“Proust is dead, that ‘snob of humor’—yes, but his Recherche du Temps Perdu is finished and will be published in full. I have only glanced at parts of it. Do you know Gasquet's Hymns?”
“Beraud gets the Prix Goncourt this year. Last year it was the Negro, Maran—”
“I have been reading Croce’s Aesthetic lately—”
“Yes, I saw the Meyerhold theater in Moscow—gaunt realism—Howl China was tremendous.”
Then easily, after the crisp brown fowl, the Princess tactfully steered them back to the subject which some seemed willing to avoid.
“And so,” she said, “the darker peoples who are dissatisfied—”
She looked at the Japanese and paused as though inviting comment. He bowed courteously.
“If I may presume, your Royal Highness, to suggest,” he said slowly, “the two categories are not synonymous. We ourselves know no line of color. Some of us are white, some yellow, some black. Rather, is it not, your Highness, that we have from time to time taken council with the oppressed people of the world, many of whom by chance are colored?”
“True, true,” said the Princess.
“And yet,” said the Chinese lady, “it is dominating Europe which has flung this challenge of the color line, and we cannot avoid it.”
“And on either count,” said Matthew, “whether we be bound by oppression or by color, surely we Negroes belong in the foremost ranks.”
There was a slight pause, a sort of hesitation, and it seemed to Matthew as though all expected the Japanese to speak. He did, slowly and gravely:
“It would be unfair to our guest not to explain with some clarity and precision that the whole question of the Negro race both in Africa and in America is for us not simply a question of suffering and compassion. Need we say that for these peoples we have every human sympathy? But for us here and for the larger company we represent, there is a deeper question—that of the ability, qualifications, and real possibilities of the black race in Africa or elsewhere.”
Matthew left the piquant salad and laid down his fork
