and what a book! It promised to tell all about a secret and deliciously sinful Negro world. Sales went over the top.
Blacks denounced Nella as a literary voyeur. Some accused her of having exploited the Harlemites who trusted her in order to swell her pocketbook. The more generous Nella said had tried to serve two masters at once: She had pandered to the lurid curiosity of her white readers and to the ethnic pride of her black ones.
David had read the book. His judicial mind noted that Ebony Eden did take in High Harlem, with its genteel brownstones and polished grammar. The book’s characters were distilled caricatures of Harlem’s more colorful figures. Nella even took a poke at her fellow whites: Her husband, Nikki, appeared thinly camouflaged as a white missionary who was “astounded to discover jungle bunnies” who debated contemporary German literature, were intimately acquainted with Dadaism, Kandinsky, and Bauhaus realism, and were multilingual and widely traveled. But David quickly perceived that what Nella viewed as positive in blacks was what she saw as “primitive,” and that this is what she emphasized. Nella depicted a black world characterized by rapacious lust, primordial superstition, and impenetrable stupidity. David found the book worse than insulting—it was demeaning. He could understand, however, why white critics found it fascinating.
“As propaganda for the so-called ‘New Negro,’ the book speaks volumes,” said one.
“Volumes of nonsense,” said the Negro press. “For us colored, Ebony Eden is the equivalent of taking one small step forward and two giant steps back.”
Despite the uproar over Ebony Eden, or in some corners because of it, Nella remained Harlem’s most welcome “Nordic.” With her decided gift for always being at the right place at the right time, her penetrating presence was hard to avoid. She and Nikki had become point men for fashionable white America’s fascination with black Harlem. They regularly escorted wide-eyed visitors to speakeasies, rent parties, and cabarets. The Hardings liked having Harlem come to them, too. Their “mixed” parties—long, languid, liquored evenings where black artists mingled with white society—were the talk of the town. The Hardings were giving a bash at their house in the Hamptons that evening. When the operator put through David’s call to Nella that day, she told him to join in.
“I’d prefer to speak to you alone,” he said.
“So would everyone.” She laughed. “Just come and we’ll see what we can do.”
As David stood before the Hardings’ imposing front door that Saturday evening, unease weighed like bad cooking in his belly. He was running a risk by showing up at such a trendy gathering. Suppose someone from the Movement was there? There could be questions.
But he had to talk to Nella about Lilian. That overrode every other consideration.
Squaring his shoulders, he pressed the doorbell. A chime rang deep within the house. Within seconds, a butler opened the door and ushered him in with a gracious bow.
David stepped into a spacious entryway softly lit by clusters of small gilded sconces. There was a high, wide arch at the other end … waves of warmth from human bodies gathered together ... voices raised in hilarity ... the babble of excited chatter.
He took a deep breath.
The butler eased David out of his coat and led him through the archway to the salon. David paused on the threshold.
To have said the room was overdone would have been kind.
It was huge, at least three times as large as the McKays’. And whereas the McKays’ was restrained, tranquil, and patrician, this one was grand, golden, and glittering. The walls were covered with brocaded ice-white silk framed by slender gilded moldings. The same silk hung in deep folds at the ceiling-high windows, and it was drawn back to reveal gold lining and a trim of gold braid. Padded sofas and fat cushions, all upholstered in white with gold
Blacks denounced Nella as a literary voyeur. Some accused her of having exploited the Harlemites who trusted her in order to swell her pocketbook. The more generous Nella said had tried to serve two masters at once: She had pandered to the lurid curiosity of her white readers and to the ethnic pride of her black ones.
David had read the book. His judicial mind noted that Ebony Eden did take in High Harlem, with its genteel brownstones and polished grammar. The book’s characters were distilled caricatures of Harlem’s more colorful figures. Nella even took a poke at her fellow whites: Her husband, Nikki, appeared thinly camouflaged as a white missionary who was “astounded to discover jungle bunnies” who debated contemporary German literature, were intimately acquainted with Dadaism, Kandinsky, and Bauhaus realism, and were multilingual and widely traveled. But David quickly perceived that what Nella viewed as positive in blacks was what she saw as “primitive,” and that this is what she emphasized. Nella depicted a black world characterized by rapacious lust, primordial superstition, and impenetrable stupidity. David found the book worse than insulting—it was demeaning. He could understand, however, why white critics found it fascinating.
“As propaganda for the so-called ‘New Negro,’ the book speaks volumes,” said one.
“Volumes of nonsense,” said the Negro press. “For us colored, Ebony Eden is the equivalent of taking one small step forward and two giant steps back.”
Despite the uproar over Ebony Eden, or in some corners because of it, Nella remained Harlem’s most welcome “Nordic.” With her decided gift for always being at the right place at the right time, her penetrating presence was hard to avoid. She and Nikki had become point men for fashionable white America’s fascination with black Harlem. They regularly escorted wide-eyed visitors to speakeasies, rent parties, and cabarets. The Hardings liked having Harlem come to them, too. Their “mixed” parties—long, languid, liquored evenings where black artists mingled with white society—were the talk of the town. The Hardings were giving a bash at their house in the Hamptons that evening. When the operator put through David’s call to Nella that day, she told him to join in.
“I’d prefer to speak to you alone,” he said.
“So would everyone.” She laughed. “Just come and we’ll see what we can do.”
As David stood before the Hardings’ imposing front door that Saturday evening, unease weighed like bad cooking in his belly. He was running a risk by showing up at such a trendy gathering. Suppose someone from the Movement was there? There could be questions.
But he had to talk to Nella about Lilian. That overrode every other consideration.
Squaring his shoulders, he pressed the doorbell. A chime rang deep within the house. Within seconds, a butler opened the door and ushered him in with a gracious bow.
David stepped into a spacious entryway softly lit by clusters of small gilded sconces. There was a high, wide arch at the other end … waves of warmth from human bodies gathered together ... voices raised in hilarity ... the babble of excited chatter.
He took a deep breath.
The butler eased David out of his coat and led him through the archway to the salon. David paused on the threshold.
To have said the room was overdone would have been kind.
It was huge, at least three times as large as the McKays’. And whereas the McKays’ was restrained, tranquil, and patrician, this one was grand, golden, and glittering. The walls were covered with brocaded ice-white silk framed by slender gilded moldings. The same silk hung in deep folds at the ceiling-high windows, and it was drawn back to reveal gold lining and a trim of gold braid. Padded sofas and fat cushions, all upholstered in white with gold
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