one woman first, and then one thing in her: so read the first lines. She laid the book aside. What, after all, did she know about this man? Did Byron, she wondered, prefer one woman first? Was she first? Had there been others? Were there others now? Mary's blood pumped furiously from her heart as she thought what it would mean to her if he cared for another woman. She wanted him for herself and for herself alone. She wanted to possess him.

She permitted herself to slip into a half-somnolent meditation in which she gave herself over to the bliss of imagining what life with him would be like. Suddenly, with a start, she became wide-awake. Consulting her watch, she discovered that it was a quarter of eleven. There was a draught in the room. She remembered the open window and closed it. Then she returned to her chair and began to read: The Duke of Kent came safe into Southampton Docks on the tenth of June, 1858. On board of her was a mariner named William Targett, returning to his own country as a passenger, having shipped at Lisbon. He was. . . Mary

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text:
Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/152

 jumped at the sound of the bell. Then she sat quite still for a moment until she had regained some slight control of her twitching muscles. At last, she opened the door.

title: Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/152


text:
Page:English-Chinese-Japanese Lexicon of Bibliographical, Cataloging and Library Terms Pb4XAAAAMAAJ.pdf/24

{| class="wikitable" Rh
 * 分類號數
 * class-number
 * 分類番號
 * 經書
 * classics
 * 漢學，漢文
 * 分類，類別
 * classification, book
 * 分類表
 * 分類
 * classify
 * 分類する
 * 校書
 * collate
 * 比較する
 * 校對書
 * collation
 * 對照事項
 * 全集
 * collected works
 * 叢書
 * 收集，集
 * collection
 * 蒐集，採集
 * 專集
 * collection, special
 * 専門の集
 * 文集
 * collection of essays
 * 文集
 * 詩集
 * collection of poems
 * 詩集
 * 採集報告
 * collection of reports
 * 報告の蒐集
 * 歌集
 * collection of songs
 * 歌集
 * 題跋
 * colophon
 * 奧付
 * 彩印
 * color print
 * 多色印刷物
 * 直行
 * column
 * 行，縱行
 * 欽命…
 * command, Imperial
 * 勒命
 * 記念
 * commemoration
 * 記念
 * 註釋，傳註
 * comment (verb)
 * 註釋する
 * 譯釋者
 * commentator
 * 解說者，註解者
 * 委員會
 * commission, committee
 * 委員會
 * 公會，商會，公司
 * company
 * 會社
 * 股份公司
 * company, joint stock
 * 株式會社
 * 股分有限公司
 * company, limited liability stock
 * 有限責任會社
 * 要略，簡略，鋼領
 * compendium
 * 大要，要略，槪論
 * }
 * 註釋する
 * 譯釋者
 * commentator
 * 解說者，註解者
 * 委員會
 * commission, committee
 * 委員會
 * 公會，商會，公司
 * company
 * 會社
 * 股份公司
 * company, joint stock
 * 株式會社
 * 股分有限公司
 * company, limited liability stock
 * 有限責任會社
 * 要略，簡略，鋼領
 * compendium
 * 大要，要略，槪論
 * }
 * 有限責任會社
 * 要略，簡略，鋼領
 * compendium
 * 大要，要略，槪論
 * }
 * }


text:
Page:English-Chinese-Japanese Lexicon of Bibliographical, Cataloging and Library Terms Pb4XAAAAMAAJ.pdf/25

{| class="wikitable" |- Rh
 * 編纂，文集纂輯之書
 * compilation
 * 編纂，編纂物
 * 敕撰編纂文集
 * compilation (imperial edition)
 * 編纂者，纂輯人
 * compiler
 * 編纂者，編輯人
 * 補輯者
 * compiler, assistant
 * 助輯者
 * 合編
 * compiler (group)
 * 集編
 * 全集
 * complete (a set of books)
 * 大全，全篇
 * 全册共…卷
 * complete in … V.
 * 要辭索引[要辭索引 translates to "index of important words".] [sic]
 * complete works of an author [sic]
 * 用語索引[用語索引 translates to "index of terminology".] [sic]
 * 內容，目錄
 * contents
 * 目次内容，圖書の内容
 * 續篇
 * continuation, or supplement
 * 續刊
 * 綴錄前報
 * continued from previous issue
 * 續く前報
 * 續刊
 * continued, to be
 * 續刊すべき
 * 投稿
 * contribution (to periodical, etc.)
 * 投稿
 * 銅版
 * copper plate
 * 銅版
 * 本，書本
 * copy (of a book)
 * 部，本
 * 影本
 * copy (reproduction)
 * 模寫
 * 證本
 * copy, certified
 * 證本
 * 草本
 * copy, rough
 * 草稿
 * 版權印，著作權
 * copyright
 * 權版，著作權
 * 團體名記錄
 * corporate entry
 * 團體名記入
 * 本，書本
 * copy (of a book)
 * 部，本
 * 影本
 * copy (reproduction)
 * 模寫
 * 證本
 * copy, certified
 * 證本
 * 草本
 * copy, rough
 * 草稿
 * 版權印，著作權
 * copyright
 * 權版，著作權
 * 團體名記錄
 * corporate entry
 * 團體名記入
 * 權版，著作權
 * 團體名記錄
 * corporate entry
 * 團體名記入
 * 團體名記入
 * }


text:
Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/153

You can't catch me!

I'll bet I can!

Mary sprinted down a path with Byron following hot after her. At the moment he was about to capture her, she made a swift turning to elude him, lost her balance, and fell. Stumbling over her prostrate form, Byron sprawled too. Lying prone on the cold ground, they screamed with laughter.

When they had recovered from their merriment, they walked hand in hand down the path until they discovered a bench on which they seated themselves. A squirrel, scrambling out of the dead leaves, crossed the path, pausing an instant in his passage to sit on his haunches and listen apprehensively, and scampered up a slender tree-trunk. A sparrow hopped up and down the gravel, pecking for worms. Now and then he cocked his head, chirped, and regarded the pair inquisitively.

Can you Charleston? Byron inquired unexpectedly.

Not very well, Mary replied. Can you?

For reply, he flung aside his overcoat, and leaped to the centre of the path where he began to execute a series of wild steps. Mary clapped her hands rhythmically.

title: Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/153


text:
Page:English-Chinese-Japanese Lexicon of Bibliographical, Cataloging and Library Terms Pb4XAAAAMAAJ.pdf/26

{| class="wikitable" ! colspan="3" | D Rh
 * 公司，會社
 * corporation
 * 會社
 * 改正，修正
 * correct (verb)
 * 矯正する
 * 通信，信函來往
 * correspondence
 * 通信
 * 課程，學科
 * course of study
 * 課程，學科
 * 外面標題
 * cover title
 * 表裝標題
 * 批評家
 * critic
 * 批評家
 * 演劇批評家
 * dramatic
 * 演劇批評家
 * 文藝批評家
 * literary
 * 文藝批評家
 * 音樂批評家
 * music
 * 音樂批評家
 * 批評，評論
 * criticism
 * 評論，批評
 * 對照，參照
 * cross reference
 * 參照
 * 對照卡片
 * cross reference card
 * 參照カード
 * 加增的
 * cumulative
 * 累積的
 * 草書
 * cursive writing
 * 行書，草書
 * 花甲子
 * cycle of sixty years
 * 花甲子
 * 歲次
 * cyclical order of years
 * 歲次
 * 年分，干支
 * cyclical year
 * 干支
 * cumulative
 * 累積的
 * 草書
 * cursive writing
 * 行書，草書
 * 花甲子
 * cycle of sixty years
 * 花甲子
 * 歲次
 * cyclical order of years
 * 歲次
 * 年分，干支
 * cyclical year
 * 干支
 * 年分，干支
 * cyclical year
 * 干支
 * 干支
 * 每天，天天
 * daily
 * 日マ々 [sic]の、毎日の
 * 日報
 * daily (publication)
 * 日刊
 * 時日，年月日
 * date
 * 年號，月日，時代
 * 題跋年日
 * date, colophon
 * 奧附年號
 * 板權年日
 * date, copyright
 * 著作權年號
 * 題跋年日
 * date, dedication
 * 獻本年號
 * }
 * 著作權年號
 * 題跋年日
 * date, dedication
 * 獻本年號
 * }
 * }


text:
Page:English-Chinese-Japanese Lexicon of Bibliographical, Cataloging and Library Terms Pb4XAAAAMAAJ.pdf/27

{| class="wikitable" Rh
 * 印刷年日
 * date, imprint
 * 標題紙年號
 * 訓誨篇年日
 * date, introduction
 * 緒論年號
 * 序言年日
 * date, preface
 * 序文年號
 * 出版年日不一定
 * dates of issue irregular
 * 不定の發行
 * 學位
 * degree, academic
 * 學位
 * 院，學院
 * department (university)
 * 部
 * 繪圖，表圖
 * diagram
 * 圖表
 * 方言
 * dialect
 * 地方語，方言
 * 問答
 * dialogue
 * 對話
 * 字典，字彙
 * dictionary
 * 辭典，字典
 * 人名大辭典
 * dictionary, biographical
 * 人名大辭典
 * 同義字字典
 * dictionary of synonyms
 * 異同辯指導
 * 總敎授
 * director of studies (in a department)
 * 硏究の指導者
 * 論文
 * dissertation
 * 學位論文，論說
 * 同上，同前
 * ditto
 * 同前
 * 學者，博士，進士學位
 * doctor (learned man)
 * 學者，博士
 * 醫士
 * doctor of medicine
 * 醫士師
 * 哲學博士
 * doctor of philosophy
 * 哲學博士
 * 正式公文，文牘
 * document (official)
 * 公文，文書
 * 公事文字
 * documentary draft
 * 文書の草案
 * 戲曲
 * drama
 * 戲曲，演劇
 * 圖畫
 * drawing
 * 製圖，圖書
 * 粉筆圖畫
 * drawing, crayon
 * クレヨンで畫いた
 * }
 * 哲學博士
 * doctor of philosophy
 * 哲學博士
 * 正式公文，文牘
 * document (official)
 * 公文，文書
 * 公事文字
 * documentary draft
 * 文書の草案
 * 戲曲
 * drama
 * 戲曲，演劇
 * 圖畫
 * drawing
 * 製圖，圖書
 * 粉筆圖畫
 * drawing, crayon
 * クレヨンで畫いた
 * }
 * 粉筆圖畫
 * drawing, crayon
 * クレヨンで畫いた
 * }
 * }


text:
Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/154

 You might have been on the stage! she applauded him.

I don't do it very well.

Where did you learn?

He laughed. You'd never guess. <A couple of white fellows at college taught me. Sometimes I think that's how I got my degree.

It's nice here in the Park, isn't it?

I love it. Resuming his coat, he seated himself beside her and closed his palm over her hand.

How many days is it that we've been coming here together?

It must be several weeks, but every time seems like the first time to me.

Mary began to sing softly:

That's a good tune, but a bad sentiment. I'm not going away.

I'm not going away either, said Mary, so you won't have any occasion to sing it. I wonder if you would, she mused aloud.

title: Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/154


text:
Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/155

 Would what?

Feel that way if I went away.

I'd follow you.

She squeezed his hand.

After a moment she said, I've been walking in this Park for many months. When I get through my work at the library it's what I always want to do first. I think of it as my Park, and now I've led you into it.

We're just two babes in the woods, he exclaimed. Let's roll in the leaves and cover ourselves up and get lost together for ever.

I'd adore it, Mary responded. What would we eat?

Squirrels and sparrows.

Oh, not those cunning squirrels.

Nuts.

I don't believe there's a nut-bearing tree in the Park. I've never seen one.

Well, we'll have our meals sent in from Flo's!

That's better. . . and use the leaves for a tablecloth!

And blankets!

Mary sighed. I wish life were as simple as all that! Why isn't it?

It's wonderful anyway, Mary.

It's wonderful now.

Baby duck! It'll be even more wonderful later, after we are married. He began to sing:

title: Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/155


text:
Page:English-Chinese-Japanese Lexicon of Bibliographical, Cataloging and Library Terms Pb4XAAAAMAAJ.pdf/28

{| class="wikitable" ! colspan="3" | E Rh
 * 副本
 * duplicate
 * 副本
 * 副本版
 * duplicator
 * 複寫器，複寫版
 * 蔽塵蓋兒
 * dust cover
 * 塵埃蓋
 * 蔽塵蓋兒
 * dust cover
 * 塵埃蓋
 * 塵埃蓋
 * 初版，第一版
 * editio princeps
 * 第一版の圖書
 * 版
 * edition
 * 版
 * 準定版
 * edition, authorized
 * 認可版
 * 完版
 * edition, completely revised
 * 眞正遺矯版
 * 修正版
 * edition, corrected
 * 訂正版
 * 花版
 * edition de luxe
 * 妝飾版
 * 放大版
 * edition, enlarged
 * 增版
 * 删修版
 * edition, expurgated
 * 删修版
 * 格外圖解版
 * edition, extra-illustrated
 * 特別圖解のある版
 * 善板，良板
 * edition, good
 * 善本
 * 官版
 * edition, government
 * 官本
 * 繡像圖板
 * edition, illustrated
 * 繪本，圖解
 * 敕撰
 * edition, imperial
 * 通行版
 * edition in print
 * 通行本
 * 圖書館出版
 * edition, library
 * 圖書館出版
 * 有限版
 * edition, limited
 * 婁文版
 * 紀念版
 * edition, memorial
 * 紀念刊
 * 新本，新版
 * edition, new
 * 新本
 * }
 * edition in print
 * 通行本
 * 圖書館出版
 * edition, library
 * 圖書館出版
 * 有限版
 * edition, limited
 * 婁文版
 * 紀念版
 * edition, memorial
 * 紀念刊
 * 新本，新版
 * edition, new
 * 新本
 * }
 * 新本，新版
 * edition, new
 * 新本
 * }


text:
Page:English-Chinese-Japanese Lexicon of Bibliographical, Cataloging and Library Terms Pb4XAAAAMAAJ.pdf/29

{| class="wikitable" Rh
 * 新刻，新雕
 * edition, newly engraved or cut
 * 新刻
 * 本書限定…本發印，本册爲第…號
 * (edition, numbered) of this book … copies were issued, this copy no: …
 * 本書限定…部頒布，本册其第…番
 * 普通本
 * edition, ordinary
 * 普通本
 * 原本
 * edition, original
 * 原版
 * 袖珍版，巾箱本
 * edition, pocket, sleeve
 * 袖珍版
 * 通行版
 * edition, popular
 * 通俗本
 * 稀本，善本
 * edition, rare
 * 稀本
 * 校正，重訂
 * edition, revised
 * 改訂版
 * 單本，獨本
 * edition, separate
 * 單行本
 * 小鉛字本
 * edition, small type
 * 縮刷版
 * 特別號
 * edition, special
 * 特殊號
 * 諸家集註本
 * editions, by various authors
 * 協同註版，諸家集註版
 * 編輯人
 * editor
 * 編者
 * 主編者
 * editor, chief
 * 主筆
 * 輿論
 * editorial (noun)
 * 社說
 * 編輯所
 * editorial department, office
 * 編輯室
 * 電版
 * electrotype
 * 電胎版
 * 改正，修改
 * emendation
 * 校訂
 * 博物志，圖書集成，百科彙書
 * encyclopedia
 * 百科全書，學術類典
 * 英文，英語
 * English language
 * 英文，英語
 * 雕刻
 * engrave, or cut
 * 雕刻する
 * 雕刻術
 * engraving
 * 雕刻術，版畫
 * }
 * electrotype
 * 電胎版
 * 改正，修改
 * emendation
 * 校訂
 * 博物志，圖書集成，百科彙書
 * encyclopedia
 * 百科全書，學術類典
 * 英文，英語
 * English language
 * 英文，英語
 * 雕刻
 * engrave, or cut
 * 雕刻する
 * 雕刻術
 * engraving
 * 雕刻術，版畫
 * }
 * 雕刻術
 * engraving
 * 雕刻術，版畫
 * }
 * }


text:
Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/156

How do you know?

Tease! Unfaithful already?

What about you?

Cross my heart. Yours till death do us part, he asseverated with mock solemnity. He went on with his song:

Some sheik! she interrupted him, continuing in song:

You darling!

Byron, there's a big dance next week for the United Coloured Charities.

Let's go.

I was waiting for you to ask me.

As if you ever had to wait for me!

Well, it seems to me I'm always waiting for you.

title: Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/156


text:
Page:English-Chinese-Japanese Lexicon of Bibliographical, Cataloging and Library Terms Pb4XAAAAMAAJ.pdf/30

{| class="wikitable" ! colspan="3" | F Rh
 * 線畫版
 * engraving, line
 * 線畫版
 * 銅版術
 * engraving, mezzotint
 * メゾチント凹版，銅版術
 * 木版畫
 * engraving, wood
 * 木口水版木口木版 [sic]
 * 增大，放大
 * enlarged
 * 增補
 * 登錄
 * entry
 * 記入，登錄
 * 信封
 * envelope
 * 狀袋，封筒
 * 簡書體
 * epistolary style
 * 簡書
 * 撮略，攬要
 * epitome
 * 摘要槪論
 * 擦去，消除
 * erasure
 * 削除，削去
 * 錯字，誤刊
 * errata
 * 錯字
 * 文章，論說
 * essay
 * 論文，文章
 * 博覽會，展覽會
 * exhibition
 * 共進會，博覽會
 * 解義，解識
 * explanation
 * 解說
 * 增刊
 * extra, special, no. of a magazine, etc.
 * 增刊
 * 圖繪增版
 * extra-illustrated
 * 別插入圖版
 * 博覽會，展覽會
 * exhibition
 * 共進會，博覽會
 * 解義，解識
 * explanation
 * 解說
 * 增刊
 * extra, special, no. of a magazine, etc.
 * 增刊
 * 圖繪增版
 * extra-illustrated
 * 別插入圖版
 * 圖繪增版
 * extra-illustrated
 * 別插入圖版
 * 別插入圖版
 * 摹寫
 * facsimile
 * 模寫
 * festschrift, see memorial volume
 * 纂義書，小說
 * fiction
 * 物語，小說
 * 排行，編訂
 * file
 * 行列，目錄
 * 簡明目錄
 * finding list
 * 簡略目錄
 * }
 * file
 * 行列，目錄
 * 簡明目錄
 * finding list
 * 簡略目錄
 * }
 * }


text:
Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/157

 If we go to the dance we'll make the appointment for the night before and then perhaps we'll get there.

Don't scold me.

I'm not scolding you. Ah'm jes' nacherly lovin' you, mah honey.

I adore you when you talk like that. Makes me feel I'm your daddy!

Honey, you is, fo' sho'.

Where did you learn that delicious lingo?

Out of Jezebel Pettyfer and Porgy.

Glancing hastily up and down the path to be sure no one was approaching, he kissed her.

That was nice, Mary assured him.

Say thank you!

I didn't get enough to be thankful for.

He kissed her again.

Byron, don't please! Not so hard, dearest. You're mussing me all up.

I like to!

You talk like a savage!

I am. I'm an African cannibal! Son of a king! Going to eat you up for my dinner! Growling, he exposed his even, white teeth.

She shouted with laughter. I'm so happy, Byron, so very happy! Let's make it last always.

He responded with another tune:

title: Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/157


text:
Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/158

Permitting her head to fall against his shoulder, she silently enjoyed the ecstasy of this position for a time before she suggested, It's growing dark, dear. I think we'd better start home.

I thought we were going to make this our home, he protested.

Well, I will if you want to, but I thought maybe you'd like some of Ollie's biscuits.

Tempter! You coax me with hot bread!

You're easily coaxed.

One more kiss!

No, you've had enough. Rising quickly, she dashed away from the bench, crying over her shoulder, Catch me then!

He captured her easily and claimed his reward.

They walked on rapidly, hand in hand, their faces radiant with happiness. Presently their way lay parallel with the bridle-path. On horses, a man and woman were slowly approaching. A brilliant arclamp overhead illuminated the faces. Mary regarded the woman who, in a severely cut, black riding-habit, sat astride her mount. The face was beautiful, but cold and haughty, tortured, too, Mary thought.

Suddenly her voice cut the silence, clear and chill. Every syllable could be distinctly heard.

title: Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/158


text:
Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/159

 Disgusting, she remarked to her companion, that they should permit Niggers in the park!

The pair, without looking back, rode on together.

Mary clutched at Byron's arm and bowed her head.

We were too happy, she moaned. It's a judgment.

Byron's lip was quivering. Mary, he stammered, I haven't told you all the things that have happened to me.

What do you mean?

Things like that.

Oh, she moaned. Why can't they leave us alone or take us in? Can't we live? Can't we breathe without being subjected to these insults? Looks! Words! I'd prefer the lash. Slavery! Well, we knew where we were then!

They started to walk away.

Mary, Byron said quietly, this sort of thing happens to me every day.

Poor boy! I was afraid to ask you.

I answer advertisements for clerks, for secretaries. I'm insulted by office-boys, even, he added bitterly, by our own people: porters, elevator boys. You's puttin' on ahs, you shine, one of them said to me the other day. Why doan you git down an' work where you belongs?

That's the worst, what our own people do, Mary said. Do you know that the Underwoods dined

title: Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/159


text:
Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/160

 downtown with white friends last week, and the next morning the coloured servants left? They said they wouldn't wait on Niggers!

Sometimes they laugh! Byron went on, his voice choking.

They don't know, Mary consoled him, these others, they don't know what they're doing.

That makes it worse still, Byron cried passionately. I go into an office where a white boy or a white girl is sitting at the desk. What do you want? they demand superciliously. He won't see you. He don't want Niggers!

I went through it when I tried to get into the library, Mary confessed. At first no one would even see me. Not a single member of the board would grant me an appointment. Eventually, a letter which Mr. Sumner wrote to an influential friend won me a hearing. Now, to be perfectly frank, they're lovely to me, but they don't promote me. They promote the white girls.

What can we do? Byron demanded, clasping and unclasping his hands. Here we are in an alien world. We think, we feel. We do our best to fit in. We don't want them. All we want is to be let alone, a chance to earn money, to be respectable.

I believe, said Mary, that they actually prefer us when we're not respectable.

They walked up Seventh Avenue in silence. The streets were crowded with pedestrians, white and coloured, scurrying home from work. As they ap-

title: Page:Nigger Heaven (1926).pdf/160


text:
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 proached One hundred and twenty-fifth Street, the blacks began to predominate. Almost immediately after they had passed that thoroughfare they met only Negroes. They had crossed the line.

Nigger Heaven! Byron moaned. Nigger Heaven! That's what Harlem is. We sit in our places in the gallery of this New York theatre and watch the white world sitting down below in the good seats in the orchestra. Occasionally they turn their faces up towards us, their hard, cruel faces, to laugh or sneer, but they never beckon. It never seems to occur to them that Nigger Heaven is crowded, that there isn't another seat, that something has to be done. It doesn't seem to occur to them either, he went on fiercely, that we sit above them, that we can drop things down on them and crush them, that we can swoop down from this Nigger Heaven and take their seats. No, they have no fear of that! Harlem! The Mecca of the New Negro! My God!

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Dancing parties, assuredly, were no novelty in Harlem. A night in which there was no opportunity to go to one might be counted as exceptional. There were, first, the modest rent-parties, to which little groups were invited to dance to the music of the phonograph in somebody's small apartment, individual contributions of fifty cents helping to defray the occupant's exorbitant rent. Similar small, informal dances in apartments were often given without expense to the participants, although it cannot be said that the hostess was likely to complain if one of the guests brought in a bottle of gin. Moreover, on any occasion when two or four wanted to dance, and had the money, they might visit a cabaret. Finally, at least once a week and not seldom twice, some society or institution or club arranged a ball in one or another of the larger halls. These naturally varied considerably in importance. The parties given by the theatrical set were small and more or less exclusive. The sporting set, too, interested in prize-fighting and gambling, pretty much flocked by itself. There were other dances, however, at which the intellectuals and the smart, fast set mingled to an extent which never happened at dinners or small social gatherings of any kind.

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Page:The Scientific Papers of the Honourable Henry Cavendish v1.djvu/38

HENRY CAVENDISH ESQR

Eldest Son of the Right Honorable

LORD CHARLES CAVENDISH,

Third Son of William,

2''ND. DUKE OF DEVONSHIRE''.

Fellow of the Royal Society, and of the Society ANTIQUARIES LONDON.

Trustee of the British Museum

and Foreign Associate in the First Class

of the INSTITUTE at Paris.


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 The Charity Ball, arranged annually for Christmas week by a group of socially prominent women, was open to any one who paid admission. As the laudable purpose of the committee in charge was to raise money for certain public institutions, and as the music provided was invariably excellent, this assembly drew members from every set; even certain individuals from the Brooklyn group were induced to leave their comfortable early Victorian houses on this occasion. A careful spectator might have noted, however, even though no lines were drawn at the box-office, that persons belonging to one caste seldom danced with persons belonging to another, while social distinctions of a decidedly marked character were observed by several of the boxholders, a number of whom riever appeared on the floor at all.

It was after midnight when Mary and Byron joined the throng, stepping at once on to the waxed floor to sway to the rhythm of Sweet and Low Down, played with ecstatic fervour by Fletcher Henderson's band. During their first round of the hall Mary was kept continuously bowing to acquaintances. It seemed to her that she had never before encountered so many of her friends at one party. In a box, surrounded by a laughing company, sat Adora in a dress of black sequins, a red poppy at her belt. Mrs. Albright occupied another box alone; Hester, for the moment, was not visible. Dr. Lister was dancing with his wife. Sergia Sawyer, as she circled the hall, stared at the

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 crowd over Irwin Latrobe's shoulder. What a lot of gossip she would be prepared to disseminate on the morrow! thought Mary. Dick Sill was dancing with an unknown blonde in raspberry velvet, so light in complexion and yet so typically Negroid in her movements that it was impossible to be sure whether she were white or coloured. Carmen Fisher, in cloth of gold embroidered with pearls, clasped her brown arms languidly around the shoulders of Guymon Hooker. Galva Waldeck, in a Velazquez dress of orange taffeta embellished with wide bands of lace, was dancing with Léon Cazique. Mary began to wonder if this were a romance. She caught a glimpse of Sylvia Hawthorne, looking very tired, dancing with her husband. Rumsey Meadows, for once, was not in evidence. She saw Ray and Wren Hurley; she knew they must have motored in from New Jersey, where, fifty miles in the country, he was president of a small college. Montrose Esbon, who lived in Greenwich Village, wove his intricate way skilfully in and out of the dancers, holding Yuma Niland in his arms. Mimi Daquin, the pretty Creole, with her oval, cream-coloured face and her reddish-gold hair set off by her frock of absinthe-green, followed the music with Weston Underwood. . . . And there were hundreds more.

From the centre of the ceiling depended a huge, closed, silver bell which reflected the constantly shifting hues dispatched in broad shafts of light from

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 calcium lamps in the corners of the hall. These lights tinged the gold and bronze in the rich brocaded dresses. Silver and copper glittered, satin and velvet shone, under the ministrations of this unnatural illumination. Mary, as always, was fascinated by the variations in colour in the faces of the men, the shoulders of the women: black shoulders, brown shoulders, tan shoulders, ivory shoulders.

As the music stopped—they had been dancing the second and last encore—the hall blazed in a brilliant white light. Mary became aware of the presence of many more acquaintances. She bowed to Mrs. Sumner and Campaspe Lorillard, sitting side by side in a box. She also found herself facing Hester Albright, whom she had not previously encountered, as usual accompanied by Orville Snodes. She introduced the pair to Byron.

What a pretty party! Hester breathed ecstatically. Everybody looks so well!

Mary could not avoid observing that Hester was wearing a gown of black and yellow striped satin, cut princesse, with very long, tight sleeves and a train. On another this robe might have appeared picturesque. Hester merely succeeded in looking more dowdy than usual.

Très, très jolie, Orville echoed in his thin, squeaky voice. What charming music! Charmante!

It makes you dance, Byron commented dryly.

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 Of course, the crowd is pretty vulgar. That notorious Sartoris woman is here, right after that dreadful scandal with Sid Hawthorne too.

I didn't know that there was a dreadful scandal, Mary remarked quietly.

Why, Sergia Sawyer. ..

Well, of course. . . Where is Mrs. Sartoris? Mary demanded.

I don't see her now. She is in red, a loud shade of red.

Orange, Orville contradicted, with some daring, Mary thought.

Scarlet, snapped Hester. Bright scarlet. Why there, she exclaimed, is that awful Randolph Pettijohn. In Washington we never have mixed parties like this!

Mary was no longer listening. Instinctively she had turned to look for the Bolito King. As he bowed to her formally she returned his greeting. She wondered who could be the girl by his side. She was very pretty in her golden-brown way, but there was an air about her which suggested that she was not quite at home in this environment. Even her dress, rose crêpe georgette strewn with purple velvet orchids, was a trifle theatrical, and her white stockings and bronze-green shoes were in deplorable taste.

You are a newcomer in our midst? Mary heard Orville demand of Byron.

Yes, was Byron's laconic response.

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 Why, there's Adora Boniface! Hester shrilled. You know she's a former stage woman. People like that would never be received in Washington. Society is so mixed here.

How's your mama? Mary inquired, with a swift anxiety to change the subject. I saw her in a box a little while ago.

She's not very well, Hester replied. The weather's so nasty and it affects her rheumatism. Poor mama! She's been quite poorly.

Un peu malade, un petit peu, Orville explained. He rubbed his pale palms together and stared fixedly at Byron.

We just made her come tonight, she goes out so little, Hester continued. Do go and speak to her.

I shall, Mary promised, as she turned away.

Vulgar prig! Byron was in a bad temper.

Well, she can't help it, Mary said, but Orville is a little too much even for me.

Silly nance! Byron growled.

Dear old ruffian, when I dance with you I forget all of them.

Me too!

They're playing the Tin Roof Blues!

And we're dancing it! He clasped her in his arms. This time she buried her head shamelessly in his shoulder, and did not look up.

After the second encore they found themselves standing near Ollie and Howard.

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 Some swell affair! Olive cried. How's the young sheik?

How's la sheba? Byron retorted, smiling.

How's your old man or what have you? a new voice broke in.

Mary turned to face the good-humoured countenance of Montrose Esbon.

Hello, Monte! she cried. How did you get way up here?

All God's chillun's got a Ford! he explained.

Where's Yuma?

Sheiks are all after her. . . . He drew a safety razor blade from his waistcoat pocket. . . . They'd better look out. I'm big, bad Bill when I get started. I brought this along for carving. I don't let anybody two-time me!

I see her, said Olive, over there in that box.

My God! With the Garvey nobility, the Duchess of the Bronx and the Countess of Hackensack! If she travels with those dames I'll have to get a Packard! Or else, he turned to Olive, take you on in her place and commit moral turpitude.

Be yourself! Olive laughed.

he quoted.

Look at Russia Cloudcroft, Howard interrupted. She has a brow like a thunderstorm.

The Harlem Hedda Gabler! Montrose described her.

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 She's the berries at that, was Olive's comment. Better undam your itches for her, Monte!

I'm too blue for that pink-chaser. She's just unsheiked her husband. He was too blue too. Well, he added, I'm off, as the jim crow flies!

Who was that? Byron inquired.

Montrose Esbon—teaches French in a High School. I keep forgetting that you don't know everybody.

He's an amusing fellow—not much like a teacher.

He doesn't unload his French on the dancing public, said Olive.

What did he mean by calling that girl the Harlem Hedda Gabler?

She's unhappy because she isn't white, Mary explained.

Unhappy! She's positively glum! Olive elaborated. Funny thing about those pink-chasers, the ofays never seem to have any use for them. Hey! Hey! Do that thing! Here's another tune!

Dance it with me, urged Byron.

Boy, I'm your willing victim. She slipped into his arms and they disappeared in the crowd.

Well, Mary, aren't you dancing with me? Howard demanded.

She stood for a moment confused. Somehow it hadn't occurred to her to make allowances for the fact that Byron would occasionally dance with some one besides her. Of course, she might have known

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 that he would not dance all the dances with her. Still. . . She accepted Howard's proposal, although without much enthusiasm.

Somehow I don't feel like dancing, she said after they had made one round of the hall. Let's sit down, Howard.

They had stopped near Adora's box and that one, glass in hand, hailed her friend.

Come in, Mary! How are you?

They entered the box.

Guess you know everybody here. Have some tea! Adora passed Howard a silver flask.

Piqua, find another glass!

Mrs. St. Paris imperilled her mauve satin by kneeling to search under a chair.

You can have mine, Howard, Mary said.

And mine too? Howard demanded.

There's plenty, Adora asserted. Don't be mean to yourself!

Save some for me! cried the moon-faced Lutie Panola, pounding her heels on the floor.

You'd better bant, Lutie, suggested Dr. Lister.

Be your age, George! I'll never start banting at a party.

You'll never start then, was Arabia Scribner's comment. You haven't missed a party since you came out!

Came out where? shouted Lutie.

Sh! Adora adjured her.

Why aren't you dancing, Adora? Mary, who had

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 slipped into a vacant chair beside Mrs. Boniface, inquired.

Why aren't you? Same reason, I guess. Too much crowd. I need room. It's too hot to navigate around that floor. Have some tea. . . . Adora emptied her own glass.

No, thank you. I'm afraid that would make me hotter.

Adora adjusted her ermine wrap around her shoulders. It's positively cold if you sit still, she complained. There's a draught from that window and I get tired of asking somebody to close it. Did you see Rannie? she whispered to Mary.

Yes, I did.

He's got a nerve coming to a dance like this with that. ..

Who is she? Mary inquired.

She's a tart, Adora replied, a little street-walker named Ruby Silver. He's keeping her. Everybody knows that, but he don't have to trot her out as if she was a prize filly. You bet he won't bring her to my house.

Trot who out? demanded Alcester Parker who had just entered the box.

I'll trot you out, if you can't make yourself behave, Adora announced severely.

On the floor Mary could see Hester hopping about with Orville for all the world as though they were skipping rope. Olive and Byron she could not discover.

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 Mary looked behind her. Howard had disappeared. Lutie was singing a song which seemed to have no connection rhythmically or melodically with the music the band was playing. Piqua and Arabia hovered like guardian angels over their affluent friend.

Come on and dance, Mary, Dr. Lister invited.

Not just now, George, thank you. . I have a headache. I think, Adora, I'll speak to one or two more people while I have the chance.

Come back later, urged Adora, as Mary left the box.

She walked down the aisle behind the row of boxes. On the railing of this row a strange, young man was attempting to dance the Charleston. At small tables, groups had gathered to drink and chatter. Their laughter rang high over the music. The band was still playing, but as she searched the floor again, she could see no trace of Byron and Ollie. I'll make him look me up, she said to herself, but she was trembling with agitation.

She extended her hand to Mrs. Sumner, sitting back in her cloak of sable, and then to Mrs. Lorillard, in orchid satin with a band of uncut turquoises around her throat and a cluster of scarlet geraniums at her waist.

I'm delighted to see you again, Miss Love, Campaspe greeted her. I did enjoy that exhibition of African sculpture. I've bought several pieces for myself since.

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 Sit down, Mary, please, Mrs. Sumner urged.

Mary sat down. He was nowhere in sight. Hester, hopping, bobbing, Russia Cloudcroft, how many more, had circled the floor twice, but she could not find him.

I suppose this is a novel experience for you, Mrs. Lorillard? She was trying to make herself agreeable.

Not precisely that, Campaspe averred, but a charming one.

You've been to coloured balls before?

No, never! I mean I've been to balls before. They're all more or less alike. The differences are in favour of this one. What beautiful women! What handsome men! What a fascinating kaleidoscope of colour! And what fervour! You know, Emily—she turned to Mrs. Sumner—I like people who live.

I know you do, Mrs. Sumner replied. How is Byron getting on? she asked Mary.

Fine, thank you, Mary responded.

Has he found something to do?

Oh yes, he's got something splendid! . . . The next instant she wondered what had made her utter this falsehood.

I'm delighted to hear it. Aaron had something in mind—something good too—which he thought might suit him, but Byron hasn't been near us.

He's been so busy, Mary heard herself say.

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 Isn't that Florence Mills? Mrs. Lorillard inquired.

Yes, Mrs. Sumner replied, adding. She's promised to sing later.

Mary wondered if Mrs. Sumner knew she had been lying. Probably. She had not pursued the subject. She had asked no more questions about Byron. How could she, Mary, retract this impulsive and silly reply? Perhaps this might be Byron's great opportunity. What had made her prevaricate? Pride? False pride, she assured herself bitterly.

Mrs. Sumner and Mrs. Lorillard were conversing. Mary listened listlessly, her heart beating furiously. The floor was more crowded than ever. The dancing, moreover, had become wilder. A few couples were undertaking to do the Charleston together. The heat was overpowering. Collars, flowers, and frocks were wilting. Mary looked at the sad little bouquet of white violets at her waist. Occasionally a rich, mellow laugh rose over the soft moaning of the saxophone. Adora had thrown aside her cloak and was standing, her regal figure, shining with sequins, dominating the hall. Mary continued anxiously to inspect the faces of the dancers. Suddenly, she caught a glimpse of Ollie, and Ollie was dancing with Howard!

Who is that? Mrs. Lorillard demanded. The woman in blue.

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Page:A Grammar of the Telugu language.djvu/29

Rh shaped exactly like the vowels ఋ ri and ౠ rū.

Instead of the initial forms ఉ and ఊ the consonants వూ Vū are generally used. Thus the word ŭdyōgam (employ) and ūshnam (heat) are in the dictionary spelt ఉద్యొగం ఊష్ణం andand ఊష్ణం [sic] but in common writing these always are spelt వుద్యొగం and వూష్ణం i e.i. e. [sic] Vud-yō-gam and Vūshnam. But the V is not sounded and accordingly the sound is udyōgam and ūshnam.

When the short u it is final, is written indeed, but very often dropped in pronunciation. Thus చేను chēnu a field is always called చేన్ chēn బాతు bātu a duck is pronounced బాత్ bāt దున్నపోతు a heifer in like manner is pronounced దున్నపొత్ dunnapōt. Thus also in words that end in ము mu బేరము bēramu (merchandize) is always pronounced బేరం bēram. Experience will shewshow [sic] us that in all such words the final U is necessary only in poetry. In words borrowed from Hindustāni, English, or other languages (and which have a final silent consonant) as firyād (a compaint) vakīl (a pleader) major (the English word) the Telugus do indeed add a final U, thus ఫిర్యాదు, వకీలు, మేఙరు. because it is awkward to attach the silent mark ్ to these consonants; so they write the vowel U but do not pronounce it.

ఋ is rĭ or rŏŏ as in the words rig, rich, trick, rŏŏk, brook. Thus ఋషి rĭshi, a prophet, ఋతు rŭtu a season ఋణం debt.

ౠ The same vowel pronounced long. The second forms are ృ (short) and  ౄ long. Thus తృప్తి tripti, fulnessfullness [sic]. కృప crĭpa favour.

The vowel ă is written (but not pronounced) a long with this


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 That's Lasca Sartoris, Mary heard Mrs. Sumner reply.

Mary stared ahead of her. There he was, dancing with that exotic Negro sense of rhythm which made time a thing in space. In his arms was the most striking woman Mary had ever seen. A robe of turquoise-blue satin clung to her exquisite body, brought out in relief every curve. The dress was cut so low in front that the little depression between her firm, round breasts was plainly visible. Her golden-brown back was entirely nude to the waist. The dress was circled with wide bands of green and black sequins, designed to resemble the fur of the leopard. A tiara of sapphires sparkled in her hair, and a choker of these stones, around her throat.

What an extraordinary woman! Mrs. Lorillard exclaimed. Like a cocotte of the golden era! I don't think I've ever heard her name before.

She lives in Paris, Mrs. Sumner was explaining. She's only been back a short time.

Mary, through a mist, saw Dick Sill approaching the box.

Won't you dance with me, Mary? he demanded.

It's so warm, she protested. Yes, I will, she contradicted herself at once.

I wish you'd come to see me, Miss Love, Mrs. Lorillard suggested: Perhaps Emily would bring you.

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 I'd adore to, Mary murmured, as she went away with Dick.

The heat was killing her. She had no desire to dance, but she put new lightness into her feet, flinging her whole body into the now detestable rhythm. When the music stopped she awarded the orchestra abandoned applause.

I've never known you to dance like this before, Sill assured her. I thought you said you were tired.

I never was less tired in my life.

Suddenly, near them rose a shriek. They turned to see two women, strangers, each pulling at the hair of the other.

I'll teach you to leave my man be! one was screaming.

Two men separated the combatants. The victim of the assault stood in an attitude of defiance, her arms akimbo. I ain't interested in your man, she taunted her assailant. I can't help it if he follows me wherever I go. I can't help it if he writes me notes every day and sends me flowers and candy. I can't help it, can I? I don't want your man, ain't got a bit o' use for him, but he's jes' nacherly bent on pursuin'. . . The music closed over the incident as the waves close over a ship wrecked in the middle of the ocean. The dancing crowd blotted out the spectacle. Gaiety and charm everywhere; gaiety and charm and rhythm.

Primitive! thought Mary, exulting. Savage!

Suddenly, quite by chance, a space cleared on the

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 floor and over it she watched Lasca and Byron glide, softly, dangerously, like panthers. In an instant they had disappeared.

Wilder! Wilder! she urged Dick.

What's the matter with you tonight, Mary? he inquired. You're like a flame.

All over the hall they were singing:

When the music stopped Mary and Dick found themselves by the side of Byron and Lasca.

Been looking for you everywhere, Mary, Byron said. This is Mrs. Sartoris, Miss Love and Mr. Sill.

Oh, I know Lasca! Dick exclaimed.

Dick and I are old friends, she remarked, as she clasped his proffered hand.

Mary had not given her hand. She said, So you're the famous Mrs. Sartoris!

Infamous, you mean! Lasca tossed back her head and laughed.

Mary was silent. People shouldn't talk like that, she was thinking.

Lasca's a wonderful sport, Mary, Byron spoke with enthusiasm. Did you see us doing the Charleston together?

No, I didn't, she replied. So he called her Lasca! She recalled that it was not till their third

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 meeting that he had called her Mary. She could hear him demanding, Lasca, may I call you Mrs. Sartoris?

Well then, watch us in the next dance, Mrs. Sartoris invited.

Byron looked a trifle astonished, but also Mary could see that he was definitely pleased. She was certain from his expression that he had not asked the woman for the next dance. The perfect poise of this daring creature amazed Mary. Would he refuse?

Yes, she heard him say, watch us, Mary.

How Mary hated her! How she longed for the strength, the primitive impulse that would urge her to spring at Lasca's throat, tear away the collar of sapphires, disfigure that golden-brown countenance with her nails.

What about the one after that, Mary? Byron suggested.

It's taken, Mary retorted defiantly.

Then suppose you give me that one too, Lasca begged with her divine smile. You're really too generous, Miss Love. Byron is the best dancer here.

Even in her present mood, Mary could not fail to appreciate the rich music in the woman's voice, the grace of her carriage as she stood resting her weight on one foot while with the other she carelessly traced an invisible pattern on the floor. She also became aware of the flexible bands of diamonds

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 on the woman's arms, the huge cabochon emeralds on her fingers. She tried to subdue her pride, to conquer her absurd feeling of jealousy—it must be absurd, she attempted to assure herself; why, Byron has only just met this woman—to withdraw her refusal, when the music started and he and Lasca were swept away in the maelstrom of dancers.

Some sheba, Lasca! Dick commented. Whew! She'll make a dent in Harlem.

Mary was silent. In vain her eyes sought out the departed pair.

Shall we dance, Mary?

Dick, I've got a headache. Please take me to the dressing-room.

Presently she found herself alone in the room—even the maid in attendance had disappeared for the moment. Staring at her image in the mirror, she was not reassured by what she saw.

I can't do it, she moaned. I ought to kill her, I want to, but I can't. What's wrong with me?

She sank into a chair and gave way to an uncontrollable fit of sobbing.

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Byron read the letter he had just received from his father.

My dear boy, it began:

I do not want to appear unsympathetic, but the fact remains that you have been in New York more than two months without making any place for yourself. When you informed me that you wished to undertake a writer's career, I gave you what encouragement I could, at the same time laying before you the reasons why, as a coloured man, you would have difficulty in carrying out that project. I also told you that you would have to support yourself, as I feel I have done all I can afford to do for you in sending you through college.

We need not go into the reasons for your leaving Philadelphia. We both agreed, in the circumstances, that this would be a wise move. You, quite naturally, chose Harlem as the alternative. Harlem is a great Negro city, the greatest Negro city in the world, and it is surely as full of pitfalls for young men as all great cities are. Unavoidably you will encounter your share of temptations. You are to an unfortunate extent, as we know to our cost, a slave to your appetites. Furthermore you are inclined to be headstrong and obstinate, and sensitive to an abnormal degree. I am being very frank with you now, because you must be

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 aware that no one more than I do appreciates your good qualities, the foremost of which in my opinion is your race pride.

I am mentioning these things because I hear from Aaron Sumner that you have not presented yourself to him since the day you first brought him my letter of introduction. I hear from others that you have not presented my letters at all. I know how your touchiness inclines to make you feel any demonstration of sympathy from others as patronizing. Naturally, therefore, I feel some anxiety on your account.

The late Booker T. Washington preached industry and thrift. He in his wisdom realized that the advancement of the Negro would come only through economic progress. I have always felt in this regard that it is no disgrace for us to accept what labour is given us to perform in the spirit in which it is offered. If you are a natural born writer you will eventually write, no matter what else you may be compelled to do in the meantime. Indeed, whatever struggles you may be obliged to undergo will only add to your desire to write, if you cherish a sincere desire. My advice to you, therefore, is to seek honest employment. If your colour prevents you from securing a clerkship, accept a job as a porter or an elevator boy. Your education has unfitted you for such humble pursuits, but your colour, temporarily, may bar your advancement in other directions. When you have proved that you have literary ability and can sell your stories, I shall be the first to recognize that fact and to encourage you to go farther. Bear in mind that Paul Laurence Dunbar wrote the poems which brought him recognition while he was an elevator boy.

In the meantime, I feel that it would be doing you a wrong

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 if I continued to send you money. With the small amounts I can afford to give you you certainly would not be able to live a life of luxury, but you could live a life of idleness so that it would be a simple matter for you to fall into bad habits and evil ways. The cheque I am enclosing in this letter, therefore, is the last I shall send.

It has been very difficult for me to write this letter, but I know the weaknesses in your nature. It is for you to rise superior to these, and if you are a real man you will do so. Always, my dear boy, you have my love and that of your mother.

Raising his eyes from the last lines of this letter, Byron stared hopelessly out of his little window. Only a blank wall rewarded his vision, a wall erected so near the window that even on bright days he could only see to read by the aid of a gas-jet. His soul was full of resentment, the more so because he recognized the justice of his father's words, the calm of his epistolary tone: a maddening, judicial calm. It's bad enough to know all this without having it rubbed in, he muttered to himself. His mind reverted to the sordid episode at which his father had tactfully hinted. There had been an unfortunate affair with a servant-girl at college, but his father had never heard of that or of many other adventures of which he had been the sorry hero. The incident to which his father referred had occurred only last summer in Philadelphia. He had become involved in an affair with a married woman, an affair of which the woman's husband had

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