The Death of the Firstborn

“Unto you a child is born,” sang the bit of yellow paper that fluttered into my room one brown October morning. Then the fear of fatherhood mingled wildly with the joy of creation; I wondered how it looked and how it felt—what were its eyes, and how its hair curled and crumpled itself. And I thought in awe of her,—she who had slept with Death to tear a man-child from underneath her heart, while I was unconsciously wandering. I fled to my wife and child, repeating the while to myself half wonderingly, “Wife and child? Wife and child?”—fled fast and faster than boat and steam-car, and yet must ever impatiently await them; away from the hard-voiced city, away from the flickering sea into my own Berkshire Hills that sit all sadly guarding the gates of Massachusetts.

“A child is born to you,” sang the scrap of yellow paper fluttering into my room one brown October morning. Then the fear of fatherhood mixed wildly with the joy of creation. I wondered how the child looked and felt, what his eyes were like, and how his hair curled and crumpled. And I thought in awe of her. She had slept with Death to tear a baby boy from beneath her heart while I wandered, unaware. I rushed to my wife and child, repeating to myself in half wonder, “Wife and child? Wife and child?” My thoughts raced ahead, faster and faster than boat or steam train, yet I still had to wait impatiently for both. I hurried away from the harsh-voiced city, away from the shimmering sea, into my own Berkshire Hills. The hills sit in sorrow, guarding the gates of Massachusetts.

Up the stairs I ran to the wan mother and whimpering babe, to the sanctuary on whose altar a life at my bidding had offered itself to win a life, and won. What is this tiny formless thing, this newborn wail from an unknown world,—all head and voice? I handle it curiously, and watch perplexed its winking, breathing, and sneezing. I did not love it then; it seemed a ludicrous thing to love; but her I loved, my girl-mother, she whom now I saw unfolding like the glory of the morning—the transfigured woman. Through her I came to love the wee thing, as it grew strong; as its little soul unfolded itself in twitter and cry and half-formed word, and as its eyes caught the gleam and flash of life. How beautiful he was, with his olive-tinted flesh and dark gold ringlets, his eyes of mingled blue and brown, his perfect little limbs, and the soft voluptuous roll which the blood of Africa had moulded into his features! I held him in my arms, after we had sped far away from our Southern home,—held him, and glanced at the hot red soil of Georgia and the breathless city of a hundred hills, and felt a vague unrest. Why was his hair tinted with gold? An evil omen was golden hair in my life. Why had not the brown of his eyes crushed out and killed the blue?—for brown were his father’s eyes, and his father’s father’s. And thus in the Land of the Color-line I saw, as it fell across my baby, the shadow of the Veil.

I ran upstairs to the pale mother and whimpering baby, into a sanctuary. On its altar, a life had offered itself at my bidding to win another life, and had won. What is this tiny, shapeless thing, this newborn cry from an unknown world, all head and voice? I hold the baby curiously, puzzled as I watch it blink, breathe, and sneeze. I did not love it then. It seemed a ridiculous thing to love. But I loved her, my young mother, whom I now saw unfolding like the glory of morning, a transformed woman. Through her I came to love the tiny baby as he grew strong. His little soul unfolded in chirps and cries and half-formed words, and his eyes caught life's gleam and flash. How beautiful he was, with his olive-tinted skin and dark gold curls, his eyes a mixture of blue and brown! His little limbs were perfect, and his features had the soft, full curves shaped by the blood of Africa. I held him in my arms after we had traveled far from our Southern home. Holding him, I looked at Georgia's hot red soil and the breathless city of a hundred hills. I felt a vague uneasiness. Why was his hair tinted with gold? Golden hair was an evil omen in my life. Why had the brown in his eyes not crushed and killed the blue? For his father's eyes were brown, and so were his father's father's. And so, in the Land of the Color-line, I saw the shadow of the Veil fall across my baby.

Within the Veil was he born, said I; and there within shall he live,—a Negro and a Negro’s son. Holding in that little head—ah, bitterly!—he unbowed pride of a hunted race, clinging with that tiny dimpled hand—ah, wearily!—to a hope not hopeless but unhopeful, and seeing with those bright wondering eyes that peer into my soul a land whose freedom is to us a mockery and whose liberty a lie. I saw the shadow of the Veil as it passed over my baby, I saw the cold city towering above the blood-red land. I held my face beside his little cheek, showed him the star-children and the twinkling lights as they began to flash, and stilled with an even-song the unvoiced terror of my life.

He was born within the Veil, I said. And within the Veil he will live, a Negro and a Negro’s son. In his little head he held the unbowed pride of a hunted race. Ah, how bitterly! With his tiny, dimpled hand he clung to a hope that was not hopeless, but not hopeful either. Ah, how wearily! His bright, wondering eyes peered into my soul. With those eyes he saw a land whose freedom is a mockery to us and whose liberty is a lie. I saw the shadow of the Veil pass over my baby. I saw the cold city towering above the blood-red land. I held my face beside his little cheek. I showed him the star-children and the twinkling lights as the lights began to flash. And with an evening song, I quieted the unspoken terror of my life.

So sturdy and masterful he grew, so filled with bubbling life, so tremulous with the unspoken wisdom of a life but eighteen months distant from the All-life,—we were not far from worshipping this revelation of the divine, my wife and I. Her own life builded and moulded itself upon the child; he tinged her every dream and idealized her every effort. No hands but hers must touch and garnish those little limbs; no dress or frill must touch them that had not wearied her fingers; no voice but hers could coax him off to Dreamland, and she and he together spoke some soft and unknown tongue and in it held communion. I too mused above his little white bed; saw the strength of my own arm stretched onward through the ages through the newer strength of his; saw the dream of my black fathers stagger a step onward in the wild phantasm of the world; heard in his baby voice the voice of the Prophet that was to rise within the Veil.

He grew so strong and commanding, so full of bubbling life. He trembled with the unspoken wisdom of a life only eighteen months removed from the All-life. My wife and I came close to worshipping him as a revelation of the divine. Her own life took shape around the child. He colored her every dream and gave a higher purpose to her every effort. Only her hands could touch and adorn those little limbs. No dress or frill could touch him unless her fingers had grown tired making it. Only her voice could coax him off to Dreamland. Together, she and he spoke some gentle, unknown language, sharing a deep closeness through it. I too stood in thought over his little white bed. I saw the strength of my own arm reaching through the ages in the new strength of his. I saw the dream of my black ancestors stagger one step forward in the world's wild, dreamlike confusion. In his baby voice, I heard the voice of the Prophet who would rise within the Veil.

And so we dreamed and loved and planned by fall and winter, and the full flush of the long Southern spring, till the hot winds rolled from the fetid Gulf, till the roses shivered and the still stern sun quivered its awful light over the hills of Atlanta. And then one night the little feet pattered wearily to the wee white bed, and the tiny hands trembled; and a warm flushed face tossed on the pillow, and we knew baby was sick. Ten days he lay there,—a swift week and three endless days, wasting, wasting away. Cheerily the mother nursed him the first days, and laughed into the little eyes that smiled again. Tenderly then she hovered round him, till the smile fled away and Fear crouched beside the little bed.

And so we dreamed and loved and planned through fall and winter, and the full bloom of the long Southern spring. We went on until hot winds rolled in from the foul-smelling Gulf and the roses shivered. The still, stern sun cast its terrible, shimmering light over the hills of Atlanta. Then one night the little feet pattered wearily to the tiny white bed, and the tiny hands trembled. A warm, flushed face tossed on the pillow, and we knew our baby was sick. For ten days he lay there, a swift week followed by three endless days, wasting, wasting away. In the first days, his mother nursed him cheerfully and laughed into his little eyes, which smiled back. Then she hovered tenderly around him, until his smile disappeared and Fear crouched beside the little bed.

Then the day ended not, and night was a dreamless terror, and joy and sleep slipped away. I hear now that Voice at midnight calling me from dull and dreamless trance,—crying, “The Shadow of Death! The Shadow of Death!” Out into the starlight I crept, to rouse the gray physician,—the Shadow of Death, the Shadow of Death. The hours trembled on; the night listened; the ghastly dawn glided like a tired thing across the lamplight. Then we two alone looked upon the child as he turned toward us with great eyes, and stretched his stringlike hands,—the Shadow of Death! And we spoke no word, and turned away.

Then the day would not end, and night was a dreamless terror. Joy and sleep slipped away. Even now I hear that Voice at midnight, calling me from a dull, dreamless trance. It cried, “The Shadow of Death! The Shadow of Death!” I crept out into the starlight to wake the gray-haired doctor. The Shadow of Death, the Shadow of Death. The hours trembled on. The night listened. The ghostly dawn drifted like something exhausted across the lamplight. Then the two of us, alone, looked at the child as he turned toward us with wide eyes. He reached out his thin, stringlike hands. The Shadow of Death! And we said nothing and turned away.

He died at eventide, when the sun lay like a brooding sorrow above the western hills, veiling its face; when the winds spoke not, and the trees, the great green trees he loved, stood motionless. I saw his breath beat quicker and quicker, pause, and then his little soul leapt like a star that travels in the night and left a world of darkness in its train. The day changed not; the same tall trees peeped in at the windows, the same green grass glinted in the setting sun. Only in the chamber of death writhed the world’s most piteous thing—a childless mother.

He died at dusk, when the sun hung like a brooding sorrow above the western hills, hiding its face. The winds were silent, and the trees, the great green trees he loved, stood still. I saw his breathing grow faster and faster, then stop. Then his little soul leaped like a star crossing the night, leaving a world of darkness behind. The day did not change. The same tall trees peered in through the windows. The same green grass gleamed in the setting sun. Only in the room where he died did the world’s most pitiful sight twist in anguish: a childless mother.

I shirk not. I long for work. I pant for a life full of striving. I am no coward, to shrink before the rugged rush of the storm, nor even quail before the awful shadow of the Veil. But hearken, O Death! Is not this my life hard enough,—is not that dull land that stretches its sneering web about me cold enough,—is not all the world beyond these four little walls pitiless enough, but that thou must needs enter here,—thou, O Death? About my head the thundering storm beat like a heartless voice, and the crazy forest pulsed with the curses of the weak; but what cared I, within my home beside my wife and baby boy? Wast thou so jealous of one little coign of happiness that thou must needs enter there,—thou, O Death?

I do not avoid work. I long for it. I hunger for a life full of effort. I am no coward who shrinks before the fierce rush of the storm. Nor do I tremble before the terrible shadow of the Veil. But listen, O Death! Is my life not hard enough? Is the bleak land that spreads its sneering web around me not cold enough? Is all the world beyond these four little walls not pitiless enough? Must you come in here too, O Death? Around my head, the roaring storm beat like a heartless voice. The wild forest throbbed with the curses of the weak. But what did I care, safe in my home beside my wife and baby boy? Were you so jealous of one little corner of happiness that you had to enter there, O Death?

A perfect life was his, all joy and love, with tears to make it brighter,—sweet as a summer’s day beside the Housatonic. The world loved him; the women kissed his curls, the men looked gravely into his wonderful eyes, and the children hovered and fluttered about him. I can see him now, changing like the sky from sparkling laughter to darkening frowns, and then to wondering thoughtfulness as he watched the world. He knew no color-line, poor dear—and the Veil, though it shadowed him, had not yet darkened half his sun. He loved the white matron, he loved his black nurse; and in his little world walked souls alone, uncolored and unclothed. I—yea, all men—are larger and purer by the infinite breadth of that one little life. She who in simple clearness of vision sees beyond the stars said when he had flown, “He will be happy There; he ever loved beautiful things.” And I, far more ignorant, and blind by the web of mine own weaving, sit alone winding words and muttering, “If still he be, and he be There, and there be a There, let him be happy, O Fate!”

His life was perfect, full of joy and love, with tears to make it brighter. It was as sweet as a summer’s day beside the Housatonic. The world loved him. The women kissed his curls, the men gazed solemnly into his wonderful eyes, and the children fluttered around him. I can see him now, changing like the sky from sparkling laughter to darkening frowns. Then came thoughtful wonder as he watched the world. He knew no color-line, poor dear. And though the Veil cast its shadow over him, it had not yet darkened half his sun. He loved the white woman, and he loved his black nurse. In his little world, only souls walked, without color or clothing. I, indeed all people, am greater and purer by the infinite reach of that one little life. She whose simple, clear vision reaches beyond the stars said when he had flown away, “He will be happy There. He always loved beautiful things.” And I, far more ignorant and blinded by a web of my own making, sit alone, weaving words and muttering, “If he still exists, and he is There, and there is a There, let him be happy, O Fate!”

Blithe was the morning of his burial, with bird and song and sweet-smelling flowers. The trees whispered to the grass, but the children sat with hushed faces. And yet it seemed a ghostly unreal day,—the wraith of Life. We seemed to rumble down an unknown street behind a little white bundle of posies, with the shadow of a song in our ears. The busy city dinned about us; they did not say much, those pale-faced hurrying men and women; they did not say much,—they only glanced and said, “Niggers!”

The morning of his burial was bright and cheerful, with birds, songs, and sweet-smelling flowers. The trees whispered to the grass, but the children sat with quiet faces. And yet the day seemed ghostly and unreal, like the ghost of life. We seemed to rumble down an unknown street behind a little white bundle of flowers. The faint echo of a song lingered in our ears. The busy city roared around us. Those pale-faced men and women hurrying past did not say much. They did not say much. They only glanced and said, “Niggers!”

We could not lay him in the ground there in Georgia, for the earth there is strangely red; so we bore him away to the northward, with his flowers and his little folded hands. In vain, in vain!—for where, O God! beneath thy broad blue sky shall my dark baby rest in peace,—where Reverence dwells, and Goodness, and a Freedom that is free?

We could not bury him there in Georgia, because the earth there is strangely red. So we carried him north, with his flowers and his little folded hands. All in vain, all in vain! For where, O God, beneath your broad blue sky can my dark baby rest in peace? Where is there respect, goodness, and a freedom that is truly free?

All that day and all that night there sat an awful gladness in my heart,—nay, blame me not if I see the world thus darkly through the Veil,—and my soul whispers ever to me saying, “Not dead, not dead, but escaped; not bond, but free.” No bitter meanness now shall sicken his baby heart till it die a living death, no taunt shall madden his happy boyhood. Fool that I was to think or wish that this little soul should grow choked and deformed within the Veil! I might have known that yonder deep unworldly look that ever and anon floated past his eyes was peering far beyond this narrow Now. In the poise of his little curl-crowned head did there not sit all that wild pride of being which his father had hardly crushed in his own heart? For what, forsooth, shall a Negro want with pride amid the studied humiliations of fifty million fellows? Well sped, my boy, before the world had dubbed your ambition insolence, had held your ideals unattainable, and taught you to cringe and bow. Better far this nameless void that stops my life than a sea of sorrow for you.

All that day and all that night, a terrible gladness filled my heart. No, do not blame me if I see the world so darkly through the Veil. My soul keeps whispering to me, “Not dead, not dead, but escaped. Not enslaved, but free.” No bitter cruelty will now sicken his baby heart until he dies a living death. No taunt will drive him mad during his happy boyhood. What a fool I was to think or wish this little soul would grow stifled and distorted within the Veil! I might have known that the deep, otherworldly look sometimes passing across his eyes reached far beyond this narrow present. Didn't the way he held his little head, crowned with curls, show all that fierce pride in his own existence? His father had barely crushed that pride in his own heart. After all, what use does a Negro have for pride amid the deliberate humiliations inflicted by fifty million fellow human beings? You left in good time, my boy, before the world had called your ambition insolence. Before the world had declared your ideals impossible and taught you to cringe and bow. Far better this nameless emptiness that brings my life to a halt than a sea of sorrow for you.

Idle words; he might have borne his burden more bravely than we,—aye, and found it lighter too, some day; for surely, surely this is not the end. Surely there shall yet dawn some mighty morning to lift the Veil and set the prisoned free. Not for me,—I shall die in my bonds,—but for fresh young souls who have not known the night and waken to the morning; a morning when men ask of the workman, not “Is he white?” but “Can he work?” When men ask artists, not “Are they black?” but “Do they know?” Some morning this may be, long, long years to come. But now there wails, on that dark shore within the Veil, the same deep voice, Thou shalt forego! And all have I foregone at that command, and with small complaint,—all save that fair young form that lies so coldly wed with death in the nest I had builded.

Empty words. He might have carried his burden more bravely than we have. Yes, and someday he might have found it lighter too. For surely, surely this is not the end. Surely some mighty morning will still dawn, lifting the Veil and setting the imprisoned free. Not for me. I will die in my chains. But that morning will come for fresh young souls who have not known the night and wake to morning. A morning when people ask a worker, not “Is he white?” but “Can he work?” When people ask about artists, not “Are they black?” but “Do they know?” Such a morning may come, many, many years from now. But now, on that dark shore within the Veil, the same deep voice cries out, You must give up! And at that command I have given up all, with little complaint. All except that beautiful young body, lying coldly joined with death in the nest I had built.

If one must have gone, why not I? Why may I not rest me from this restlessness and sleep from this wide waking? Was not the world’s alembic, Time, in his young hands, and is not my time waning? Are there so many workers in the vineyard that the fair promise of this little body could lightly be tossed away? The wretched of my race that line the alleys of the nation sit fatherless and unmothered; but Love sat beside his cradle, and in his ear Wisdom waited to speak. Perhaps now he knows the All-love, and needs not to be wise. Sleep, then, child,—sleep till I sleep and waken to a baby voice and the ceaseless patter of little feet—above the Veil.

If one of us had to go, why not me? Why can't I rest from this restlessness and sleep after being so wide awake? Wasn't Time, the vessel that transforms the world, in his young hands? And isn't my own time running out? Are there so many workers in the vineyard that this little body's bright promise could be so easily thrown away? The suffering people of my race who fill the nation's alleys live without fathers or mothers. But Love sat beside his cradle, and Wisdom waited to speak in his ear. Perhaps now he knows the All-love and has no need to be wise. Sleep, then, child. Sleep until I sleep and wake to a baby's voice and the endless patter of little feet above the Veil.