Social Work and The Grand Challenge To Eliminate Racism Concepts Theory and Evidence Based Approaches Martell L Teasley Full Chapter PDF
Social Work and The Grand Challenge To Eliminate Racism Concepts Theory and Evidence Based Approaches Martell L Teasley Full Chapter PDF
Social Work and The Grand Challenge To Eliminate Racism Concepts Theory and Evidence Based Approaches Martell L Teasley Full Chapter PDF
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Social Work and the Grand Challenge to Eliminate
Racism
Social Work and the Grand Challenge
to Eliminate Racism
Concepts, Theory, and Evidence Based Approaches
Edited by
—Martell L. Teasley
Contents
Contributors
Introduction
Racism and Society
Race and Social Outcomes
The Goal of This Book
The Challenge of Eliminating Racism
Index
Contributors
The Grand Challenges for Social Work (GCSW) have galvanized the
profession, serving as a catalyst for change in bridging collaborative,
scholarly, and public initiatives with innovative approaches, backed
by science, to tackle long-standing and seemingly intractable social
welfare problems. Launched in 2015 as a 10-year project, the
American Academy of Social Welfare GCSW selected 12 initial
concept papers under three domains. A plethora of consortiums,
forums, conferences, workshops, webinars, advocacy efforts, and
policy initiatives continue to take place, along with special journal
editions, books, and research articles, all dedicated to the GCSW.
Additionally, social work education programs have integrated the
GCSW into curricula and instruction, university programs, and
faculty-led initiatives.
While acknowledging the growing success of the GCSW, voices
from within the social work profession questioned the glaring
absence of racism as a central focus for the initiative. Although many
of the scholarly papers that make up the Grand Challenges
underscore the need to include race and discrimination as variables,
the distinctiveness of racism as an overarching and casual factor is
not captured within the initial set of concept papers. Native
American scholars were particularly concerned about a lack of
acknowledgment of their plight as First Nation, Indigenous people,
and the recognition of their continuous struggle for human rights,
anti-oppressive practices, and sovereignty. As voices grew, the topic
gained the attention of the Grand Challenges Executive Committee,
who then facilitated a discussion to consider the possible integration
of racism as a new Grand Challenge. For some, the pervasiveness of
racism is viewed as a nearly impossible task for the social work
profession to tackle. For others, the idea of generating a set of
Grand Challenges for the profession is incomplete without specific
attention to racism as a root cause of oppression and inequality.
From another perspective, the social work profession’s signature
value of social justice is obviously linked to the need for racial
justice, and thus, there were calls for the integration of racism within
all of the Grand Challenges, from a sort of metatheoretical
perspective; that is, as a formal system that describes the many
structural problems and outcomes related to race and racism in
society. In some ways, this would mean sprinkling race and racism
among the Grand Challenges, which could be meaningful, but would
not be enough. Such an approach is good as a method of
understanding the veracity of racism and its manifestations across
social problems. Yet, it neglects the centrality of racism as a causal
factor impacting the lives of people.
To think critically, based on what we know about the malleability
of race and racism, all of these perspectives have merit and become
points of departure in attempts to comprehend the veracity of
racism. However, there are also those who contend that “[b]ecause
race is socially constructed, all cultural and experiential products
from a racial perspective remain suspect” (Curry, 2017, p. 5). From
this position, any search for racial narratives and meaning to explain
social experiences and outcomes is a search for racial reification.
Thus, race consciousness is problematized and rejected as unproven
prima facie and narrow thought (Curry, 2017). However, this position
neglects to honestly examine the centrality of racism and denies the
real and meaningful experience of racialized people as personified
throughout history and contemporary times, along with its
omnipresent collate, racism (see Chapter 1). Nor will such an
approach garner meaningful changes in the lives of people who
intentionally and unintentionally are victims of racialized thoughts
and practices. It is important to understand how the malleability of
White supremacy and racism took hold in different forms and
systems of materializing racial practices in North America, South
America, Europe, and the Netherlands (Reid-Merritt, 2017). For this
reason, “definitions and perceptions of race are complex, confusing,
contradictory, controversial and imprecise”; but they continue to be
used as a classification system of groups around the world (Reid-
Merritt, 2017, p. 5). Race and racism are the only way in which
people can situate certain lived experiences and their outcomes. The
deleterious effects of racism are not on the margins of the lived
experience of people and groups, and therefore, approaches to
eliminating racism cannot be on the margins or serve as a secondary
social problem.
In the United States, although the Black and White binary of
racism continues, the growing significance of race and racism within
and between all racial and ethnic groups demands greater attention
by the social work profession. Laws and customs that disavow overt
racism have given way to more complex and covert forms of racism,
including the complexities of structural inequalities. Thus, any study
of racism at one point in time must take into consideration the
fluidity and flexibility of racism to morph into varied institutional and
structural forces within society (Omi & Winant, 2015). And we
cannot forget the benefactor of racism: whiteness. While there is
nothing wrong with being a White person, benefiting from whiteness
is a form of silent complicity seldom discussed. The historical
problem is that whiteness has been based on skin color, certain
physical characteristics, intelligence quota, and even the superiority
of spiritual systems, all contrasting with blackness, Black people, and
has been pitted relative to skin tone against people of other hues.
Thus, part of undoing racism means undoing whiteness (Asante,
2017; Reid-Merritt, 2017).
There is also the continuing growth and belief in White
supremacy, which exacerbates racism and contributes to growing
inequality within the United States. Many people in the United States
were astonished and stricken when they tuned into their televisions
and other media forms on August 11 and 12, 2017, as they
witnessed the Unite the Right and neo-Nazi rally on the campus of
the University of Virginia in Charlottesville. These protestors included
self-admitted members of the alt-right, White nationalist, right-wing
militias, neo-Confederates, and neo-fascists groups. Columns of
White males marched in unison shouting racist and anti-Semitic
remarks. Undoubtedly, White supremacy is on the rise in the United
States and throughout Europe, and unless stopped, its malignance
will only exacerbate into either outright discriminatory and racist
practices or growing covert forms of racism, all of which are
unfolding (Mishra, 2017). According to the Southern Poverty Law
Center, the number of White nationalist groups within the United
States increased by 55% from 2017 to 2019 to a total of 940. Their
visibility is becoming greater through their appearances at Black
Lives Matter protests and COVID-19 protests, wearing insignia and
brandishing weapons. Whether in the closet or upfront and vocal,
White supremacy of any kind, even in its silence, is pernicious,
volatile, and ultimately violent.
White people are essential to any possibility that the nation will
change course and head down a pathway to eliminating racism.
Understandably, this is a tough haul because of the polarizing nature
and the painful reality of discussing race, racism, whiteness, and
White supremacy in this country. White denial, as well as ignorance
of the contours of whiteness, foreshadow sincerity, clarity of
thought, and intellectual rigor, leading to substantive outcome
models for change, both inside and outside the social work
profession. At the crux of indifference to change is economic and
institutional vested interest in maintaining the structure and
functioning of the status quo. In the words of W. E. B. Du Bois,
“Everyone is in favor of justice so long as it costs them no effort”
(1929, p. 45). Thus, people cannot be outraged about injustice if
they take no action.
As the U.S. population continues to diversify to a non-White
majority, a number of important transformations are taking place in
terms of the intellectual justifications for racism, from the voting
booth, fears of non-White immigration, to the prison-industrial
complex. Professional leadership in this area means having a frank
and honest discussion about the complexities and the clear and
present danger of institutional and structural racism in the twenty-
first century. Such a conversation must lead to planned and
substantiated advocacy and action aimed at results. Although racism
permeates nearly every aspect of U.S. society, including social
interactions, there has been significant and continuous social
progress in reducing its vestiges. Thus, ending racism is not an
insurmountable project; it is one that requires commitment and
persistence from every member of society.
Racism is a Grand Challenge for the social work profession
because the profession has never tackled the centrality of racism as
a causal factor precipitating problem formation in the lives of people.
At the root of many clinically diagnosed problems that call for social
work intervention are a host of structural and systemic issues that
culminate and place disenfranchised communities, families, and
people at risk for unhealthy outcomes. Institutional, structural,
cultural, economic, and political racism is at the forefront of these
issues. In this respect, the Grand Challenge to Eliminate Racism
represents an excellent vehicle to ameliorate, lessen, and even
eradicate racism within targeted domains of the social work
profession and its fields of practice. The GCSW are a call to action,
seeking innovative ways to tackle long-standing social problems
using evidence-based methods an innovative approach to problem-
solving. Scientific approaches to undermining the many facets of
racism within society will require innovation and new ways to
approach old racialized problems, disciplinary and interdisciplinary
collaboration, as well as longitudinal commitment. And we cannot
forget the internal challenges of racism within the social work
profession, a problem briefly discussed later in this chapter.
Many of the authors are writers of the initial 12 GCSW, and there are
a host of new authors who add fresh perspectives to the discourse
on race and racism with innovative approaches to eliminate racism.
Although this book is not intended to deeply explore whiteness, it
invokes a necessary conversation on whiteness that cannot be
avoided if there is sincerity in the elimination of racism. Anti-racism
practices include the study of whiteness, which contains implications
for how we can eliminate White supremacy, and how White privilege
can be used to combat racism (Bonilla-Silva, 2010). We also
highlight the ways in which social work interventions can be
damaging if White privilege and racism are not revealed and
harnessed. The editors of this book invite readers to become
involved with one or more of the issues identified and discussed
within this book.
The Challenge of Eliminating Racism
Today, more than 60 years past the famed Civil Rights movement,
the country is in the midst of a resurgence of a human rights
struggle where cities are again experiencing major protests, rioting,
and the inevitable characteristics of American violence. Over time,
the nation has divided itself along political ideologies, and race
serves a central role in that division. The growing resurgence of
White supremacy groups; a growing wealth gap; police extra-judicial
killings; environmental racism; and serious health, educational, and
employment disparities among racial and ethnic groups drive the
clarion call for human rights and change in our social contract with
Black, Indigenous, and People of Color (BIPOC). In what may be
viewed as a new civil rights movement, the primary target is
systemic racism.
Unlike the Progressive era, there is no planned advocacy and
policymaking force among social work organizations that can stand
up to prevailing societal forces that dictate our current national and
declining state of social welfare—the fragmentation among social
work organizations does not help this cause. The fire this time is
among us and Black Lives Matter, Moral Mondays, Repairers of the
Breach, Color of Change, and many others that have emerged as
grassroots organizations born out of necessity, now galvanizing the
nation and the world. They have become the face and leaders in the
call for social change. What visual and notable roles will the social
work professional play in this twenty-first-century call for racial
justice? The social work profession must identify its collective niche
in this new era, and its organizations, coalitions, leaders, and
professional members must ask themselves, what will be the resolve
and response of the profession to the heightened demand for racial
and economic justice in the era of hyper-capitalism? History will
record its efforts during this critical time. The Grand Challenge to
Eliminate Racism is late to the party, particularly for a profession
predicated on social justice. However, if the social work profession
wants to be part of the last dance, standing tall, and recognizable
for social justice in this new era, it will have to “step up” its game
and demonstrate leadership in the movement for change.
Authors’ note: We have no known conflicts of interest to disclose.
References
Artiga, S., & Orgera, K. (2020, May 14). COVID-19 presents significant risks for
American Indian and Alaska Native People. Coronavirus Statistics. Centers for
Disease Control. Retrieved from https://www.kff.org/coronavirus-covid-19/issue-
brief/covid-19-presents-significant-risks-for-american-indian-and-alaska-native-
people/.
Asante, M. K. (2017). Race and racism in American Society: Evolution towards new
thoughts. In P. Reid-Merritt (Ed.), Race in America (pp. 23–42). Santa Barbara,
CA: Praeger
American Sociological Association (2003). The importance of collecting data and
doing social scientific research on race. Washington, DC: American Sociological
Association.
Curry, T. (2017). The man-not: Race, class, genre, and the dilemmas of Black
manhood. Philadelphia: Temple University Press.
Du Bois, W. E. B. (1929). The denial of economic justice to Negros. In Foner, P. S.
(1970) (Ed.), W. E. B. Du Bois speaks: Speeches and addresses 1920–1963 (pp.
43–46).
Ford, T., Reber, S., & Reeves, R. V. (2020). Race gaps in COVID-19 deaths are even
bigger than they appear. Up Front Brookings. Retrieved from
https://www.brookings.edu/blog/up-front/2020/06/16/race-gaps-in-covid-19-
deaths-are-even-bigger-than-they-appear/.
Gordon, S. (2020, May 7). Black, minority populations hit harder by COVID-19. UPI
Health Day News. United Press International, Inc. Retrieved from
https://www.upi.com/Health_News/2020/05/07/Black-minority-populations-hit-
harder-by-COVID-19/8801588860415/
Kendi, I. X. (2019). How to become an antiracist. New York: Random House
Lipsitz, G. (2011). How racism takes place. Philadelphia: Temple University Press.
Mishra, P. (2017). Age of anger: A history of the present. New York: Penguin
Books.
Omi, M., & Winant, H. (2015). Racial formation in the United States (3rd ed.). New
York: Routledge.
Reid-Merritt, P. (2017). Race in America: Social constructs and social realities: An
introduction In P. Reid-Merritt (Ed.), How a pseudoscientific concept shaped
human interaction (Vol. 2, pp. 3–22). Santa Barbara, CA: Praeger.
Schiele, J. H. (2020). Social welfare policy: Regulation & resistance among people
of color (2nd ed). San Diego, CA: Cognella.
PART I
HISTORY, RACISM, AND SOCIAL WORK EDUCATION
Racism is imbued within the structures of our society and has been
nesting comfortably within the social work profession since its
inception (see Chapter 1). The 13th Grand Challenge is boldly calling
social workers to extract this systemic stronghold from its profession
and breathe new life into a field that has the capacity to transform
society. To facilitate this necessary disruption, social workers must be
willing to critically engage in an exploration of the meaning of racism
and its impact on social work in order to work toward its elimination
from society and the profession. The chapters in Part I provide a
robust examination of race and racism, its role in social work, and
the profession’s movement toward a posture of anti-racism. In
Chapter 1, “The Meaning and Function of Race and Racism,” Martell
Teasley lays important groundwork required for this deep exploration
of race, racism, and the social work profession. The author examines
ways in which institutional norms produce racial commonsense
thinking as part of normative consciousness, discourse, and social
practice. Beginning with the fundamentals, he then provides the
scaffolding necessary for understanding the function of race and
racism at the micro, meso, and macro levels.
Teasley carries this discussion forward in Chapter 2, “Anti-racism
Social Work: History and the Challenge Ahead,” where he sheds light
on the persistent efforts of many within the profession throughout
the years to advance this conversation and to focus on race and
racism in a way that would take root. He illuminates the challenges
along the journey toward the goal of centering race and racism in
the curriculum and programming of social work education. The
author demonstrates how and why that the social work profession
continues to struggle with its approach to race and racism in its
efforts to promote social justice. This chapter provides a review of
efforts by the Council on Social Work Education (CSWE), the
National Association of Social Workers (NASW), and other
organizations in order to demonstrate the ebb and flow of the
struggle to grapple with race and racism while continuing to promote
social justice within the social work profession. In Chapter 3, “Using
Personal-Professional Narratives as a Technique for Teaching Social
Work Students about the Complexities of Racism,” Tracy R. Whitaker,
Ruby M. Gourdine, and Robert L. Cosby, Jr., offer a way to further
this goal. Their chapter explores the benefits and challenges of
utilizing narratives as a method for exposing social work students to
a realm beyond the classroom and the textbooks. The authors will
examine the incongruency between articulated and practiced
behaviors in social work, including how racism persists, even within
the context of helping relationships. They highlight how educators
can offer narratives as a vehicle for helping students understand the
function of race and racism in the lives of clients and the systems
and structures in which they live.
In Chapter 4, “Eradicating Racism: Social Work’s Most Pressing
Grand Challenge,” Abril Harris, Smitha Rao, Manual Cano, Bongki
Woo, Ty Tucker, Dale Arvy Maglalang, and Melissa Bartholomew
provide further grounding in racism and the history of social work.
They highlight the critical need for social workers to address the way
racism functions personally within White and BIPOC (Black,
Indigenous, and People of Color) social workers. They underscore
the need for ongoing self-examination to be part of the work of
eradicating racism within the profession. The chapter wbegins with a
critical conceptualization of racism and its extensive effect on
institutions and the well-being of populations. In Chapter 5, the final
chapter of this section, “Ending Racism: A Critical Perspective,”
Harold Briggs and Martell Teasley continue the theme of Chapter 4,
helping readers to envision the end of racism through an
examination of the clinical and organizational research supporting
frameworks for approaches that help address the function of racism
at the interpersonal and systemic levels. This chapter reviews the
available clinical and organizational research to present conceptual
frameworks to use in designing practice approaches for the
elimination of racism at the interpersonal and the systemic levels of
attention.
1
The Meaning and Function of Race and Racism
A Conceptual Understanding
Martell L. Teasley
They went to see the kind Mademoiselle Duphot, and this visit
seemed momentous to Mary. She gazed with something almost like
awe at the woman who had had the teaching of Stephen.
‘Oh, but yes,’ smiled Mademoiselle Duphot, ‘I teached her. She
was terribly naughty over her dictée; she would write remarks about
the poor Henri—très impertinente she would be about Henri! Stévenne
was a queer little child and naughty—but so dear, so dear—I could
never scold her. With me she done everything her own way.’
‘Please tell me about that time,’ coaxed Mary.
So Mademoiselle Duphot sat down beside Mary and patted her
hand: ‘Like me, you love her. Well now let me recall— She would
sometimes get angry, very angry, and then she would go to the stables
and talk to her horse. But when she fence it was marvellous—she
fence like a man, and she only a baby but extrémement strong. And
then. . . .’ The memories went on and on, such a store she possessed,
the kind Mademoiselle Duphot.
As she talked her heart went out to the girl, for she felt a great
tenderness towards young things: ‘I am glad that you come to live with
our Stévenne now that Mademoiselle Puddle is at Morton. Stévenne
would be desolate in the big house. It is charming for both of you this
new arrangement. While she work you look after the ménage; is it not
so? You take care of Stévenne, she take care of you. Oui, oui, I am
glad you have come to Paris.’
Julie stroked Mary’s smooth young cheek, then her arm, for she
wished to observe through her fingers. She smiled: ‘Very young, also
very kind. I like so much the feel of your kindness—it gives me a warm
and so happy sensation, because with all kindness there must be
much good.’
Was she quite blind after all, the poor Julie?
And hearing her Stephen flushed with pleasure, and her eyes that
could see turned and rested on Mary with a gentle and very profound
expression in their depths—at that moment they were calmly
thoughtful, as though brooding upon the mystery of life—one might
almost have said the eyes of a mother.
A happy and pleasant visit it had been; they talked about it all
through the evening.
CHAPTER 41
2
One evening towards the end of June, Jonathan Brockett walked in
serenely: ‘Hallo, Stephen! Here I am, I’ve turned up again—not that I
love you, I positively hate you. I’ve been keeping away for weeks and
weeks. Why did you never answer my letters? Not so much as a line
on a picture postcard! There’s something in this more than meets the
eye. And where’s Puddle? She used to be kind to me once—I shall lay
my head down on her bosom and weep. . . .’ He stopped abruptly,
seeing Mary Llewellyn, who got up from her deep arm-chair in the
corner.
Stephen said: ‘Mary, this is Jonathan Brockett—an old friend of
mine; we’re fellow writers. Brockett, this is Mary Llewellyn.’
Brockett shot a swift glance in Stephen’s direction, then he bowed
and gravely shook hands with Mary.
And now Stephen was to see yet another side of this strange and
unexpected creature. With infinite courtesy and tact he went out of his
way to make himself charming. Never by so much as a word or a look
did he once allow it to be inferred that his quick mind had seized on
the situation. Brockett’s manner suggested an innocence that he was
very far from possessing.
Stephen began to study him with interest; they two had not met
since before the war. He had thickened, his figure was more robust,
there was muscle and flesh on his wide, straight shoulders. And she
thought that his face had certainly aged; little bags were showing
under his eyes, and rather deep lines at the sides of his mouth—the
war had left its mark upon Brockett. Only his hands remained
unchanged; those white and soft skinned hands of a woman.
He was saying: ‘So you two were in the same Unit. That was a
great stroke of luck for Stephen; I mean she’d be feeling horribly lonely
now that old Puddle’s gone back to England. Stephen’s distinguished
herself I see—Croix de Guerre and a very becoming scar. Don’t
protest, my dear Stephen, you know it’s becoming. All that happened
to me was a badly sprained ankle;’ he laughed, ‘fancy going out to
Mesopotamia to slip on a bit of orange peel! I might have done better
than that here in Paris. By the way, I’m in my own flat again now; I
hope you’ll bring Miss Llewellyn to luncheon.’
He did not stay embarrassingly late, nor did he leave suggestively
early; he got up to go at just the right moment. But when Mary went
out of the room to call Pierre, he quite suddenly put his arm through
Stephen’s.
‘Good luck, my dear, you deserve it;’ he murmured, and his sharp
grey eyes had grown almost gentle: ‘I hope you’ll be very, very happy.’
Stephen quietly disengaged her arm with a look of surprise:
‘Happy? Thank you, Brockett,’ she smiled, as she lighted a cigarette.
They could not tear themselves away from their home, and that
summer they remained in Paris. There were always so many things to
do, Mary’s bedroom entirely to refurnish for instance—she had
Puddle’s old room overlooking the garden. When the city seemed to
be growing too airless, they motored off happily into the country,
spending a couple of nights at an auberge, for France abounds in
green, pleasant places. Once or twice they lunched with Jonathan
Brockett at his flat in the Avenue Victor Hugo, a beautiful flat since his
taste was perfect, and he dined with them before leaving for Deauville
—his manner continued to be studiously guarded. The Duphots had
gone for their holiday and Buisson was away in Spain for a month—
but what did they want that summer with people? On those evenings
when they did not go out, Stephen would now read aloud to Mary,
leading the girl’s adaptable mind into new and hitherto unexplored
channels; teaching her the joy that can lie in books, even as Sir Philip
had once taught his daughter. Mary had read so little in her life that the
choice of books seemed practically endless, but Stephen must make a
start by reading that immortal classic of their own Paris, Peter
Ibbetson, and Mary said:
‘Stephen—if we were ever parted, do you think that you and I could
dream true?’
And Stephen answered: ‘I often wonder whether we’re not
dreaming true all the time—whether the only truth isn’t in dreaming.’
Then they talked for a while of such nebulous things as dreams, which
will seem very concrete to lovers.
Sometimes Stephen would read aloud in French, for she wanted
the girl to grow better acquainted with the lure of that fascinating
language. And thus gradually, with infinite care, did she seek to fill the
more obvious gaps in Mary’s none too complete education. And Mary,
listening to Stephen’s voice, rather deep and always a little husky,
would think that words were more tuneful than music and more
inspiring, when spoken by Stephen.
At this time many gentle and friendly things began to bear witness
to Mary’s presence. There were flowers in the quiet old garden for
instance, and some large red carp in the fountain’s basin, and two
married couples of white fantail pigeons who lived in a house on a tall
wooden leg and kept up a convivial cooing. These pigeons lacked all
respect for Stephen; by August they were flying in at her window and
landing with soft, heavy thuds on her desk where they strutted until
she fed them with maize. And because they were Mary’s and Mary
loved them, Stephen would laugh, as unruffled as they were, and
would patiently coax them back into the garden with bribes for their
plump little circular crops. In the turret room that had been Puddle’s
sanctum, there were now three cagefuls of Mary’s rescues—tiny bright
coloured birds with dejected plumage, and eyes that had filmed from a
lack of sunshine. Mary was always bringing them home from the
terrible bird shops along the river, for her love of such helpless and
suffering things was so great that she in her turn must suffer. An ill-
treated creature would haunt her for days, so that Stephen would often
exclaim half in earnest:
‘Go and buy up all the animal shops in Paris . . . anything, darling,
only don’t look unhappy!’
The tiny bright coloured birds would revive to some extent, thanks
to Mary’s skilled treatment; but since she always bought the most
ailing, not a few of them left this disheartening world for what we must
hope was a warm, wild heaven—there were several small graves
already in the garden.
Then one morning, when Mary went out alone because Stephen
had letters to write to Morton, she chanced on yet one more desolate
creature who followed her home to the Rue Jacob, and right into
Stephen’s immaculate study. It was large, ungainly and appallingly
thin; it was coated with mud which had dried on its nose, its back, its
legs and all over its stomach. Its paws were heavy, its ears were long,
and its tail, like the tail of a rat, looked hairless, but curved up to a
point in a miniature sickle. Its face was as smooth as though made out
of plush, and its luminous eyes were the colour of amber.
Mary said: ‘Oh, Stephen—he wanted to come. He’s got a sore paw;
look at him, he’s limping!’
Then this tramp of a dog hobbled over to the table and stood there
gazing dumbly at Stephen, who must stroke his anxious, dishevelled
head: ‘I suppose this means that we’re going to keep him.’
‘Darling, I’m dreadfully afraid it does—he says he’s sorry to be such
a mongrel.’
‘He needn’t apologize,’ Stephen smiled, ‘he’s all right, he’s an Irish
water-spaniel, though what he’s doing out here the Lord knows; I’ve
never seen one before in Paris.’
They fed him, and later that afternoon they gave him a bath in
Stephen’s bathroom. The result of that bath, which was disconcerting
as far as the room went, they left to Adèle. The room was a bog, but
Mary’s rescue had emerged a mass of chocolate ringlets, all save his
charming plush-covered face, and his curious tail, which was curved
like a sickle. Then they bound the sore pad and took him downstairs;
after which Mary wanted to know all about him, so Stephen unearthed
an illustrated dog book from a cupboard under the study bookcase.
‘Oh, look!’ exclaimed Mary, reading over her shoulder, ‘He’s not
Irish at all, he’s really a Welshman: “We find in the Welsh laws of
Howell Dda the first reference to this intelligent spaniel. The Iberians
brought the breed to Ireland. . . .” Of course, that’s why he followed me
home; he knew I was Welsh the moment he saw me!’
Stephen laughed: ‘Yes, his hair grows up from a peak like yours—it
must be a national failing. Well, what shall we call him? His name’s
important; it ought to be quite short.’
‘David,’ said Mary.
The dog looked gravely from one to the other for a moment, then
he lay down at Mary’s feet, dropping his chin on his bandaged paw,
and closing his eyes with a grunt of contentment. And so it had
suddenly come to pass that they who had lately been two, were now
three. There were Stephen and Mary—there was also David.
CHAPTER 42
T hat October there arose the first dark cloud. It drifted over to Paris
from England, for Anna wrote asking Stephen to Morton but with
never a mention of Mary Llewellyn. Not that she ever did mention their
friendship in her letters, indeed she completely ignored it; yet this
invitation which excluded the girl seemed to Stephen an intentional
slight upon Mary. A hot flush of anger spread up to her brow as she
read and re-read her mother’s brief letter:
‘I want to discuss some important points regarding the
management of the estate. As the place will eventually come to you, I
think we should try to keep more in touch. . . .’ Then a list of the points
Anna wished to discuss; they seemed very trifling indeed to Stephen.
She put the letter away in a drawer and sat staring darkly out of the
window. In the garden Mary was talking to David, persuading him not
to retrieve the pigeons.
‘If my mother had invited her ten times over I’d never have taken
her to Morton,’ Stephen muttered.
Oh, but she knew, and only too well, what it would mean should
they be there together; the lies, the despicable subterfuges, as though
they were little less than criminals. It would be: ‘Mary, don’t hang about
my bedroom—be careful . . . of course while we’re here at Morton . . .
it’s my mother, she can’t understand these things; to her they would
seem an outrage, an insult. . . .’ And then the guard set upon eyes and
lips; the feeling of guilt at so much as a hand-touch; the pretence of a
careless, quite usual friendship—‘Mary, don’t look at me as though you
cared! you did this evening—remember my mother.’
Intolerable quagmire of lies and deceit! The degrading of all that to
them was sacred—a very gross degrading of love, and through love a
gross degrading of Mary. Mary . . . so loyal and as yet so gallant, but
so pitifully untried in the war of existence. Warned only by words, the
words of a lover, and what were mere words when it came to actions?
And the ageing woman with the far-away eyes, eyes that could yet be
so cruel, so accusing—they might turn and rest with repugnance on
Mary, even as once they had rested on Stephen: ‘I would rather see
you dead at my feet. . . .’ A fearful saying, and yet she had meant it,
that ageing woman with the far-away eyes—she had uttered it
knowing herself to be a mother. But that at least should be hidden from
Mary.
She began to consider the ageing woman who had scourged her
but whom she had so deeply wounded, and as she did so the depth of
that wound made her shrink in spite of her bitter anger, so that
gradually the anger gave way to a slow and almost reluctant pity. Poor,
ignorant, blind, unreasoning woman; herself a victim, having given her
body for Nature’s most inexplicable whim. Yes, there had been two
victims already—must there now be a third—and that one Mary? She
trembled. At that moment she could not face it, she was weak, she
was utterly undone by loving. Greedy she had grown for happiness, for
the joys and the peace that their union had brought her. She would try
to minimize the whole thing; she would say: ‘It will only be for ten days;
I must just run over about this business,’ then Mary would probably
think it quite natural that she had not been invited to Morton and would
ask no questions—she never asked questions. But would Mary think
such a slight was quite natural? Fear possessed her; she sat there
terribly afraid of this cloud that had suddenly risen to menace—afraid
yet determined not to submit, not to let it gain power through her own
acquiescence.
There was only one weapon to keep it at bay. Getting up she
opened the window: ‘Mary!’
All unconscious the girl hurried in with David: ‘Did you call?’
‘Yes—come close. Closer . . . closer, sweetheart. . . .’
2
Shaken and very greatly humbled, Mary had let Stephen go from her
to Morton. She had not been deceived by Stephen’s glib words, and
had now no illusions regarding Anna Gordon. Lady Anna, suspecting
the truth about them, had not wished to meet her. It was all quite clear,
cruelly clear if it came to that matter—but these thoughts she had
mercifully hidden from Stephen.
She had seen Stephen off at the station with a smile: ‘I’ll write
every day. Do put on your coat, darling; you don’t want to arrive at
Morton with a chill. And mind you wire when you get to Dover.’
Yet now as she sat in the empty study, she must bury her face and
cry a little because she was here and Stephen in England . . . and then
of course, this was their first real parting.
David sat watching with luminous eyes in which were reflected her
secret troubles; then he got up and planted a paw on the book, for he
thought it high time to have done with this reading. He lacked the
language that Raftery had known—the language of many small
sounds and small movements—a clumsy and inarticulate fellow he
was, but unrestrainedly loving. He nearly broke his own heart between
love and the deep gratitude which he felt for Mary. At the moment he
wanted to lay back his ears and howl with despair to see her unhappy.
He wanted to make an enormous noise, the kind of noise wild folk
make in the jungle—lions and tigers and other wild folk that David had
heard about from his mother—his mother had been in Africa once a
long time ago, with an old French colonel. But instead he abruptly
licked Mary’s cheek—it tasted peculiar, he thought, like sea water.
‘Do you want a walk, David?’ she asked him gently.
And as well as he could, David nodded his head by wagging his tail
which was shaped like a sickle. Then he capered, thumping the
ground with his paws; after which he barked twice in an effort to
amuse her, for such things had seemed funny to her in the past,
although now she appeared not to notice his capers. However, she
had put on her hat and coat; so, still barking, he followed her through
the courtyard.
They wandered along the Quai Voltaire, Mary pausing to look at
the misty river.
‘Shall I dive in and bring you a rat?’ inquired David by lunging wildly
backwards and forwards.
She shook her head. ‘Do stop, David; be good!’ Then she sighed
again and stared at the river; so David stared too, but he stared at
Mary.
Quite suddenly Paris had lost its charm for her. After all, what was
it? Just a big, foreign city—a city that belonged to a stranger people
who cared nothing for Stephen and nothing for Mary. They were exiles.
She turned the word over in her mind—exiles; it sounded unwanted,
lonely. But why had Stephen become an exile? Why had she exiled
herself from Morton? Strange that she, Mary, had never asked her—
had never wanted to until this moment.
She walked on not caring very much where she went. It grew dusk,
and the dusk brought with it great longing—the longing to see, to hear,
to touch—almost a physical pain it was, this longing to feel the
nearness of Stephen. But Stephen had left her to go to Morton . . .
Morton, that was surely Stephen’s real home, and in that real home
there was no place for Mary.
She was not resentful. She did not condemn either the world, or
herself, or Stephen. Hers was no mind to wrestle with problems, to
demand either justice or explanation; she only knew that her heart felt
bruised so that all manner of little things hurt her. It hurt her to think of
Stephen surrounded by objects that she had never seen—tables,
chairs, pictures, all old friends of Stephen’s, all dear and familiar, yet
strangers to Mary. It hurt her to think of the unknown bedroom in which
Stephen had slept since the days of her childhood; of the unknown
schoolroom where Stephen had worked; of the stables, the lakes and
the gardens of Morton. It hurt her to think of the two unknown women
who must now be awaiting Stephen’s arrival—Puddle, whom Stephen
loved and respected; Lady Anna, of whom she spoke very seldom,
and who, Mary felt, could never have loved her. And it came upon
Mary with a little shock that a long span of Stephen’s life was hidden;
years and years of that life had come and gone before they two had
finally found each other. How could she hope to link up with a past that
belonged to a home which she might not enter? Then, being a woman,
she suddenly ached for the quiet, pleasant things that a home will
stand for—security, peace, respect and honour, the kindness of
parents, the good-will of neighbours; happiness that can be shared
with friends, love that is proud to proclaim its existence. All that
Stephen most craved for the creature she loved, that creature must
now quite suddenly ache for.
And as though some mysterious cord stretched between them,
Stephen’s heart was troubled at that very moment; intolerably troubled
because of Morton, the real home which might not be shared with
Mary. Ashamed because of shame laid on another, compassionate
and suffering because of her compassion, she was thinking of the girl
left alone in Paris—the girl who should have come with her to England,
who should have been welcomed and honoured at Morton. Then she
suddenly remembered some words from the past, very terrible words:
‘Could you marry me, Stephen?’
Mary turned and walked back to the Rue Jacob. Disheartened and
anxious, David lagged beside her. He had done all he could to distract
her mind from whatever it was that lay heavy upon it. He had made a
pretence of chasing a pigeon, he had barked himself hoarse at a
terrified beggar, he had brought her a stick and implored her to throw
it, he had caught at her skirt and tugged it politely; in the end he had
nearly got run over by a taxi in his desperate efforts to gain her
attention. This last attempt had certainly roused her: she had put on
his lead—poor, misunderstood David.
Mary went into Stephen’s study and sat down at the spacious writing-
table, for now all of a sudden she had only one ache, and that was the
ache of her love for Stephen. And because of her love she wished to
comfort, since in every fond woman there is much of the mother. That
letter was full of many things which a less privileged pen had best left
unwritten—loyalty, faith, consolation, devotion; all this and much more
she wrote to Stephen. As she sat there, her heart seemed to swell
within her as though in response to some mighty challenge.
Thus it was that Mary met and defeated the world’s first tentative
onslaught upon them.
CHAPTER 43
2
They soon settled down to their more prosaic days very much as quite
ordinary people will do. Each of them now had her separate tasks—
Stephen her writing, and Mary the household, the paying of bills, the
filing of receipts, the answering of unimportant letters. But for her there
were long hours of idleness, since Pauline and Pierre were almost too
perfect—they would smile and manage the house their own way,
which it must be admitted was better than Mary’s. As for the letters,
there were not very many; and as for the bills, there was plenty of
money—being spared the struggle to make two ends meet, she was
also deprived of the innocent pleasure of scheming to provide little
happy surprises, little extra comforts for the person she loved, which in
youth can add a real zest to existence. Then Stephen had found her
typing too slow, so was sending the work to a woman in Passy;
obsessed by a longing to finish her book, she would tolerate neither let
nor hindrance. And because of their curious isolation, there were times
when Mary would feel very lonely. For whom did she know? She had
no friends in Paris except the kind Mademoiselle Duphot and Julie.
Once a week, it is true, she could go and see Buisson, for Stephen
continued to keep up her fencing; and occasionally Brockett would
come strolling in, but his interest was centred entirely in Stephen; if
she should be working, as was often the case, he would not waste
very much time over Mary.
Stephen often called her into the study, comforted by the girl’s
loving presence. ‘Come and sit with me, sweetheart, I like you in here.’
But quite soon she would seem to forget all about her. ‘What . . .
what?’ she would mutter, frowning a little. ‘Don’t speak to me just for a
minute, Mary. Go and have your luncheon, there’s a good child; I’ll
come when I’ve finished this bit—you go on!’ But Mary’s meal might be
eaten alone; for meals had become an annoyance to Stephen.
Of course there was David, the grateful, the devoted. Mary could
always talk to David, but since he could never answer her back the
conversation was very one-sided. Then too, he was making it obvious
that he, in his turn, was missing Stephen; he would hang around
looking discontented when she failed to go out after frequent
suggestions. For although his heart was faithful to Mary, the gentle
dispenser of all salvation, yet the instinct that has dwelt in the soul of
the male, perhaps ever since Adam left the Garden of Eden, the
instinct that displays itself in club windows and in other such places of
male segregation, would make him long for the companionable walks
that had sometimes been taken apart from Mary. Above all would it
make him long intensely for Stephen’s strong hands and purposeful
ways; for that queer, intangible something about her that appealed to
the canine manhood in him. She always allowed him to look after
himself, without fussing; in a word, she seemed restful to David.
Mary, slipping noiselessly out of the study, might whisper: ‘We’ll go
to the Tuileries Gardens.’
But when they arrived there, what was there to do? For of course a
dog must not dive after goldfish—David understood this; there were
goldfish at home—he must not start splashing about in ponds that had
tiresome stone rims and ridiculous fountains. He and Mary would
wander along gravel paths, among people who stared at and made fun
of David: ‘Quel drôle de chien, mais regardez sa queue!’ They were
like that, these French; they had laughed at his mother. She had told
him never so much as to say: ‘Wouf!’ For what did they matter? Still, it
was disconcerting. And although he had lived in France all his life—
having indeed known no other country—as he walked in the stately
Tuileries Gardens, the Celt in his blood would conjure up visions: great
beetling mountains with winding courses down which the torrents went
roaring in winter; the earth smell, the dew smell, the smell of wild
things which a dog might hunt and yet remain lawful—for of all this and
more had his old mother told him. These visions it was that had led
him astray, that had treacherously led him half starving to Paris; and
that, sometimes, even in these placid days, would come back as he
walked in the Tuileries Gardens. But now his heart must thrust them
aside—a captive he was now, through love of Mary.
But to Mary there would come one vision alone, that of a garden at
Orotava; a garden lighted by luminous darkness, and filled with the
restless rhythm of singing.
The autumn passed, giving place to the winter, with its short, dreary
days of mist and rain. There was now little beauty left in Paris. A grey
sky hung above the old streets of the Quarter, a sky which no longer
looked bright by contrast, as though seen at the end of a tunnel.
Stephen was working like some one possessed, entirely re-writing her
pre-war novel. Good it had been, but not good enough, for she now
saw life from a much wider angle; and moreover, she was writing this
book for Mary. Remembering Mary, remembering Morton, her pen
covered sheet after sheet of paper; she wrote with the speed of true
inspiration, and at times her work brushed the hem of greatness. She
did not entirely neglect the girl for whose sake she was making this
mighty effort—that she could not have done even had she wished to,
since love was the actual source of her effort. But quite soon there
were days when she would not go out, or if she did go, when she
seemed abstracted, so that Mary must ask her the same question
twice—then as likely as not get a nebulous answer. And soon there
were days when all that she did apart from her writing was done with
an effort, with an obvious effort to be considerate.
‘Would you like to go to a play one night, Mary?’
If Mary said yes, and procured the tickets, they were usually late,
because of Stephen who had worked right up to the very last minute.
Sometimes there were poignant if small disappointments when
Stephen had failed to keep a promise. ‘Listen, Mary darling—will you
ever forgive me if I don’t come with you about those furs? I’ve a bit of
work here I simply must finish. You do understand?’
‘Yes, of course I do.’ But Mary, left to choose her new furs alone,
had quite suddenly felt that she did not want them.
And this sort of thing happened fairly often.
If only Stephen had confided in her, had said: ‘I’m trying to build
you a refuge; remember what I told you in Orotava!’ But no, she
shrank from reminding the girl of the gloom that surrounded their small
patch of sunshine. If only she had shown a little more patience with
Mary’s careful if rather slow typing, and so given her a real occupation
—but no, she must send the work off to Passy, because the sooner
this book was finished the better it would be for Mary’s future. And
thus, blinded by love and her desire to protect the woman she loved,
she erred towards Mary.
When she had finished her writing for the day, she frequently read
it aloud in the evening. And although Mary knew that the writing was
fine, yet her thoughts would stray from the book to Stephen. The deep,
husky voice would read on and on, having in it something urgent,
appealing, so that Mary must suddenly kiss Stephen’s hand, or the
scar on her cheek, because of that voice far more than because of
what it was reading.
And now there were times when, serving two masters, her passion
for this girl and her will to protect her, Stephen would be torn by
conflicting desires, by opposing mental and physical emotions. She
would want to save herself for her work; she would want to give herself
wholly to Mary.
Yet quite often she would work far into the night. ‘I’m going to be
late—you go to bed, sweetheart.’
And when she herself had at last toiled upstairs, she would steal
like a thief past Mary’s bedroom, although Mary would nearly always
hear her.
‘Is that you, Stephen?’
‘Yes. Why aren’t you asleep? Do you realize that it’s three in the
morning?’
‘Is it? You’re not angry, are you, darling? I kept thinking of you
alone in the study. Come here and say you’re not angry with me, even
if it is three o’clock in the morning!’
Then Stephen would slip off her old tweed coat and would fling
herself down on the bed beside Mary, too exhausted to do more than
take the girl in her arms, and let her lie there with her head on her
shoulder.
But Mary would be thinking of all those things which she found so
deeply appealing in Stephen—the scar on her cheek, the expression
in her eyes, the strength and the queer, shy gentleness of her—the
strength which at moments could not be gentle. And as they lay there
Stephen might sleep, worn out by the strain of those long hours of
writing. But Mary would not sleep, or if she slept it would be when the
dawn was paling the windows.
4
One morning Stephen looked at Mary intently. ‘Come here. You’re not
well! What’s the matter? Tell me.’ For she thought that the girl was
unusually pale, thought too that her lips drooped a little at the corners;
and a sudden fear contracted her heart. ‘Tell me at once what’s the
matter with you!’ Her voice was rough with anxiety, and she laid an
imperative hand over Mary’s.
Mary protested. ‘Don’t be absurd; there’s nothing the matter, I’m
perfectly well—you’re imagining things.’ For what could be the matter?
Was she not here in Paris with Stephen? But her eyes filled with tears,
and she turned away quickly to hide them, ashamed of her own
unreason.
Stephen stuck to her point. ‘You don’t look a bit well. We shouldn’t
have stayed in Paris last summer.’ Then because her own nerves
were on edge that day, she frowned. ‘It’s this business of your not
eating whenever I can’t get in to a meal. I know you don’t eat—Pierre’s
told me about it. You mustn’t behave like a baby, Mary! I shan’t be able
to write a line if I feel you’re ill because you’re not eating.’ Her fear was
making her lose her temper. ‘I shall send for a doctor,’ she finished
brusquely.
Mary refused point-blank to see a doctor. What was she to tell him?
She hadn’t any symptoms. Pierre exaggerated. She ate quite enough
—she had never been a very large eater. Stephen had better get on
with her work and stop upsetting herself over nothing.
But try as she might, Stephen could not get on—all the rest of the
day her work went badly.
After this she would often leave her desk and go wandering off in
search of Mary. ‘Darling, where are you?’
‘Upstairs in my bedroom!’
‘Well, come down; I want you here in the study.’ And when Mary
had settled herself by the fire: ‘Now tell me exactly how you feel—all
right?’
And Mary would answer, smiling: ‘Yes, I’m quite all right; I swear I
am, Stephen!’
It was not an ideal atmosphere for work, but the book was by now
so well advanced that nothing short of a disaster could have stopped it
—it was one of those books that intend to get born, and that go on
maturing in spite of their authors. Nor was there anything really
alarming about the condition of Mary’s health. She did not look very
well, that was all; and at times she seemed a little downhearted, so
that Stephen must snatch a few hours from her work in order that they
might go out together. Perhaps they would lunch at a restaurant; or
drive into the country, to the rapture of David; or just wander about the
streets arm in arm as they had done when first they had returned to
Paris. And Mary, because she would be feeling happy, would revive for
these few hours as though by magic. Yet when she must once more
find herself lonely, with nowhere to go and no one to talk to, because
Stephen was back again at her desk, why then she would wilt, which
was not unnatural considering her youth and her situation.