THE CHINABERRY TREE
A Novel of American Life
JESSIE REDMON FAUSET
DOVER PUBLICATIONS, INC.
MINEOLA, NEW YORK
Bibliographical Note
This Dover edition, first published in 2013, is an unabridged republication of the work originally published by Frederick A. Stokes Company, New York, in 1931.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Fauset, Jessie Redmon.
The chinaberry tree : a novel of American life / Jessie Redmon Fauset.
p. cm.
“This Dover edition, first published in 2013, is an unabridged republication of the work originally published by Frederick A. Stokes Company, New York, in 1931.”
eISBN 13: 978-0-486-78277-5
1. African American women—Fiction. 2. Domestic fiction. I. Title.
PS3511.A864C48 2013
813′.52—dc23
2013013730
Manufactured in the United States by Courier Corporation
49322901 2013
www.doverpublications.com
TO
ELLEN WINSOR
My Friend
Contents
Introduction
Foreword
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
INTRODUCTION
FOR a long time American readers have wondered why so little attention has been given to one particular class of Americans. Group after group has entered fiction—the New Englander, educated and uneducated, the Southerner, the Middle Westerner, the far-Westerner, the Canadian, developed or primitive; yet wherever the American Negro has appeared in fiction, only the uneducated Negro has been pictured.
It seems strange to affirm,—as news for many,—that there is in America a great group of Negroes of education and substance who are living lives of quiet interests and pursuits, quite unconnected with white folk save as these are casually met. That these men and women carry on their lives, educate their children, and fill their times with interests social, domestic, and philanthropic as if there were no white people in America, save those who serve them in shops and in traffic.
It is about these among the American population that Jessie Fauset has chosen to write. She foregoes the color, the richness, the possibility of travesty and comedy and the popular appeal of the uneducated Negro with his dialect and idiom, his limited outlook. And she has turned to this other field, less spectacular and, to “the General Public” less convincing because so little standardized. She has shown in her novels, men and women of the class to which she herself belongs, with her wide interests and her American and European experiences.
It seems an impertinence to say that such people are to be met, not only in New York and Chicago, but in the smaller towns of the East, the Middle West and the South. It seems an impertinence to stress their knowledge by the progress of art and music, science and social life in their own country, or to stress their study of that country’s social conditions and inter-national relationships. Above all it seems an intrusion to observe that they are leading their own lives, even as do Nordics, without more consideration of those about them than is utilizable in their routine. From the homes of the thousands of the members of the National Federation of Colored Women to the homes of college professors at Hampton or Tuskegee, Howard or Wilberforce, these Americans are trying for a life of reason and culture.
And they merit the awareness of their fellow-countrymen.
ZONA GALE
FOREWORD
NOTHING,—and the Muses themselves would bear witness to this,—has ever been farther from my thought than writing to establish a thesis. Colored people have been the subjects which I have chosen for my novels partly because they are the ones I know best, partly because of all the other separate groups which constitute the American cosmogony none of them, to me, seems so naturally endowed with the stuff of which chronicles may be made. To be a Negro in America posits a dramatic situation. The elements of the play fall together involuntarily; they are just waiting for Fate the Producer to quicken them into movement,—for Chance the Prompter to interpret them with fidelity.
The mere juxtaposition of the races brings into existence this fateful quality. But of course there are breathing-spells, in-between spaces where colored men and women work and love and go their ways with no thought of the “problem.” What are they like then? . . . So few of the other Americans know.
In the story of Aunt Sal, Laurentine, Melissa and the Chinaberry Tree I have depicted something of the homelife of the colored American who is not being pressed too hard by the Furies of Prejudice, Ignorance, and Economic Injustice. And behold he is not so vastly different from any other American, just distinctive. He is not rich but he moves in a society which has its spheres and alignments as definitely as any other society the world over. He is simple as befits one whose not too remote ancestors were connected with the soil, yet his sons and daughters respond as completely as do the sons and daughters of European settlers to modern American sophistication. He has seen, he has been the victim of many phases of immorality but he has his own ideas about certain “Thou shalt nots.” And acts on them.
Finally he started out as a slave but he rarely thinks of that. To himself he is a citizen of the United States whose ancestors came over not along with the emigrants in the Mayflower, it is true, but merely a little earlier in the good year, 1619. His forebears are to him quite simply the early settlers who played a pretty large part in making the land grow. He boasts no Association of the Sons and Daughters of the Revolution, but he knows that as a matter of fact and quite inevitably his sons and daughters date their ancestry as far back as any. So quite as naturally as his white compatriots he speaks of his “old” Boston families, “old Philadelphians,” “old Charlestonians.” And he has a wholesome respect for family and education and labor and the fruits of labor. He is still sufficiently conservative to lay a slightly greater stress on the first two of these four.
Briefly he is a dark American who wears his joy and rue very much as does the white American. He may wear it with some differences but it is the same joy and the same rue.
So in spite of other intentions I seem to have pointed a moral.
JESSIE FAUSET
CHAPTER I
AUNT SAL, Laurentine, and even Melissa loved the house. It was trim and white with green shutters, a green roof, and a porch which ran around the front and one side. It stood at the end of a street which terminated gracefully in a meadow. But immediately about the trim dwelling lay miniature grounds extending for perhaps a tenth of an acre, beautifully laid out and beautifully kept. It was a lovely place sweet with velvet grass and three or four varieties of trees. In the spring there were crocuses and, later on, lilacs and peonies. In summer the place was lush with roses. Gladiolas fla
med in the fall and prim, hard, self-reliant asters. There was a grape arbor and a vine with giant roots. And some one had placed a swing on the back lawn. But what the three women loved most in that most lovely of places was the Chinaberry Tree.
Colonel Halloway had had it fetched years ago for Aunt Sal’s sake from Alabama. She was a girl then; she who was slender, comely and upstanding even now was in those days a slip of a brown girl, slim and swaying like a birch tree—like a white lady birch young Halloway had thought when he had seen her first on his return from his junior year in college. A white lady birch he thought and found nothing incongruous in its application to this Negro maid who waited on his mother.
She was an intelligent girl, a lady, decent, loyal and amazingly clear of vision. It was only her color that kept her, the daughter of a poor Alabama farmer, in menial service. In another day and another time she must have gone far. Halloway a lad of serious bent but of tearing tyrannical passion loved her . . . he could not marry her. The affair lasted all his life, it persisted (rooted at first in his father’s connivance) in spite of that parent’s eventual displeasure, his mother’s dismay, his wife’s disgust. And presently as the years slipped by there was Laurentine. And then the white house and the beautiful grounds and the Chinaberry Tree. The affair was the town’s one and great scandal. It condemned it and was proud of it. It could not take too open a stand against the Halloways for the family for generations had afforded the township its existence. But it never forgot it.
• • • • •
But Aunt Sal cared nothing about all this. She loved Halloway with a selfless devotion and after his death lived only in that past which he and she had found so sweet. And every day she sat under the Chinaberry Tree’s foliage on the circular hexagonal seat which ran around it and remembered. Laurentine too used to sit under the Tree and thought that she could not remember any time in her life when it had not cast its shadow on the side lawn. She had played under it as a child with two exquisite dolls, wondering rather wistfully why the few children in the neighborhood didn’t play with her.
She remembered the tall, serious white man who came to see her mother daily—he used sometime to place his hand on her head and his eyes, she knew later, mutely implored her forgiveness. She remembered his death too, its mystery and solemnity, the worry on her mother’s face and in her voice as she sent the colonel home to what was to be his last illness. And later the terrible knocking on the side door in the dead of night, and a voice at once measured but violent which said: “You are to come at once . . . at once, do you hear? He wants you ” the voice trailed off into a sort of bitter emptiness.
She remembered her mother’s soft startled rejoinder: “You don’t mean you want me to go—there ”
A cold voice had replied in a sort of icy passion—“Of course I don’t want you—but he does—are you coming?” And they had slipped into a waiting carriage and driven off into the shadowy night.
After Halloway’s death Aunt Sal’s sister Judy had come from Alabama to live with them for a while. She was a pretty, rather raw-boned girl, bold and tactless. Laurentine used to hear her quarreling with her mother. “God, Sarah, you don’t have to shut yourself up like this just because you had a white man do you! You ain’t the first and you won’t be the last to do that little thing. Lawdy no! And ef you wants me to stay yere with you all you certainly will have to have some comp’ny around yere. I can’t stand this kind of life I tell you, you hear me.”
• • • • •
Laurentine hated her, hated her looks, her ways and her soft drawling nasal voice with its thick Southern accent. But in spite of that she felt a sneaking gratitude toward her aunt. Judy took her to church, they met people ; children came and played tea party in the shade of the Chinaberry Tree. Judy was a fine seamstress and taught Laurentine to use her needle—the girl owed her present means of earning a livelihood to those early instructions.
Adults were still a little chary of coming to the house and meeting Aunt Sal with her cool proud indifference, so Judy struck up an acquaintance with Mrs. Forten, a colored woman whose forebears had been in Red Brook as long as the Halloways themselves. She was a vapid, fading woman whose one passion in life was to hold her handsome, selfish husband. Her daughters, thin suppressed little girls knew that their mother would cheerfully have sent them away anywhere, anyhow to please her Sylvester. They were miserable and unhappy, worse off than Laurentine who even as a child was remarkably pretty, even beautiful, and who possessed both a natural and acquired pride.
Sylvester Forten sneered at his wife, despised his two plain little girls, liked rather deeply his infant son Malory, and pursued his daily course of unhampered selfishness. He worked from eleven to two as caterer for the officials of the biggest bank in Red Brook. The rest of his time he spent fishing in summer, and playing poker at all seasons of the year, of the day and of the night in the rear of George Hackett’s pool room—Hackett maintained this place for white patrons only and the scions of the finest families of the town foregathered there. But everybody knew that the basement of Hackett’s establishment was run for the benefit of the town’s colored sports. They came in the back way.
• • • • •
Sylvester Forten spent most of his time at Hackett’s, but one evening as he rose from supper—for like many caterers he insisted on his wife’s cooking for him—he encountered Judy Strange entering his wife’s door. He found her bold air and her coarse manner immensely engaging, sauntered on and forgot her. Afterwards he ran across her again talking to young Phil Hackett whose father ran the billiard parlor. Judy smiled at him, walked up the street with him to his wife’s door and inaugurated the most gracious performance of her otherwise ungracious and ungainly life. She really liked Mrs. Forten and in some mysterious way she brought the despairing wife and her recreant Sylvester into a closer affinity. Forten frequently stayed home evenings now. The boarder next door washed and dressed after his long day at the mill and the four played whist.
Sometimes they danced, Mrs. Forten fluttering and complacent in her husband’s arms, while Judy laughed up at Mr. Gathers, the boarder. Sylvester and Judy would dance too, with real beauty and a restrained abandon. They spent many pleasant evenings thus. At half-past ten Mr. Gathers arose and said with dignity—“I bid you all good-evening,” and marched out doors. But Mrs. Forten and Sylvester used to take Judy home under the smiling stars. Sometimes Sylvester alone accompanied her. But Judy did not like this. She preferred for Mrs. Forten to come along so that the husband and wife might have the stroll back together across the quiet town.
CHAPTER II
LAURENTINE’S meditations under the Chinaberry Tree, always lapsed, if they reached back this far, into a temporary confusion. She seemed to see her life in three divisions, a period of loneliness, relieved however by her mother’s tenderness and care and Colonel Halloway’s somewhat brooding kindness ; a period of normal friendships engendered by her Aunt Judy’s presence and then with Judy’s departure a sudden dispersal of the friendships quite as though her aunt had shut them up and borne them off in her little horsehair trunk which Mr. Gathers morosely carried away one day on his truck.
For Judy did depart much more suddenly and with far less heralding than she came. Laurentine had seen her one evening laughing and talking with her sister Sarah and later mounting still laughing to her room. The evening had remained memorable because for once she had failed to go over to her friend Mrs. Forten and that in the light of further happenings seemed strange. In the morning it was discovered she had gone—gone without a word and without sleeping in her bed. Mr. Gathers came by in the afternoon and took her trunk. And suddenly it was as though Judy and everything connected with her had been swept into a void. Mrs. Forten whom Laurentine saw after a long interval at church had become so thin and shadowy that it seemed as if she were shrinking into herself—the young child thought vaguely that she might keep on shrinking and shrinking until she went out altogether as shadows do sometimes. br />
Reba and Harriett Forten went about more remote and owlish looking than ever. Neither in school nor in church did they ever utter an unnecessary word; but for Laurentine they preserved still further negation. They said to her no word at all neither necessary, nor unnecessary—yet this was not surprising inasmuch as no matter how closely thrown in contact they might be with Laurentine they appeared never to see her. And one certainly did not speak to the unseen.
Mr. Forten whom Laurentine had seen only twice, suddenly and with no preliminary illness died and was buried very quietly.
Aunt Sal proffered no explanations and Laurentine who inherited her mother’s reticence asked for none. All these strange matters, even her aunt’s disappearance would have been swallowed up in some cavern of oblivion in her mind had not one passing strange incident occurred. All of a sudden, the feeling which she somehow guessed the town had possessed for that unusual union of her father and mother, recrudesced, shot up and spattered over her anew like the lava from a miniature Vesuvius. She was always proud but she was also lonely, she craved companionship and understanding. For a brief season she had had both.
And suddenly all these things began to fall away from her. The children at school whether white or colored never included her in their play—she was no longer urged as she had once been for a too brief season to take part in the Sunday School pageant. With a sick heart and dry lips she asked herself at night on her bed—“What is the matter with me? What do I do?”
On a Saturday afternoon she came along Minor Street, past pleasant front yards—not one of them as large and pleasant as her own. In one of them little Lucy Stone was having a tea party with five other little girls. Only last fall she and Lucy had walked arm and arm to the pond and skated—she had lent Lucy her other pair of skates.
She swallowed her pride, she braced her courage, she walked straight up to the fence and looked through the palings. “Lucy,” she called. The little Stone girl came to her slowly—not reluctantly,—more as though she were unwillingly checked by an invisible hand. “Lucy,” said Laurentine, every nerve aquiver, “why don’t you come around any more?” She choked. “Why, why didn’t you ask me here this afternoon?”