There Is Confusion
3.5/5
()
About this ebook
Set in Philadelphia and New York a century ago, this novel by a luminary of the Harlem Renaissance traces the hopes and dreams of three young African-Americans as they search for love, financial security, and success: Joanna, prepared to sacrifice romance on the altar of ambition; Maggie, eager to escape her blue-collar background by marrying well; and Peter, an aspiring doctor motivated by his love for Joanna. Published to critical acclaim in 1924, the story offers a moving examination of the struggles against prejudice and discrimination by members of the black middle class during a tumultuous era.
Jessie Redmon Fauset (1882–1961) was the author of four novels as well as many stories, poems, and reviews. From 1919 to 1926 she was the literary editor of the NAACP's magazine, The Crisis, in which she published and promoted the work of such major writers as Jean Toomer, George Schuyler, Langston Hughes, and Claude McKay. This new edition of There Is Confusion revives her unjustly overlooked voice.
Jessie Redmon Fauset
Jessie Redmon Fauset (1882—1961) was an African American editor, poet, and novelist. Born in Camden County, New Jersey, Fauset lost her mother and father at a young age and grew up in poverty alongside six siblings, three half-siblings, and three stepsiblings. Despite her troubled youth, she graduated as valedictorian from the Philadelphia High School for Girls before enrolling at Cornell University, where she studied classical languages and became one of the first Black woman accepted to the Phi Beta Kappa Society. After receiving a master’s degree in French at the University of Pennsylvania, she began teaching at Dunbar High School in Washington, DC. In 1919, she became the literary editor of The Crisis, the official magazine of the NAACP, where she worked under founding editor W. E. B. Du Bois to elevate some of the leading voices of the Harlem Renaissance. In addition to her own writing, The Crisis under Fauset’s editorship published Countee Cullen, Claude McKay, Jean Toomer, Nella Larsen, Langston Hughes, and Georgia Douglas Johnson. Between 1924 and 1933, she published four novels exploring themes of racial discrimination and passing, including There Is Confusion (1924) and Plum Bun (1928). She earned a reputation as a writer who sought to capture the lives of working professionals from the Black community, thereby providing a realistic portrait of her culture.
Read more from Jessie Redmon Fauset
There Is Confusion Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5The Chinaberry Tree: A Novel of American Life Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Comedy: American Style Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThere is Confusion Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
Related to There Is Confusion
Related ebooks
The Living is Easy Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Soul Clap Hands and Sing Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Complete Fiction of Nella Larsen: With linked Table of Contents Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Passing Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Mr. Loverman: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Bedrock Faith: A Novel Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsQuicksand Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Street Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Betsey Brown: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Hitting a Straight Lick with a Crooked Stick: Stories from the Harlem Renaissance Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Fire in the Flint Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsBlack No More Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Caul Baby: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5In West Mills Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Philadelphia Fire: A Novel Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsBrown Girl, Brownstones Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Angry Ones: A Novel Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Linden Hills: A Novel Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Novels of Gloria Naylor: Mama Day, Linden Hills, and Bailey's Cafe Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsWrapped in Rainbows: The Life of Zora Neale Hurston Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Blacker the Berry Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Being Black in the Ivory: Truth-Telling about Racism in Higher Education Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsA Particular Kind of Black Man: A Novel Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Notes from a Black Woman's Diary: Selected Works of Kathleen Collins Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Iola Leroy, or, Shadows Uplifted Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Coffee Will Make You Black: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5"A Study Guide for Toni Cade Bambara's ""Those Bones Are Not My Child""" Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Garies and Their Friends Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsJam on the Vine: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I Can't Wait to Call You My Wife: African American Letters of Love, Marriage, and Family in the Civil War Era Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
African American Fiction For You
Leave the World Behind: A Novel Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5The Lagos Wife: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Lovecraft Country: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Everything's Fine Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Blacktop Wasteland: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Deep Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Razorblade Tears: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Devil in a Blue Dress (30th Anniversary Edition): An Easy Rawlins Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Other Black Girl: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Salvage the Bones: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Pomegranate: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Wife Before: A Spellbinding Psychological Thriller with a Shocking Twist Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Sing, Unburied, Sing: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Girl, Woman, Other: A Novel (Booker Prize Winner) Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Mama Day: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Spook Who Sat by the Door Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Queenie Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Stories from the Tenants Downstairs Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Summary of Black Cake: by Charmaine Wilkerson - A Comprehensive Summary Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsAll the Sinners Bleed: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Good House: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Wild Women and the Blues: A Fascinating and Innovative Novel of Historical Fiction Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Cry, the Beloved Country Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5We Are Not Like Them: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Final Revival of Opal & Nev Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Life After Death: A Novel Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5You Can't Keep a Good Woman Down: Stories Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Short Stories of Langston Hughes Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Linden Hills: A Novel Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5A History of the African-American People (Proposed) by Strom Thurmond: A Novel Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
Reviews for There Is Confusion
8 ratings0 reviews
Book preview
There Is Confusion - Jessie Redmon Fauset
XXXVI
CHAPTER I
JOANNA’S FIRST consciousness of the close understanding which existed between herself and her father dated back to a time when she was very young. Her mother, her brothers and her sister had gone to church, and Joanna, suffering from some slight childish complaint, had been left home. She had climbed upon her father’s knee demanding a story.
What sort of story?
Joel Marshall asked, willing and anxious to please her, for she was his favorite child.
Story ’bout somebody great, Daddy. Great like I’m going to be when I get to be a big girl.
He stared at her amazed and adoring. She was like a little, living echo out of his own forgotten past. Joel Marshall, born a slave and the son of a slave in Richmond, Virginia, had felt as a little boy that same impulse to greatness.
As a little tyke,
his mother used to tell her friends, "he was always pesterin’ me: ‘Mammy, I’ll be a great man some day, won’t I? Mammy, you’re gonna help me to be great?’
But that was a long time ago, just a year or so after the war,
said Mammy, rocking complacently in her comfortable chair. How wuz I to know he’d be a great caterer, feedin’ bank presidents and everything? Once you know they had him fix a banquet fur President Grant. Sent all the way to Richmond fur ’im. That’s howcome he settled yere in New York; yassuh, my son is sure a great man.
But alas for poor Joel! His idea of greatness and his Mammy’s were totally at variance. The kind of greatness he had envisaged had been that which gets one before the public eye, which makes one a leader of causes, a man among men.
He loved such phrases! At night the little boy in the tiny half-story room in that tiny house in Virginia picked out the stories of Napoleon, Lincoln and Garrison, all white men, it is true; but Lincoln had been poor and Napoleon unknown and yet they had risen to the highest possible state. At least he could rise to comparative fame. And when he was older and came to know of Frederick Douglass and Toussaint L’Ouverture, he knew if he could but burst his bonds he, too, could write his name in glory.
This was no selfish wish. If he wanted to be great he also wanted to do honestly and faithfully the things that bring greatness. He was to that end dependable and thorough in all that he did, but even as a boy he used to feel a sick despair,—he had so much against him. His color, his poverty, meant nothing to his ardent heart; those were nature’s limitations, placed deliberately about one, he could see dimly, to try one’s strength on. But that he should have a father broken and sickened by slavery who lingered on and on! That after that father’s death the little house should burn down!
He was fifteen when that happened and he and his mother both went to work in the service of Harvey Carter, a wealthy Virginian, whose wife entertained on a large scale. It was here that Joel learned from an expert chef how to cook. His wages were small even for those days, but still he contrived to save, for he had set his heart on attending a theological seminary. Some day he would be a minister, a man with a great name and a healing tongue. These were the dreams he dreamed as he basted Mrs. Carter’s chickens or methodically mixed salad dressing.
His mother knew his ideas and loved them with such a fine, albeit somewhat uncomprehending passion and belief, that in grateful return he made her the one other consideration of his life, weaving unconsciously about himself a web of such loyalty and regard for her that he could not have broken through it if he would. Her very sympathy defeated his purpose. So that when she, too, fell ill on a day with what seemed for years an incurable affection, Joel shut his teeth and put his frustrated plans behind him.
He drew his small savings from the bank and rented a tiny two and a half room shack in the front room of which he opened a restaurant,—really a little lunchstand. He was patronized at first only,—and that sparingly—by his own people. But gradually the fame of his wonderful sandwiches, his inimitable pastries, his pancakes, brought him first more black customers, then white ones, then outside orders. In five years’ time Joel’s catering became known state wide. He conquered poverty and came to know the meaning of comfort. The Grant incident created a reputation for him in New York and he was shrewd enough to take advantage of it and move there.
Ten years too late old Mrs. Marshall was pronounced cured by the doctors. She never understood what her defection had cost her son. His material success, his position in the church, in the community at large and in the colored business world,—all these things meant power.
To her, her son was already great. Joel did not undertake to explain to her that his lack of education would be a bar forever between him and the kind of greatness for which his heart had yearned.
It was after he moved to New York and after the death of his mother that Joel married. His wife had been a school teacher, and her precision of language and exactitude in small matters made Joel think again of the education and subsequent greatness which were to have been his. His wife was kind and sweet, but fundamentally unambitious, and for a time the pleasure of having a home and in contrasting these days of ease with the hardships of youth made Joel somewhat resigned to his fate.
Besides, it’s too late now,
he used to tell himself. What could I be?
So he contented himself with putting by his money, and attending church, where he was a steward and really the unacknowledged head.
His first child brought back the old keen longing. It was a boy and Joel, bending over the small, warm, brown bundle, felt a gleam of hope. He would name it Joel and would instil, or more likely, stimulate the ambition which he felt must be already in that tiny brain. But his wife wouldn’t hear of the name Joel.
It’s hard enough for him to be colored,
she said jealously guarding her young, and to call him a stiff old-fashioned name like that would finish his bad luck. I am going to name him Alexander.
Alec, as he was usually called, did not resemble his father in the least. He was the average baby and the average boy, interested in marbles, in playing hookey, in parachutes, but with no determination to be a dark Napoleon or a Frederick Douglass. Two other children, Philip and Sylvia, resembled him, and Joel Marshall, now a man of forty, gave up his old ideas completely and decided to be a good business man, husband and father; not a bad decision if he had but known it.
Then Joanna came; Joanna with a fluff of thick, black hair, and solemn, earnest eyes and an infinite capacity for spending long moments in thought. She’s like you, Joel,
Mrs. Marshall said. And because the novelty of choosing names for babies had somewhat worn off, she made no objection to the name Joanna, which Joel hesitatingly proposed for her. She certainly should have been named for you,
the mother told him a month later; see how she follows you with her eyes. She’d rather watch you than eat.
And indeed from the very beginning Joanna showed her preference for her father. The two seemed to have a secret understanding. After the first child, Mrs. Marshall had fretted somewhat over the time and strength expended in caring for the other little Marshalls, but she never had any occasion to worry about Joanna. Joel had his office in his residence, and after Joanna was dressed and fed, all she wanted was to lie in her carriage and later to ride about on the kiddie-car of that day in her father’s office, where she watched him with her solemn eyes.
Joel never forgot the first time she asked him for a story. He was in the habit of regaling his youngsters with tales of his early life, of himself, of boys who had grown up with him, of ballgames and boyish pranks. The three older children had a fine catholicity of taste. Tell us a story,
was all they asked, its subject made no difference to them.
But on that certain Sunday before Joanna was five years old she perched herself on her father’s knee and commanded astoundingly:
Tell me a story, Daddy, ’bout somebody great.
Joel didn’t know what she meant at first, so far removed was he from the thought of his old dream. And yet the question did seem something like an echo, faint but recognizable of a longing that had once loomed large in his life.
Great,
he repeated. How do you mean great, Baby? Tall, great big man, like Daddy, hey?
He stood six feet and was broad with it.
Joanna shook a dissenting head. No, not great that way. I want to hear about a man who did things nobody else could do,—maybe he put out a fire,
she ended doubtfully, but I mean something greater than that.
Joel had her taught to read after that. She was a little frail for school, and did not start until later than the other children, though she was far the most studious. So she had three or four years of solid reading, and always her choice of subject was of some one who had overcome obstacles and so stood out beyond his fellows.
At first she thought nothing of color, and it was not until she had gone to school and learned something of discrimination that she began to ponder.
Didn’t colored people ever do anything, Daddy?
But Joel was prepared for that. He told her himself of Douglass and Vesey and Turner. There were great women, too, Harriet Tubman, Phillis Wheatley, Sojourner Truth, women who had been slaves, he explained to her, but had won their way to fame and freedom through their own efforts.
Joanna had a fine sense of relativity. Young as she was, she could understand that the bravery and courage exercised by these slave women was a much finer and different thing from that exercised for instance by Florence Nightingale. They were like Joan of Arc,
she thought to herself, Joan, wonderful Joan with the name almost like mine.
Only an innate, almost too meticulous sense of honesty had kept her from changing her own name to the shorter form.
She used to lie in her bed at night, straight and still with her eyes fixed on the stretch of sky visible even from a house in Fifty-ninth Street and dream dreams. I’ll be great, too,
she told herself. I’m not sure how. I can’t be like those wonderful women, Harriet and Sojourner, but at least I won’t be ordinary.
She spoke to her father like a little piping echo from the past, Daddy, you’ll help me to be a great woman, somebody you’ll be proud of?
Her words made him so happy; they renewed his life. She was so completely like himself, and he could help her. Thank God,
he used to murmur over his books that daily showed an increase in his earnings.
He took Joanna everywhere with him. One Easter Sunday a great colored singer, a beautiful woman, sang an Easter anthem in his church, lifting up a golden voice among the tall white lilies. Afterwards she went home with Mr. and Mrs. Marshall and stayed to dinner. Joanna never moved her eyes from her during the ride home.
After dinner she stood in front of the singer in the comfortable living-room. I can sing like you,
she said gravely, and I can remember the tune of most of that hymn you sang this morning. Listen.
And with no further introduction she sang most of the anthem. She was only ten then, yet her voice was already free of the shrillness of childhood and beginning to assume that liquid golden quality which so distinguished it later.
Madame Caldwell gasped. She had won her own laurels through bitter experience in various studios, meeting insult, indifference and unkindness with an unyielding front, which brought her finally consideration, a grudging interest, sometimes a genuine appreciation.
She was well on her way to recognition now. Colored people acclaimed her all over the country and she had some local reputation in her home town where black and white alike were very proud of her.
But no daughter of mine,
she used to say bitterly, if she has the voice of an angel shall go through what I have suffered.
Yet when she heard Joanna sing that Easter Sunday, she seized Joel Marshall’s arm. Get her a teacher, Mr. Marshall. She has a voice in ten thousand. Poor child, how you will have to work!
But Joanna wasn’t listening, her eyes sought her father’s. Both of them knew at once that the road to glory was stretching out before her.
CHAPTER II
JOANNA WAS like her father not only so far as ambition was concerned but also in her willingness to work. She had a fine serious mind, a little slow-moving at first, but working with a splendid precision that helped her through many a hard place. Her quality of being able to stick to a problem until she was satisfied served in the long run as well as her sister Sylvia’s greater quickness and versatility. Eventually, too, Joanna’s laboriousness and native exactness produced in her the result of an oft-sharpened knife. The method which she applied to one study, she remembered to apply to another, and if this failed then she was able to make combinations.
Usually she had to have things explained to her from the very beginning, either by a teacher or through directions in a book. But to offset this slowness she had a good sense of logic, a strong power of concentration, and a remarkably retentive and visualizing memory.
Sylvia and she, destined to be such perfect friends in their maturity, were not very sympathetic in their childhood. The older girl was thoughtless, quick to jump at conclusions, natively witty and strongly disinclined toward seriousness. Joanna makes me sick,
was her constant cry, always thinking of her lessons and how important she’s going to be when she’s grown-up. So tiresome, too, wanting to talk about what she’s going to do all the time, with no interest in your affairs.
Which was not quite true, for Joanna was mightily interested in people who had a purpose
in life. Otherwise not at all. This was where she differed most from her father. With Joel success and distinction had been his dream, his dearest wish. But always he had realized that there were other things which might interfere. With Joanna success and distinction were an obsession. It never occurred to her that life was anything but what a man chose to make it, provided, of course, he did choose to make it something. Her brothers’ and Sylvia’s haphazard methods were always incomprehensible to her, and this gave her the least touch of the holier than thou
manner.
Her mother insisted on each child’s learning to do housework. Even the boys were not exempt from this, indeed they rather liked it. Sylvia made no complaint though she occasionally bribed Alec or Philip to do her stint for her. Joanna never complained, either, yet she made up her mind early that as a woman she would never do this kind of work. Not that she despised it, she simply considered it labor lost for a person who like herself might be spending her time in more beautiful and more graceful activities. Yet in spite of her dislike, she always lingered longest over her work, and the room or the silver which she had cleaned always looked the best. It is true she never learned to iron especially well, but this was about the only thing in which she yielded place to Sylvia.
Sylvia was like a fire-fly in comparison with Joanna’s steady beaconlike flood of light. Sylvia dashed about, worked as quickly as she thought and produced immediate and usually rather striking results. Sylvia with a ribbon, or a piece of lace and a ready needle and thread could give the effect of possessing two dresses, whereas she had only the one. Sylvia dressed the dolls, hiring Joanna’s remarkable and usually disregarded assembly of these so that she might make them new clothes. She drove an honest bargain. If Joanna would let her play store with her dolls for a week, one of them could keep the new dress which Sylvia would have made for her; Joanna’s dolls were usually in Sylvia’s care.
Yet when Joanna did sew or knit, her stitches and pieces bore inspection much better than Sylvia’s. By the same token, however, they missed Sylvia’s dash.
In one thing only did Joanna show real abandon, that was in dancing. Sylvia was as light as thistle-down on her feet, but Joanna was like the spirit of dancing. She had grace, the very poetry of motion, and she could dance any step however intricate if she saw it once.
If you want to get Joanna to play,
Maggie Ellersley, Sylvia’s chum and school-mate would say impatiently, you must start some singing or dancing game. She wouldn’t play ‘I Spy’ or ‘Pussy wants a corner’ with you for worlds.
Any sort of folk-song or dance, though she did not know them by that name, delighted the child. Usually she held herself aloof, but in summer down on Fifty-ninth Street Joanna was one with the children in the street, singing, dancing, jumping rope in unexpected and fancy ways.
Sylvia’s and Maggie’s and even her brothers’ rougher scoffing affected her not at all, not only because she had the calm self-assurance which is the first step toward success, but also because of old Joel’s strong belief in her.
Joel believed that all things were possible. Nothing in reason,
he used to tell Joanna, is impossible. Forty years ago I was almost a pauper in Richmond. Look at me to-day. I spend more on you in a month, Joanna, than my mother and I ever saw in a five-year stretch. One hundred years ago and nearly all of us were slaves. See what we are now. Ten years ago people would have laughed at the thought of colored people on the stage. Look at the bill-boards on Broadway.
It was in the first part of the century when Williams and Walker, Cole and Johnson, Ada Overton and others were at their zenith. Old Joel believed them the precursors of greater things. Since Joanna’s gifts were those of singing and dancing, he hoped to make her famous the country over. Of course he would have preferred a more serious form of endowment. But such as it was, it was Joanna’s, and must be developed. Joel Marshall believed in using the gifts nearest at hand.
And don’t think anything about being colored,
he used to say.
It might be different if you lived in some other part of the country, but here in this section it may not interfere much more than being poor, or having some slight deformity. I have often noticed,
said Joel, who had used his powers of observation to no small advantage, that having some natural drawback often pushes you forward, that is if you’ve got anything in you to start with. It might even happen,
he added, launched now on his favorite theme, that your color would add to your success. Depend on it if you’ve got something which these white folks haven’t got, or can do something better than they can, they’ll call on you fast enough and your color will only make you more noticeable.
Joanna used to listen interestedly. Not that in those early years she always understood fully everything her father said, but his talk created for her a kind of atmosphere which created in turn a feeling of assurance and self-confidence which was really superb.
Another theory of Joel’s which he had worked out for himself, and which in no small degree contributed to Joanna’s education was his early understanding of the natural rights of men inherent in the mere fact of living. He told Joanna that no class of men remained static throughout the ages,—he had not used these words, it is true, but he had come pretty near it. Somewhere in those early days of his in odd scraps of reading he had learned that Greece had once been enslaved; that Russia had but recently freed her serfs; that England possessed a submerged class.
All people, all countries, have their ups and downs, Joanna,
he would tell her gravely, and just now it’s our turn to be down, but it will soon roll round for our time to be up, or rather we must see to it that we do get up. So everyone of us has something to do for the race. Never forget that, little girl.
Joanna was a memorable type in these days. A grave child, brown without that peculiar luminosity of appearance which she was to have later on, and which Sylvia already possessed. She had a mop of thick black hair which was actually heavy, so much so that the back of her head bulged. Joanna knew next to nothing at this time of those first aids to colored people in this country in the matter of conforming to average appearance. If she had known them, it is doubtful if she would have used them, for she had the variety of honesty which made her hesitate and even dislike to do or adopt anything artificial, no matter how much it might improve her general appearance. No hair straighteners, nor even curling kids for her.
Joanna’s ways are so straight, they almost sway back,
Sylvia used to say aptly. And indeed Joanna wanted one to see her at her very worst. She did not like to take people by surprise. But as her worst included a pair of very nice brown eyes, with thick, if somewhat short, and curling lashes, an unobtrusive nose, small square hands and exquisite feet, it was not hard to look at. She was always intensely susceptible to beautiful people and to beautiful things. It was the beauty inherent in Joel’s ideals, and in all ideals which really underlie success, that most attracted her. And this passion for beauty while informing and indeed molding her character, yet by a strange twist influenced adversely and warped her sympathies.
CHAPTER III
IT WAS Joanna’s love for beauty that made her consciously see Peter Bye. It is true that almost as soon as she saw him she lost sight of him again, for the boy did not come up to her requirements which, even at the early age at which these two met, were quite crystallized. Joanna liked first of all fixity of purpose. The phrase When I grow up, I’m going to be
was constantly on her lips. She got into the habit of measuring people, sizing them up
Joel would have said, in accordance with the amount of steadfastness, perseverance and ambition which they displayed. She had little time for shiftless or do-less
persons. Sylvia used to say, half angrily, Joanna, when the bad man gets you, he isn’t going to torture you. He’s just going to shut you up with lazy, good-for-nothing folks. That will be torture enough for you.
Peter Bye, in spite of the dark arresting beauty which first drew Joanna’s glance to him across the other white and pink faces in the crowded schoolroom, was undoubtedly shiftless. Not lazy,
Joanna said to herself, looking at him from under level brows before she dismissed him forever from her busy mind. It’s just that he doesn’t care; he just doesn’t want to be anybody.
She was too young to understand the power of that great force, heredity. She had no notion of the part which it played in her own life. Peter was the legitimate result of a heredity that had become a tradition, of a tradition that had become warped, that had gone astray and had carried Peter and Peter Bye’s father along in its general wreckage.
It is impossible to understand the boy’s character without some knowledge of the lives of those who had gone before him.
As far back as the last decades of the eighteenth century there had been white Byes and black Byes in Philadelphia. The black Byes were known to be the chattels of Aaron and Dinah Bye, Quakers, who without reluctance had set free their slaves, among them black Joshua Bye, the great-grandfather of Peter. This was done in 1780 according to the laws of Pennsylvania, which thus allowed the Quakers to salve their consciences without offending their thrifty instincts.
Aaron Bye, most people said, was unusually good to his slaves. He had something of the patriarchal instinct and liked to think of himself as ruler over the destiny of many people, his wife’s, his children’s and more completely that of his slaves. Certainly he was very kind