And he caught for breath as he lolled back in the chair, while a supreme smile of satisfaction lit his features.
Dixon, who had been listening patiently, was seemingly unaffected. He responded composedly:—“The white man’s civilization is only a continuation of that which was passed on to him by the Negro, who has simply retrogressed. ‘Civilizations,’ as Spiller has pointed out, ‘are meteoric, bursting out of obscurity only to plunge back again.’ Macedonia, for example! In our own day we have seen the decline of Aztec and Inca civilizations. Of the early history of man we know nothing definite. Prior even to paleolithic man there might have been civilizations excelling our own. In the heart of Africa, explorers may yet unearth marks of some extinct Negro civilization in a manner similar to the case of Assyria forgotten for two thousand years, and finally discovered by accident under forty feet of earth. For instance, the Chicago Evening Post of Oct. 11, 1916, speaking editorially of the recent discoveries made at Nepata by Dr. Reisner of Harvard, says—“To his amazement he found even greater treasures of the Ethiopian past. Fragment after fragment was unearthed until at last he had reconstructed effigies of no less than eleven monarchs of the forgotten Negro empire.” Since then the tombs of fourteen other kings and fifty-five queens have been unearthed by the Reisner expedition. Among them is that of King Tirkaqua, mentioned in the book of Isaiah. An account of this appeared in the New York Times, November 27, 1921. Again, great Negro civilizations like that of Timbuctoo flourished even in the Middle Ages. Then there have been such purely Negro civilizations as that of Uganda and Songhay, which were of high rank. Boas says in his ‘Mind of Primitive Man’ (here Dixon took out his notebook): ‘A survey of African tribes exhibits to our view cultural achievements of no mean order. All the different kinds of activities that we consider desirable in the citizens of our country may be found in aboriginal Africa.’ ”
The senator did not reply. He had narrowed his eyes, which like two slits, were peering at Dixon piercingly. The latter, returning his gaze, continued undauntedly:—“Spiller also says—‘The status of a race at any particular moment of time offers no index to its inherent capacities.’ How true has this been of Britons, Picts and Scots, and Huns. Nineteen hundred and seventy years ago England was inhabited by savages, who stained themselves with woad, offered human sacrifices and even practiced cannibalism. Nor is culture a guarantee against decay or Greece would not have decayed. You may be sure the Roman had the same contempt for the savages of the North, who finally conquered him and almost obliterated his civilization, as have the self-styled superior peoples of today for the less developed ones. But these undeveloped peoples should not be despised. Nature, it certainly appears, does not intend to have the whole world civilized at the same time. Even as a thrifty housewife retains a balance in the bank to meet emergencies, so Nature retains these undeveloped varieties as a reserve fund to pay the toll which civilization always exacts. Finot says that many biologists regard the Caucasian as having arrived at the limit of his evolution, and that he can go no higher without danger to his overdeveloped brain. Undeveloped peoples, like undeveloped resources, sir, are simply Nature’s bank account.”
The senator readjusted his slippers and went over to the water cooler for a drink. He did not like to argue in this vein. Dixon’s quiet assurance and well-bred air, too, surprised him, and made him unconsciously admit to himself that here was a Negro different from his concept of that race, and not much different from himself after all. Yet his racial pride would not permit him to be outwitted by one he regarded as an inferior in spite of that ‘inferior’s’ apparent intelligence. He would try the tactics best known to him,—the same that he had more than once used successfully with Negroes. He would outface his opponent, awe him, as it were, by his racial prestige. With this determination he returned to his seat and calmly seated himself. After a few leisurely puffs of a freshly-lighted cigarette he turned to Dixon, who had not moved, and in pretty much the same tone that a bullying lawyer would use to a timid witness, shaking an extended forefinger and glaring from under his knitted eyebrows, he demanded:—
“Do you mean to tell me that you really believe the Negro is the equal of the white man? That YOU think you are as good as a white man? Come on now, none of your theories.”
Dixon appeared far from being intimidated. Indeed, he was secretly amused. Carefully repressing his mirth, he asked with sprightly ingenuousness:—
“In what particular, sir?”
The senator, it appears, had not foreseen an analysis of his question, for he stammered:
“Oh, you know very well what I mean. I mean—well—well—do you feel you are the equal of a white man?”
“Your question has answered itself,” responded Dixon.
“In what way?”
“Well, sir, if I could tell how a white man feels, which I would have to do to make the comparison, then it would mean that I, a Negro, have the same feelings as a white man.”
No response. Silence, except for the rumbling of the train. After a short pause, Dixon continued,—“Since, as your question implies, I must use the good in me as a standard by which to measure the good in a white man, I believe that any white man, who like myself is endeavoring to do the right thing, is as good a man as I. And more, sir,” he added in a tone of gentle remonstrance, “your question has been most uncomplimentary to yourself, for, in asking me whether I consider myself as good as a white man, you are assuming that all white men, irrespective of reputation, are alike.”
The senator appeared more confused than ever. His face flushed and his eyes moved shiftily. But he was determined not to be beaten. Rallying to the charge, he began in an irritable and domineering tone: “You said you were born in Alabama?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your father was a slave, wasn’t he?”
“My grandmother, sir,” corrected Dixon frankly.
“Well, what I want to get at is this:—do you, the descendant of a slave, consider yourself the social equal of a white man, who has always been free, and who owned your people as chattels?” And he finished austerely: “Come on now, no more beating around the bush.”
Dixon decided to accept his meaning. In a tone that implied a perfect mutual understanding, he began:—“Of course, sir, this is a matter that deeply concerns our country and humanity, and so I feel that we two can speak on it calmly and without any ill feeling.” Then in a polite and convincing tone, he explained,—“Reared, as I was, in a part of the South where a white skin is deified and a black one vilified, candidly, in my childhood, I did believe that there was something about the white man that made him superior to me. But, fortunately for me, I have travelled and read considerably. I once worked for one Mr. Simpson, a lecturer. While with him I visited the principal countries of the world. In one English town, where I lived six months, I didn’t see a dark face. Living thus exclusively among whites, I observed that, except for differences due entirely to environment, my people were essentially the same as the whites. Indeed, what struck me most in my travels was the universality of human nature. European-reared Negroes possessed, so far as I could discern,