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Variational Calculus with Engineering Applications
Variational Calculus with Engineering
Applications

Constantin Udriste and Ionel Tevy

This edition first published 2023
© 2023 John Wiley & Sons Ltd

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 v

Contents

Preface ix

1 Extrema of Differentiable Functionals 1

1.1 Differentiable Functionals 1
1.2 Extrema of Differentiable Functionals 6
1.3 Second Variation; Sufficient Conditions for Extremum 14
1.4 Optimum with Constraints; the Principle of Reciprocity 17
1.4.1 Isoperimetric Problems 18
1.4.2 The Reciprocity Principle 19
1.4.3 Constrained Extrema: The Lagrange Problem 19
1.5 Maple Application Topics 21

2 Variational Principles 23
2.1 Problems with Natural Conditions at the Boundary 23
2.2 Sufficiency by the Legendre-Jacobi Test 27
2.3 Unitemporal Lagrangian Dynamics 30
2.3.1 Null Lagrangians 31
2.3.2 Invexity Test 32
2.4 Lavrentiev Phenomenon 33
2.5 Unitemporal Hamiltonian Dynamics 35
2.6 Particular Euler–Lagrange ODEs 37
2.7 Multitemporal Lagrangian Dynamics 38
2.7.1 The Case of Multiple Integral Functionals 38
2.7.2 Invexity Test 40
2.7.3 The Case of Path-Independent Curvilinear Integral Functionals 41
2.7.4 Invexity Test 44
2.8 Multitemporal Hamiltonian Dynamics 45
2.9 Particular Euler–Lagrange PDEs 47
2.10 Maple Application Topics 48
vi Contents

3 Optimal Models Based on Energies 53

3.1 Brachistochrone Problem 53
3.2 Ropes, Chains and Cables 55
3.3 Newton’s Aerodynamic Problem 56
3.4 Pendulums 59
3.4.1 Plane Pendulum 59
3.4.2 Spherical Pendulum 60
3.4.3 Variable Length Pendulum 61
3.5 Soap Bubbles 62
3.6 Elastic Beam 63
3.7 The ODE of an Evolutionary Microstructure 63
3.8 The Evolution of a Multi-Particle System 64
3.8.1 Conservation of Linear Momentum 65
3.8.2 Conservation of Angular Momentum 66
3.8.3 Energy Conservation 67
3.9 String Vibration 67
3.10 Membrane Vibration 70
3.11 The Schrödinger Equation in Quantum Mechanics 73
3.11.1 Quantum Harmonic Oscillator 73
3.12 Maple Application Topics 74

4 Variational Integrators 79
4.1 Discrete Single-time Lagrangian Dynamics 79
4.2 Discrete Hamilton’s Equations 84
4.3 Numeric Newton’s Aerodynamic Problem 87
4.4 Discrete Multi-time Lagrangian Dynamics 88
4.5 Numerical Study of the Vibrating String Motion 92
4.5.1 Initial Conditions for Infinite String 94
4.5.2 Finite String, Fixed at the Ends 95
4.5.3 Monomial (Soliton) Solutions 96
4.5.4 More About Recurrence Relations 100
4.5.5 Solution by Maple via Eigenvalues 101
4.5.6 Solution by Maple via Matrix Techniques 102
4.6 Numerical Study of the Vibrating Membrane Motion 104
4.6.1 Monomial (Soliton) Solutions 105
4.6.2 Initial and Boundary Conditions 108
4.7 Linearization of Nonlinear ODEs and PDEs 109
4.8 Von Neumann Analysis of Linearized Discrete Tzitzeica PDE 113
4.8.1 Von Neumann Analysis of Dual Variational Integrator Equation 115
4.8.2 Von Neumann Analysis of Linearized Discrete Tzitzeica Equation 116
4.9 Maple Application Topics 119

5 Miscellaneous Topics 123

5.1 Magnetic Levitation 123
5.1.1 Electric Subsystem 123
 Contents vii

5.1.2 Electromechanic Subsystem 124

5.1.3 State Nonlinear Model 124
5.1.4 The Linearized Model of States 125
5.2 The Problem of Sensors 125
5.2.1 Simplified Problem 126
5.2.2 Extending the Simplified Problem of Sensors 128
5.3 The Movement of a Particle in Non-stationary Gravito-vortex Field 128
5.4 Geometric Dynamics 129
5.4.1 Single-time Case 129
5.4.2 The Least Squares Lagrangian in Conditioning Problems 130
5.4.3 Multi-time Case 133
5.5 The Movement of Charged Particle in Electromagnetic Field 134
5.5.1 Unitemporal Geometric Dynamics Induced by Vector Potential A 135
5.5.2 Unitemporal Geometric Dynamics Produced by Magnetic Induction B 136
5.5.3 Unitemporal Geometric Dynamics Produced by Electric Field E 136
5.5.4 Potentials Associated to Electromagnetic Forms 137
5.5.5 Potential Associated to Electric 1-form E 138
5.5.6 Potential Associated to Magnetic 1-form H 138
5.5.7 Potential Associated to Potential 1-form A 138
5.6 Wind Theory and Geometric Dynamics 139
5.6.1 Pendular Geometric Dynamics and Pendular Wind 141
5.6.2 Lorenz Geometric Dynamics and Lorenz Wind 142
5.7 Maple Application Topics 143

6 Nonholonomic Constraints 147

6.1 Models With Holonomic and Nonholonomic Constraints 147
6.2 Rolling Cylinder as a Model with Holonomic Constraints 151
6.3 Rolling Disc (Unicycle) as a Model with Nonholonomic Constraint 152
6.3.1 Nonholonomic Geodesics 152
6.3.2 Geodesics in Sleigh Problem 155
6.3.3 Unicycle Dynamics 156
6.4 Nonholonomic Constraints to the Car as a Four-wheeled Robot 157
6.5 Nonholonomic Constraints to the N-trailer 158
6.6 Famous Lagrangians 160
6.7 Significant Problems 160
6.8 Maple Application Topics 163

7 Problems: Free and Constrained Extremals 165

7.1 Simple Integral Functionals 165
7.2 Curvilinear Integral Functionals 169
7.3 Multiple Integral Functionals 171
7.4 Lagrange Multiplier Details 174
viii Contents

7.5 Simple Integral Functionals with ODE Constraints 175

7.6 Simple Integral Functionals with Nonholonomic Constraints 181
7.7 Simple Integral Functionals with Isoperimetric Constraints 184
7.8 Multiple Integral Functionals with PDE Constraints 186
7.9 Multiple Integral Functionals With Nonholonomic Constraints 188
7.10 Multiple Integral Functionals With Isoperimetric Constraints 189
7.11 Curvilinear Integral Functionals With PDE Constraints 191
7.12 Curvilinear Integral Functionals With Nonholonomic Constraints 193
7.13 Curvilinear Integral Functionals with Isoperimetric Constraints 195
7.14 Maple Application Topics 197

Bibliography 203
Index 209
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 ix

Preface

The Variational Calculus with Engineering Applications was and is being taught to
fourth-year engineering students, in the Faculty of Applied Sciences, Mathematics - Infor-
matics Department, from the University Politehnica of Bucharest, by Prof. Emeritus Dr.
Constantin Udriste. Certain topics are taught at other faculties of our university, espe-
cially as master’s or doctoral courses, being present in the papers that can be published
in journals now categorized as “ISI”.
The chapters were structured according to the importance, accessibility, and impact of
the theoretical notions able to outline a future specialist based on mathematical optimiza-
tion tools. The probing and intermediate variants lasted for a number of sixteen years,
leading to the selection of the most important manageable notions and reaching maturity
through this variant that we decided to publish at Wiley.
Now the topics of the book include seven chapters: Extrema of Differentiable Function-
als; Variational Principles; Optimal Models Based on Energies; Variational Integrators;
Miscellaneous Topics; Extremals with Nonholonomic Constraints; Problems: Free and
Constrained Extremals. To cover modern problem-solving methods, each chapter includes
Maple application topics. The scientific authority we have as professors in technical uni-
versity has allowed us to impose our point of view on the subject and on the types of
reasoning that deserve to be offered to readers of variational calculus texts. Everything
has been structured for the benefit of functional optimization that describes significant
physical or engineering phenomena. To unlock the students’ minds we preferred a simpli-
fied language, specific to applied mathematics, sending readers of pure mathematics to the
bibliography. Long experience as mathematics teachers in technical universities has pre-
pared us to fluently expose ideas undressed by excessive formalizations, with great impact
on the students’ understanding of the natural phenomena encountered in engineering and
economics as well as their dressing in mathematical clothing. In this sense, we preferred
mathematical modeling as a scientific support for intelligent presentation of the real world
and we avoided the hint of abstract notions specific to pure mathematics.
Topics that distinguish this book from existing books include: Maple application top-
ics, invexity tests, case of path-independent curvilinear integral functionals, variational
integrators, discretization of Hamilton ODEs, numerical study of vibrating string motion,
numerical study of vibrating membrane motion, linearization of nonlinear ODEs and
x Preface

PDEs, geometric dynamics and wind, extremals with nonholonomic constraints, free and
constrained extremals. In fact, this is the first book that studies the curvilinear integral
functionals at the level of student courses. The novelty issues were finalized following
repeated discussions with the professors from our faculty and from Faculty of Mathematics
in West University of Timisoara, especially with those interested in functional optimiza-
tion, to whom we bring thanks and thoughts of appreciation. We are open to any comments
or criticisms which bring didactic benefits for variational calculus theories.
The mottos are stanzas from two poems by Tudor Arghezi (1880–1967), a Romanian
writer, known for his contribution to the development of Romanian lyric poetry under
the influence of Baudelaireanism. His poetic work, of exemplary originality, represents
another significant age of Romanian literature.
Born in Bucharest of peasant stock, Tudor Arghezi was awarded Romania’s National
Poetry Prize in 1946 and the State Prize for Poetry in 1956.
The authors thank Associate Prof. Dr. Oana-Maria Pastae, “Constantin Brancusi”
University of Tg-Jiu, for the English improvement of the manuscript. We are indebted to
Prof. Dr. Dumitru Opris from the West University of Timisoara for the solutions offered to
some discretization problems.

Bucharest, April 2022

 1

Extrema of Differentiable Functionals

Motto:
“I wrote them with my nail on the plaster
On a wall of empty cracks,
In the dark, in my solitude,
Unaided by the bull lion vulture
of Luke, Mark and John.”
Tudor Arghezi – Flowers of Mildew

Variational calculus aims to generalize the constructions of classical analysis, to solve extrema
problems for functionals. In this introductory chapter, we will study the problem of differen-
tiable functionals defined on various classes of functions. The news refers to path integral
functionals. For details, see [4, 6, 7, 8, 14, 18, 21, 30, 58].

1.1 Differentiable Functionals

Let us consider the point 𝑥 = (𝑥1 , 𝑥 2 , ..., 𝑥 𝑛 ) and the function 𝑓 ∶ 𝐷 ⊂ R𝑛 → R, 𝑥 ↦ 𝑓(𝑥).
If this function has continuous partial derivatives with respect to each of the variables
𝑥1 , 𝑥 2 , ..., 𝑥 𝑛 , then increasing the argument with ℎ = (ℎ1 , ℎ2 , ..., ℎ𝑛 ) produces
𝑛
∑ 𝜕𝑓
𝑓(𝑥 + ℎ) − 𝑓(𝑥) = (𝑥) ℎ𝑗 + 𝑟(𝑥, ℎ).
𝑗=1
𝜕𝑥 𝑗

The first term on the right-hand side represents the differential of the function 𝑓 at the
point 𝑥, a linear form of argument growth, the vector ℎ; the second term is the deviation
from the linear approximation and is small in relation to ℎ, in the sense that
𝑟(𝑥, ℎ)
lim = 0.
ℎ→0 ‖ℎ‖
Let 𝐔, 𝐕 be two normed vector spaces. The previous definition can be extended imme-
diately to the case of functions 𝑓 ∶ 𝐷 ⊂ 𝐔 → 𝐕. If 𝐔 is a space of functions, and 𝐕 = R,
then instead of function we use the term functional.

Variational Calculus with Engineering Applications, First Edition. Constantin Udriste and Ionel Tevy.
© 2023 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2023 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.
2 1 Extrema of Differentiable Functionals

Definition 1.1: The function 𝑓 is called differentiable at a point 𝑥 ∈ 𝐷 if there exist a

linear and continuous operator 𝐝𝑓(𝑥, ⋅) and a continuous function 𝑟(𝑥, ⋅) such that for
any vector ℎ ∈ 𝐔 to have
10 𝑓(𝑥 + ℎ) − 𝑓(𝑥) = 𝐝𝑓(𝑥, ℎ) + 𝑟(𝑥, ℎ),

𝑟(𝑥, ℎ)
20 lim = 0.
ℎ→0 ‖ℎ‖

The linear continuous operator 𝐝𝑓(𝑥, ⋅) is called the derivative of the function 𝑓 at given
point 𝑥.
For a given nonzero vector ℎ ∈ 𝐔 and 𝑡 > 0, the vector
𝑓(𝑥 + 𝑡ℎ) − 𝑓(𝑥)
𝛿(𝑥, ℎ) = lim ∈ 𝐕,
𝑡→0 𝑡
if the limit exists, is called the variation or derivative of the function 𝑓 at the point 𝑥 along
the direction ℎ.
A differentiable function of real variables has a derivative along any direction. The prop-
erty is also kept for functions between normed vector spaces. Specifically, the next one
takes place:

Proposition 1.1: If the function 𝑓 ∶ 𝐷 ⊂ 𝐔 → 𝐕 is differentiable at the point 𝑥 ∈ 𝐷, then

for any nonzero vector ℎ ∈ 𝐔 the function 𝑓(𝑥 + 𝑡ℎ), of real variable 𝑡 ≥ 0, is derivable with
respect to 𝑡, for 𝑡 = 0 and
𝑑𝑓 |
(𝑥 + 𝑡ℎ)||| = 𝛿𝑓(𝑥, ℎ) = 𝐝𝑓(𝑥, ℎ).
𝑑𝑡 |𝑡=0

Proof. The derivative sought is obviously 𝛿𝑓(𝑥, ℎ) and then

𝑑𝑓 | 𝑓(𝑥 + 𝑡ℎ) − 𝑓(𝑥)
(𝑥 + 𝑡ℎ)||| = 𝛿𝑓(𝑥, ℎ) = lim
𝑑𝑡 |𝑡=0 𝑡→0 𝑡

𝐝𝑓(𝑥, 𝑡ℎ) + 𝑟(𝑥, 𝑡ℎ) 𝑡𝐝𝑓(𝑥, ℎ) + 𝑟(𝑥, 𝑡ℎ)

= lim = lim
𝑡→0 𝑡 𝑡→0 𝑡

𝑟(𝑥, 𝑡ℎ)
= 𝐝𝑓(𝑥, ℎ) + lim ‖ℎ‖ = 𝐝𝑓(𝑥, ℎ).
𝑡ℎ→0 ‖𝑡ℎ‖

Example 1.1: Any linear continuous operator 𝑇 ∶ 𝐔 → 𝐕 is, obviously, a differentiable

function at any point 𝑥 and 𝛿𝑇(𝑥, ℎ) = 𝐝𝑇(𝑥, ℎ) = 𝑇(ℎ) since

𝑇(𝑥 + ℎ) − 𝑇(𝑥) = 𝑇(ℎ).

Let 𝑓 be a functional. The simplest examples of functionals are given by formulas: (i)
evaluation functional (“application of a function on the value at a point”), 𝑓 ↦ 𝑓(𝑥0 ),
 1.1 Differentiable Functionals 3

where 𝑥0 is a fixed point; (ii) definite integration (functional defined by definite integral);
(iii) numerical quadrature defined by definite integration:
𝑏
𝐼(𝑓) = 𝑎0 𝑓(𝑥0 ) + 𝑎1 𝑓(𝑥1 ) + ... + 𝑎𝑛 𝑓(𝑥𝑛 ) = ∫ 𝑓(𝑥)𝑑𝑥, ∀𝑓 ∈ 𝑃𝑛 ,
𝑎

where 𝑃𝑛 means the set of all polynomials of degree at most 𝑛; and (iv) distributions in
analysis (as linear functionals defined on spaces of test functions). We will continue to
deal with definite integral type functionals, as the reasoning is more favorable to us.

Example 1.2: Let us consider the functional

𝑏
𝐽(𝑥(⋅)) = ∫ 𝐿(𝑡, 𝑥(𝑡))𝑑𝑡,
𝑎

defined on the space 𝐶 0 [𝑎, 𝑏] of the continuous functions on the segment [𝑎, 𝑏], endowed
with the norm of uniform convergence. The Lagrangian of the functional (i.e., the function
𝐿(𝑡, 𝑥)) is presumed continuous and with continuous partial derivatives of the first order in
the domain 𝑎 ≤ 𝑡 ≤ 𝑏, −∞ < 𝑥 < +∞.
Let us determine the variation of the functional 𝐽(𝑥(⋅)) when the argument 𝑥(𝑡) increases
with ℎ(𝑡):
𝑏
△𝐽(𝑥(⋅)) = 𝐽(𝑥 + ℎ) − 𝐽(𝑥) = ∫ [𝐿(𝑡, 𝑥(𝑡) + ℎ(𝑡)) − 𝐿(𝑡, 𝑥(𝑡))]𝑑𝑡.
𝑎

Since the Lagrangian 𝐿 is a differentiable function, we have

𝜕𝐿
𝐿(𝑡, 𝑥 + ℎ) − 𝐿(𝑡, 𝑥) = ℎ + 𝑟(𝑡, 𝑥, ℎ),
𝜕𝑥
where
𝑟(𝑡, 𝑥, ℎ)
lim = 0.
ℎ→0 ℎ
Therefore
𝑏
𝜕𝐿(𝑡, 𝑥(𝑡))
𝛿𝐽(𝑥, ℎ) = ∫ ℎ(𝑡)𝑑𝑡.
𝑎 𝜕𝑥

In this way, according to the previous proposition and the derivation formula for integrals
with parameters, we find
𝑏
𝑑𝐽 | 𝑑 |
𝛿𝐽(𝑥, ℎ) = (𝑥 + 𝜀ℎ)||| = ∫ 𝐿(𝑡, 𝑥(𝑡) + 𝜀ℎ(𝑡))𝑑𝑡 |||
𝑑𝜀 |𝜀=0 𝑑𝜀 𝑎 |𝜀=0
𝑏
𝜕𝐿(𝑡, 𝑥(𝑡))
=∫ ℎ(𝑡)𝑑𝑡. (1)
𝑎 𝜕𝑥
4 1 Extrema of Differentiable Functionals

Example 1.3: Let us consider the functional

𝑏
𝐽(𝑥(⋅)) = ∫ 𝐿(𝑡, 𝑥(𝑡), 𝑥 ′ (𝑡))𝑑𝑡,
𝑎

defined on the space 𝐶 1 [𝑎, 𝑏] of functions with a continuous derivative on the segment [𝑎, 𝑏],
endowed with the norm of uniform convergence of derivatives. The Lagrangian 𝐿(𝑡, 𝑢, 𝑣) of the
functional is supposed to have first-order continuous partial derivatives. To write the integral
functional, we use in fact the pullback form 𝐿(𝑡, 𝑥(𝑡), 𝑥 ′ (𝑡)) of the Lagrangian.
Applying the derivation formula of the integrals with parameter we obtain
𝑑𝐽 |
𝛿𝐽(𝑥, ℎ) = (𝑥 + 𝜀ℎ)|||
𝑑𝜀 |𝜀=0
𝑏
𝑑 |
= ∫ 𝐿(𝑡, 𝑥(𝑡) + 𝜀ℎ(𝑡), 𝑥 ′ (𝑡) + 𝜀ℎ′ (𝑡))𝑑𝑡 |||
𝑑𝜀 𝑎 |𝜀=0
𝑏
𝜕𝐿 𝜕𝐿
=∫ [ (𝑡, 𝑥(𝑡), 𝑥 ′ (𝑡)) ℎ(𝑡) + ′ (𝑡, 𝑥(𝑡), 𝑥 ′ (𝑡)) ℎ′ (𝑡)] 𝑑𝑡. (2)
𝑎 𝜕𝑥 𝜕𝑥
Analogously, we can extend the result to the functional
𝑏
𝐽(𝑥(⋅)) = ∫ 𝐿(𝑡, 𝑥(𝑡), 𝑥 (1) (𝑡), ..., 𝑥 (𝑚) (𝑡)) 𝑑𝑡,
𝑎

defined on the space 𝐶 𝑚 [𝑎, 𝑏] of functions with continuous derivatives up to the order 𝑚
inclusive, on the segment [𝑎, 𝑏]. In this way we have
𝑏
𝜕𝐿 𝜕𝐿 (1) 𝜕𝐿 (𝑚)
𝛿𝐽(𝑥, ℎ) = ∫ [ ℎ(𝑡) + ℎ (𝑡) + ... + ℎ (𝑡)] 𝑑𝑡. (3)
𝑎 𝜕𝑥 𝜕𝑥 (1) 𝜕𝑥 (𝑚)

Example 1.4: Let us consider a functional which depends on several function variables, for
example
𝑏
𝐽(𝑥1 (⋅), ..., 𝑥 𝑛 (⋅)) = ∫ 𝐿(𝑡, 𝑥 1 (𝑡), ..., 𝑥 𝑛 (𝑡), 𝑥̇ 1 (𝑡), ..., 𝑥̇ 𝑛 (𝑡)) 𝑑𝑡,
𝑎

defined on the space (𝐶 1 [𝑎, 𝑏])𝑛 , whose elements are vector functions 𝑥(𝑡) =
(𝑥 1 (𝑡), ..., 𝑥 𝑛 (𝑡)), 𝑡 ∈ [𝑎, 𝑏], with the norm of uniform convergence of derivatives

‖𝑥‖ = max [|𝑥 1 (𝑡)|, ..., |𝑥𝑛 (𝑡)|, |𝑥̇ 1 (𝑡)|, ..., |𝑥̇ 𝑛 (𝑡)| ]
𝑡∈[𝑎,𝑏]

(𝑥̇ means the derivative with respect to 𝑡).

Supposing that the Lagrangian 𝐿 has continuous partial derivatives, denoting ℎ(𝑡) =
(ℎ1 (𝑡), ..., ℎ𝑛 (𝑡)), the variation of the functional 𝐽 is
𝑏
𝜕𝐿 𝑖 𝜕𝐿
𝛿𝐽(𝑥, ℎ) = ∫ [ ℎ (𝑡) + 𝑖 ℎ̇ 𝑖 (𝑡)] 𝑑𝑡, 𝑖 = 1, 𝑛 (4)
𝑎 𝜕𝑥 𝑖 𝜕 𝑥̇
(sum over the index 𝑖).
 1.1 Differentiable Functionals 5

Now, let us consider functionals whose arguments are functions of several real variables.

Example 1.5: Let Ω ⊂ R2 be a compact domain. As an example we will take, first, the
double integral functional

𝐽(𝑤(⋅)) = ∫ ∫ 𝐿(𝑥, 𝑦, 𝑤(𝑥, 𝑦), 𝑤𝑥 (𝑥, 𝑦), 𝑤𝑦 (𝑥, 𝑦)) 𝑑𝑥 𝑑𝑦,

Ω

where we noted for abbreviation

𝜕𝑤 𝜕𝑤
𝑤𝑥 = , 𝑤𝑦 = .
𝜕𝑥 𝜕𝑦

The functional is defined on the space 𝐶 1 (Ω) of all functions with continuous partial deriva-
tives; the norm of the space 𝐶 1 (Ω) is given by

‖𝑤‖ = max [ |𝑤(𝑥, 𝑦)|, |𝑤𝑥 (𝑥, 𝑦)|, |𝑤𝑦 (𝑥, 𝑦)| ].
(𝑥,𝑦)∈Ω

Supposing that the Lagrangian 𝐿 has continuous partial derivatives, the variation of the
functional 𝐽, as the argument 𝑤 grows with ℎ(𝑥, 𝑦), is

𝑑𝐽 |
𝛿𝐽(𝑤, ℎ) = (𝑤 + 𝜀ℎ)|||
𝑑𝜀 |𝜀=0
𝑑 |
= ∫ ∫ 𝐿(𝑥, 𝑦, 𝑤 + 𝜀ℎ, 𝑤𝑥 + 𝜀ℎ𝑥 , 𝑤𝑦 + 𝜀ℎ𝑦 ) 𝑑𝑥𝑑𝑦 |||
𝑑𝜀 Ω
|𝜀=0

𝜕𝐿 𝜕𝐿 𝜕𝐿
=∫ ∫ ( ℎ+ ℎ + ℎ ) 𝑑𝑥 𝑑𝑦. (5)
Ω 𝜕𝑤 𝜕𝑤𝑥 𝑥 𝜕𝑤𝑦 𝑦

Example 1.6: Another example is the curvilinear integral functional

𝐽(𝑤(⋅)) = ∫ [𝐿1 (𝑥, 𝑦, 𝑤(𝑥, 𝑦), 𝑤𝑥 (𝑥, 𝑦), 𝑤𝑦 (𝑥, 𝑦)) 𝑑𝑥

Γ

+ 𝐿2 (𝑥, 𝑦, 𝑤(𝑥, 𝑦), 𝑤𝑥 (𝑥, 𝑦), 𝑤𝑦 (𝑥, 𝑦)) 𝑑𝑦 ],

where Γ is a piecewise 𝐶 1 curve which joins two fixed points 𝐴, 𝐵 in a compact domain
Ω ⊂ R2 .
Suppose the argument 𝑤(𝑥, 𝑦) grows with ℎ(𝑥, 𝑦). Then the variation of the functional is

𝜕𝐿1 𝜕𝐿1 𝜕𝐿1

𝛿𝐽(𝑤, ℎ) = ∫ ( ℎ+ ℎ𝑥 + ℎ ) 𝑑𝑥
Γ 𝜕𝑤 𝜕𝑤𝑥 𝜕𝑤𝑦 𝑦

𝜕𝐿2 𝜕𝐿2 𝜕𝐿2

+( ℎ+ ℎ + ℎ ) 𝑑𝑦. (6)
𝜕𝑤 𝜕𝑤𝑥 𝑥 𝜕𝑤𝑦 𝑦
6 1 Extrema of Differentiable Functionals

1.2 Extrema of Differentiable Functionals

Let us consider the functional 𝐽 ∶ 𝐷 ⊂ 𝐔 → R, defined on a subset 𝐷 of a normed vector
space 𝐔 of functions. By definition, the functional 𝐽 has a (relative) minimum at the point
𝑥0 in 𝐷, if there exists a neighborhood 𝑉, of point 𝑥0 , such that

𝐽(𝑥0 ) ≤ 𝐽(𝑥), ∀𝑥 ∈ 𝑉 ∩ 𝐷.

If the point 𝑥0 has a neighborhood 𝑉 on which the opposite inequality takes place

𝐽(𝑥0 ) ≥ 𝐽(𝑥), ∀𝑥 ∈ 𝑉 ∩ 𝐷,

we say that 𝑥0 is a point of local maximum for the functional 𝐽. The minimum and
maximum points are called relative extrema points.
In classical analysis, the extrema points of a differentiable function are among the critical
points, that is, among the points that cancels first-order derivatives. A similar property
occurs in the case of functional ones on normed vector spaces of functions, only in this
case the extrema points are found between the extremals (critical points).

Proposition 1.2: If the function 𝑥 is an extremum point for the functional 𝐽, interior point
of the set 𝐷 and if 𝐽 is differentiable at this point, then 𝛿𝐽(𝑥, ℎ) = 0 for any growth ℎ.

Proof. Let ℎ be a growth of the argument 𝑥 (function); since 𝑥 is an interior point of the set
𝐷, the function 𝐽(𝑥 + 𝜀ℎ) of real variable 𝜀 is defined on hole interval [−1, 1]. This function
has an extremum point at 𝜀 = 0 and is derivable at this point. Then its derivative must
vanish at 𝜀 = 0. It follows
𝑑𝐽 |
𝛿𝐽(𝑥, ℎ) = (𝑥 + 𝑡ℎ)||| = 0.
𝑑𝑡 |𝑡=0

Any point 𝑥 at which the variation 𝛿𝐽(𝑥, ℎ) of the functional 𝐽 is canceled identically
with respect to ℎ is called either the stationary point or critical point or extremal of the
functional.
Hence, for establishing the extrema points of a functional, the variation 𝛿𝐽(𝑥, ℎ) must be
expressed, determine the critical points (those at which the variation is canceled identically
with respect to ℎ) and then choose from these the minimum points or the maximum points.
Commentary The variation 𝛿𝐽(𝑥, ℎ) of the functional 𝐽 is a continuous linear functional
on the normed vector space 𝐔 on which is defined 𝐽. The set 𝐔∗ of all continuous linear
functionals on 𝐔 is called dual space. Thus the evaluation of the variation of a functional
imposes the existence of some representation theorems for the dual space.
For example, for any linear functional 𝑇 ∶ R𝑛 → R there exists a vector 𝑎 = (𝑎1 , ..., 𝑎𝑛 ) ∈
R such that
𝑛

𝑇(ℎ) = 𝑎1 ℎ1 + ... + 𝑎𝑛 ℎ𝑛 = ⟨𝑎, ℎ⟩, ∀ℎ ∈ R𝑛 .

 1.2 Extrema of Differentiable Functionals 7

Also, any continuous and linear functional 𝑇 ∶ 𝐶 0 [𝑎, 𝑏] → R, on the space of continuous
functions, can be written in the form
𝑏
𝑇(ℎ) = ∫ ℎ(𝑡) 𝑑𝑔𝑇 (𝑡),
𝑎

where 𝑔𝑇 is a function with bounded variation and continuous at the right (F. Riesz’s
Theorem).
To determine the extrema points, we need the identical cancelation of the first variation.
For that we use

Lemma 1.1: (Fundamental lemma of variational calculus) Let 𝑥 be a real continu-

ous function on the interval [𝑎, 𝑏]. If for any continuous function ℎ, vanishing at 𝑎 and 𝑏, the
equality
𝑏
∫ 𝑥(𝑡)ℎ(𝑡)𝑑𝑡 = 0,
𝑎

is true, then 𝑥(𝑡) = 0, ∀𝑡 ∈ [𝑎, 𝑏].

Proof. Suppose there exists a point 𝑡0 ∈ [𝑎, 𝑏] at which 𝑥(𝑡0 ) ≠ 0. Let 𝑥(𝑡0 ) > 0. Then
there exists a neighborhood 𝑉 = (𝑡0 − 𝜀, 𝑡0 + 𝜀) of 𝑡0 where 𝑥(𝑡) > 0. Let us consider
a continuous function ℎ, strictly positive on the neighborhood 𝑉 and null outside it (for
example, ℎ(𝑡) = (𝑡 − 𝑡0 + 𝜀)(𝑡0 + 𝜀 − 𝑡) for 𝑡 ∈ 𝑉). Then
𝑏 𝑡0 +𝜀
∫ 𝑥(𝑡)ℎ(𝑡) 𝑑𝑡 = ∫ 𝑥(𝑡)ℎ(𝑡) 𝑑𝑡 > 0,
𝑎 𝑡0 −𝜀

which contradicts the hypothesis and concludes the proof of the lemma.

Remark 1.1: 1) For the set of continuous real functions 𝐶 0 [𝑎, 𝑏], the integral ⟨𝑥, 𝑦⟩ =
𝑏
∫ 𝑥(𝑡)ℎ(𝑡) 𝑑𝑡 is a scalar product. Consequently,
𝑎

𝑏
⟨𝑥, 𝑦⟩ = ∫ 𝑥(𝑡)ℎ(𝑡) 𝑑𝑡 = 0, ∀ℎ(𝑡)
𝑎

implies 𝑥(𝑡) = 0.
2) The set of functions ℎ you need for checking the equality in the lemma can often
be reduced. As can be seen from the proof of the fundamental lemma, we can impose
derivability conditions of any order to the functions ℎ and cancelation at the end of the
interval etc. It is essential that for any 𝑡 ∈ [𝑎, 𝑏] and any 𝜀 > 0 to exist, in the set of
test functions, a strictly positive function on the interval (𝑡0 − 𝜀, 𝑡0 + 𝜀) and null function
otherwise.
3) In a similar wording, the fundamental lemma of the variational calculus remains in
force for functions of several variables.
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8 1 Extrema of Differentiable Functionals

4) We can also see that in previous constructions it is sufficient that the functional 𝐽 be
defined on a linear variety (affine subspace) or at least on a convex set: with two points 𝑥
and 𝑥 + ℎ to be in the domain of 𝐽 all points of the form 𝑥 + 𝑡ℎ for any 𝑡 ∈ R or at least
𝑡 ∈ [−1, 1] too. Specifically, we can impose restrictions (conditions) on extrema points and
variations ℎ, but remaining in a linear variety.

Problem 1.2.1: a) Let 𝑥 be a 𝐶 𝑘 function on the interval [𝑎, 𝑏]. If for any ℎ ∈ 𝐶 𝑘 [𝑎, 𝑏],
null at 𝑎 and 𝑏, together with its first 𝑘 − 1 derivatives, the equality
𝑏
∫ 𝑥(𝑡) ℎ(𝑘) (𝑡) 𝑑𝑡 = 0
𝑎

holds, then 𝑥 is a polynomial of 𝑑𝑒𝑔 ≤ 𝑘 − 1.

b) The previous statement remains in force even if 𝑥 is only a continuous function.

Solution. a) The property “𝑥 is a polynomial of 𝑑𝑒𝑔 ≤ 𝑘 − 1” is equivalent to “𝑥(𝑘) =

0, for any 𝑡 ∈ [𝑎, 𝑏]”. We are inspired by the proof of the fundamental lemma. Suppose
there exists a point 𝑡0 ∈ [𝑎, 𝑏] at which 𝑥 (𝑘) (𝑡0 ) ≠ 0. Let 𝑥(𝑘) (𝑡0 ) > 0. Then there exists a
neighborhood 𝑉 = (𝑡0 − 𝜀, 𝑡0 + 𝜀), of 𝑡0 where 𝑥 (𝑘) (𝑡) > 0. Let us consider the 𝐶 𝑘 function
ℎ(𝑡) = (𝑡 − 𝑡0 + 𝜀)𝑘 (𝑡0 + 𝜀 − 𝑡)𝑘 for 𝑡 ∈ 𝑉 and null outside 𝑉. Assuming that 𝑉⊂(𝑎, 𝑏), the
function ℎ, together with its first 𝑘 − 1 derivatives vanishes in 𝑎 and 𝑏. Integrating 𝑘 times
by parts one obtains
𝑏 𝑏
∫ 𝑥(𝑡)ℎ(𝑘) (𝑡) 𝑑𝑡 = 𝑥(𝑡)ℎ(𝑘−1) (𝑡)|𝑏𝑎 − ∫ 𝑥 ′ (𝑡)ℎ𝑘−1 (𝑡) 𝑑𝑡 = ...
𝑎 𝑎

𝑏 𝑡0 +𝜀
= (−1)𝑘 ∫ 𝑥 (𝑘) (𝑡)ℎ(𝑡) 𝑑𝑡 = (−1)𝑘 ∫ 𝑥(𝑘) (𝑡)ℎ(𝑡) 𝑑𝑡 ≠ 0,
𝑎 𝑡0 −𝜀

(> 0 or < 0 as 𝑘 is even or odd) which contradicts the hypothesis.

b) Firstly, let us prove the following result:
A function 𝑔, continuous on [𝑎, 𝑏] is the order 𝑘 derivative of a 𝐶 𝑘 function ℎ which,
together with its first 𝑘 − 1 derivatives, vanishes in 𝑎 and 𝑏, 𝑔 = ℎ(𝑘) , if and only if
𝑏
∫ 𝑡 𝑝 𝑔(𝑡) 𝑑𝑡 = 0 , ∀𝑝 ∈ {0, 1, ..., 𝑘 − 1}. (P)
𝑎

Obviously, if 𝑔 = ℎ(𝑘) , the property (P) results by integrating by parts as many times as
necessary.
Conversely, let us denote
𝑡 𝑠𝑘 𝑠2 𝑡
1
ℎ(𝑡) = ∫ ∫ ... ∫ 𝑔(𝑠1 ) 𝑑𝑠1 ...𝑑𝑠𝑘 = ∫ 𝑔(𝑠)(𝑡 − 𝑠)𝑘−1 𝑑𝑠.
𝑎 𝑎 𝑎
𝑛! 𝑎

Then ℎ = 𝑔 and ℎ(𝑎) = ℎ′ (𝑎) = ...ℎ(𝑘−1) (𝑎) = 0, and the equalities in the property (𝑃), in
(𝑘)

which we put 𝑔 = ℎ(𝑘) and integrate by parts, give us successively ℎ(𝑘−1) (𝑏) = ... = ℎ′ (𝑏) =
ℎ(𝑏) = 0.
 1.2 Extrema of Differentiable Functionals 9

Returning to the proposed problem, let us note

𝑔(𝑡) = 𝑥(𝑡) − (𝑐0 + 𝑐1 𝑡 + ... + 𝑐𝑘−1 𝑡 𝑘−1 )

and determine the coefficients 𝑐0 , 𝑐1 , ...𝑐𝑘−1 so that the function 𝑔 verifies the equalities of
the property (𝑃).
The orthogonalization properties in a Euclidean vector space ensure the possibility of
this determination. Then we can take ℎ(𝑘) = 𝑔 and get
𝑏 𝑏
0=∫ 𝑥(𝑡) 𝑔(𝑡) 𝑑𝑡 = ∫ (𝑔(𝑡) + (𝑐0 + 𝑐1 𝑡 + ... + 𝑐𝑘−1 𝑡𝑘−1 )) 𝑔(𝑡) 𝑑𝑡
𝑎 𝑎
𝑏 𝑏 𝑏
=∫ 𝑔2 (𝑡) 𝑑𝑡 + ∫ (𝑐0 + 𝑐1 𝑡 + ... + 𝑐𝑘−1 𝑡 𝑘−1 ) 𝑔(𝑡) 𝑑𝑡 = ∫ 𝑔2 (𝑡) 𝑑𝑡.
𝑎 𝑎 𝑎

The result is 𝑔(𝑡) = 0, ∀𝑡 ∈ [𝑎, 𝑏], i.e., 𝑥 is a polynomial of degree at most 𝑘 − 1.

Remark 1.2: The previous result illustrates on a concrete situation the equality 𝑈 ⊥⊥ =
𝑈, for any closed subspace of a Hilbert space.

Let us examine the detection of critical points (extremals) for the functionals whose
variations were determined in the previous section.

Example 1.7: Obviously, a nonzero continuous linear functional 𝑇 ∶ 𝐔 → R has no

critical points.

Example 1.8: For the functionals of type

𝑏
𝐽(𝑥(⋅)) = ∫ 𝐿(𝑡, 𝑥(𝑡)) 𝑑𝑡,
𝑎

the variation is given by formula (1). Then, applying the fundamental lemma we obtain
𝜕𝐿
(𝑡, 𝑥(𝑡)) = 0. (7)
𝜕𝑥
Equation (7) can be solved, according to the implicit function theorem, obtaining solutions
𝑥 = 𝑥(𝑡), around the points (𝑡0 , 𝑥0 ) at which
𝜕𝐿 𝜕2 𝐿
(𝑡0 , 𝑥0 ) = 0, (𝑡 , 𝑥 ) ≠ 0.
𝜕𝑥 𝜕𝑥2 0 0

Example 1.9: A special place, generic in the variational calculus, has the functional
𝑏
𝐽(𝑥(⋅)) = ∫ 𝐿(𝑡, 𝑥(𝑡), 𝑥 ′ (𝑡)) 𝑑𝑡,
𝑎

where 𝐿 is a 𝐶 2 Lagrangian. The variation of this functional is given in formula (2) :

𝑏
𝜕𝐿 𝜕𝐿
𝛿𝐽(𝑥, ℎ) = ∫ [ (𝑡, 𝑥(𝑡), 𝑥 ′ (𝑡)) ℎ(𝑡) + ′ (𝑡, 𝑥(𝑡), 𝑥 ′ (𝑡)) ℎ′ (𝑡)] 𝑑𝑡.
𝑎 𝜕𝑥 𝜕𝑥
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He noticed, with a new insight into such things, how much of the
towns was wooden—stores, factories, public buildings, and, of
course, homes. Even the sidewalks. Also there were more wagons
drawn by horse or mule. The streets looked crooked and unpaved.
The structures unpainted. Men stood around or moved slowly—at
the stations, on the streets. And everywhere there were Negroes.
Negroes moving trucks at the depots. Negroes lazily driving their
teams along the roads. Negroes on the streets. Negroes on the
farms and plantations. Negroes even behind the counters of stores.
He had never before realized how black the South was, how many
less white men than in the North. Previously most of his life away
from home had been spent at school, a world where black men
seldom intruded. But now they seemed like a tide of color, like a
forest pressing down upon the little towns and villages, slowly
choking them with their prolific vegetation.
He thought of Williams and of the Paris salons that had been
thrown open to him and to other colored soldiers who had fought
under the same flag as the white men. He watched the ragged black
patiently toiling under the Southern sun. He wondered whether they
would be content to remain thus. An idea struck him. He examined
the individual figures more closely. Yes! He had noticed something
familiar about the shirts that some of the laborers wore. They were
the olive drab of the army. And there was a husky in olive drab
breeches and army shoes.
It was five o’clock. Hamilton looked through his time table again.
He had wired his father to meet him at a suburb one station north of
Corinth. It was about the same distance from home as the main
station, but he wished to avoid anything approaching a public
reception. He had entered the service as a student officer. He was
coming back a captain. Some of the home guards might not
understand how automatic promotion was. They might greet him
with a band or something equally nonsensical. He wished to come
home quietly. He wished to rest. He wished—he did not know—yes,
Margaret. He wished to see her again. He wished to have the
wedding as soon as possible and settle down to his new life.
 The train was screeching to a halt and through the window he
saw them waiting for him—his father, a little paler than when he had
seen him in New York, it seemed; his mother, clutching his arm, and
trying not to cry—it was the same way she looked when she had
bade him good-bye, only she, too, seemed a little older, and then
Margaret, flushed and radiant, in a bright yellow silk sweater.
The next minute he was down the steps and into his mother’s
arms. Yes, she was older, but not very much, and still beautiful—with
her white hair and girlish complexion, her gentle blue eyes, her
refined features. Hamilton remembered the time that a schoolmate
had mistaken his mother and his only sister, Virginia Ruth, for
sisters. Virginia Ruth was married to a New Orleans banker and had
children of her own now. But no one would any longer mistake the
two for sisters. One cheated time for a while, for a few years; but, in
the end, time won.
Hamilton could think of nothing to say, but “Mother, how are
you?”
Of the hundred questions that crowded in her brain, all that she
could ask was: “Robert, isn’t your uniform too warm?” The gulf
between them was suddenly bridged and they laughed.
Superintended by Mr. Hamilton, George, the middle-aged Negro
chauffeur, was proudly piling the suitcases into the family
automobile. He was grinning from ear to ear and remarked
repeatedly that “the gen’ral sure do look well” and something about
“bein’ mighty scrumptious.” Father and son shook hands briefly, but
Margaret held out her arms and drew down Hamilton’s head. It was
the first time that he had kissed her in the presence of anybody else,
the first time he had kissed any one, outside the family, before his
mother and he felt awkward and self-conscious. As he bent down,
he noticed the sparkle of emeralds and diamonds in her engagement
ring and felt ashamed that he had eyes for anything but Margaret
herself. He noted how calmly she could kiss him—not exactly calmly,
but self-possessedly and without embarrassment.
 With his first glance, too, he saw how beautiful she really was and
how strikingly similar her beauty was, in a way, to that of Dorothy.
Only it had a quality of naiveté. She looked, if not actually younger
in years, younger in spirit. Hers was the naive sophistication of the
rising generation—a generation wise in its own conventionalities, the
conventionalities of breaking older conventionalities.
It was surprising how her set, among the sons and daughters of
the best families in Georgia, could assimilate so readily the spirit of
the new freedom, without, at the same time, absorbing its
intellectual aspects. Margaret, for instance, knew nothing about
political or economic movements save as they came filtered to her
through the mind of her parents. The freedom, therefore, was
exhibited mainly in the social sphere—in attending dances and
parties unchaperoned, in driving her own motor car, in discussing
love and sex theories—generally gleaned from motion pictures or
printed stories—in dressing more freely than her mother had done,
in staying away with increasing frequency from church, in smoking
cigarettes surreptitiously and even in drinking away from home—a
little.
She had no real discrimination in her choice of either art,
literature or cigarettes. She had no favorite schools or intellectual
movements. And no theories. She simply liked a picture or a book,
or didn’t like it—her emancipation from the old conventionalities
expressing itself simply in a frankness in expressing her opinion.
Whereas her mother would have admired a painting because she
thought that was the thing to do, with Margaret the thing to do was
to say you didn’t like it if you didn’t. But her taste for fiction—the
only kind of literature she read—was omnivorous. In music, too, her
tastes were of contradictory breadth, preferring Beethoven one night
and jazz the next. She played the piano. Classical music when there
were older visitors, old ballads when alone with her mother, jazz
music when in her own set. When there was no one else with her
she played the three categories in the order of jazz first, then
ballads, and lastly classical music.
 Margaret was a joy on a horse and a mermaid in the water and
altogether a creditable product of the finishing school which her
mother had selected for her. The best testimony to this being the
fact that she could have married a half dozen of the most eligible
young Corinthians, since her graduation, two years ago in June.
The Hamiltons climbed into the touring car, the returned hero
seating himself between his mother and his fiancée, while the father
took one of the collapsible seats. The home-coming had not been
unseen by a crowd of tatterdemalion colored children, who viewed
Captain Hamilton with awe until he disappeared down the street.
Hamilton was conscious of many things and of many emotions:
warm sunshine bathing the town and fragrant blooming magnolia
trees overarching the road; glimpses of familiar houses; the street
down which he had attempted to elope with Margaret; the public
school-house where he had been set upon and in which he had
triumphed in his last fight of childhood; a magnificent old church
which he used to admire profoundly as a boy; homes of old friends.
He was conscious of the love and pride of the three with whom he
rode and the feeling of possession of Margaret, whose eyes were on
him, as much as his mother’s.
“Your wound is quite all right?” asked Mr. Hamilton sitting
sidewise in his seat.
“It’s fine,” Hamilton assured him. “Couldn’t be better. I think I
could even take the sorrel over the fence.”
“Robert, you wouldn’t do that?” said his mother reprovingly, while
his father and Margaret laughed. “Taking the sorrel over the fence”
had become a family joke, an expression for extreme recklessness,
because shortly before leaving for New York, Robert, on a dare, had
actually jumped the stone fence on the sorrel, Annabell Lee. As his
father had said at the time, Robert had risked the knees of a very
valuable horse and the neck of a very heedless rider.
“No, there’s not much chance after the bawling out I got last
time.” Mr. Hamilton smiled.
 “But Annabell is waiting for you,” he said, “all groomed up sleek
and shiny by George himself, here.”
The chauffeur’s white-teethed grin was reflected in the windshield
as he nodded his head. “Tha’s right, sir, that’s right. Annabell Lee,
there ain’t no horses slicker than her. She like mahogany.”
“Well, I won’t take any fences. But how are you, mother? It’s
wonderful to be back.”
“Oh, I’ll take you out riding,” suggested Margaret eagerly. “I know
just a ripping place to go, and I’ll race you.”
“Not for a while, Margaret, I’m too lazy for much of anything right
now. If I go I’ll take old Major. How is Major?”
“He’s not with us any more, Robert.”
“Did he die?”
Robert looked from his father to his mother. Her eyes faltered.
“No, we sold him,” said Mr. Hamilton.
“Getting old, I suppose.”
“Oh, have I told you? We’ve got another captain in our set,” asked
Margaret suddenly. “Who do you think? Howard Pinkney. He got his
commission just about the time I got that awful letter telling me you
were wounded. I’ll never forget how I felt.”
“Pinkney?”
“Oh, this town is full of ’em,” the elder Hamilton laughed, with the
faintest suggestion of irony in his voice. “Captains and majors.”
“Oh, no, he’s a real captain. He showed me his commission. He’s
captain of our home guards, and he says it’s the same rank as
captain in the infantry or artillery. Is it?”
“Well, that’s a rather embarrassing question. But perhaps we
could say that it’s not exactly the same thing, although it is very
nearly.”
 “Oh, of course, you did the real fighting. It was wonderful how
you risked your life and I’m proud of you, oh, ever so proud. I’ve
had a service flag in the window ever since you left, with only one
star—for you. Howard wanted me to have two stars, but, of course,
he stayed at home. He’s one of the organizers now of the Trick Track
Tribe. Or is that a secret, Mr. Hamilton? He’ll be asking Robert to join
anyway.”
“It’s probably a pretty open secret.”
“Trick Track Tribe? What an odd name. Trick Track. It sounds like
the cocking of an old-fashioned musket. Trick Track.”
“That’s just what it’s supposed to be. It’s a wonderful thing. It’s to
revive the old Southern chivalry and maintain the superiority of the
white race and promote Americanism.”
“That sounds pretty ambitious,” laughed Robert. “I really didn’t
know the white race was in danger. But if the Trick Tracks can do all
that, I’m for them.”
Now the car was rounding a corner and the next minute the
Hamilton residence appeared at the end of a row of tall trees. There
were the familiar pillars, rising from the floor of the porch to the
cornice; the little grilled window just over the door, looking out from
the landing on the stairs and through which Hamilton had often
peered as a boy; the porch swing; the green shutters, breaking up
the mass of white; the lattice under the porch, behind which
Hamilton had often prowled, playing it was a bandit’s cave. The
grass was as green and the vines clambered as thickly about the
sides of the home as his memory had pictured.
“Your room, dear, is just the way you left it,” remarked Mrs.
Hamilton as the car drove up the path with a scream of the siren.
They dismounted, George springing down in time to open the
door and then bringing up the rear with the suitcases. Robert had
expected to see the colored servants at the door—Mammy Chloe,
who baked memorial corn fritters and candied yams, and her two
daughters, Clorabelle and Susy May (sometimes facetiously called
Chlorine by Robert), the housemaids, and Sam, a white-haired black
of uncertain age who looked after the horses, trimmed the grass and
otherwise assisted George. But only Mammy Chloe appeared, in her
best apron, a clean, white kerchief around her head, rocking her fat
sides in happiness.
“Lor’ bless us if it ain’t Genril Robert hisself.”
“Only captain so far, Mammy Chloe,” Robert corrected her, as he
took her hands in his and looked down at her. “Have you got any of
those corn fritters ready for me? I’m sure hungry.” This tribute to her
culinary skill pleased her prodigiously.
“Corn fritters ain’t nothing to what I done fix for you all. An’ I
won’t tell you what they is. You jes’ wait till come dinner. My lan’
sakes, what all them Huns do to you? You wait! You old Mammy
Chloe get you fat again, so Miss Margaret won’t know you.”
After George had deposited the suitcases in his room and Mrs.
Hamilton had kissed Robert and closed the door gently behind her,
Robert sank down in his chair. He was tired and warm. He had
almost forgotten about his wound, yet the simple matter of traveling
for thirty-six hours was telling on him. He slowly unbuttoned his
coat, unfastened his puttees and unlaced his shoes. It would be a
good half-hour before dinner.
He removed a cigarette from his pocket, lit it and began looking
about the room. It was exactly as he had left it. The same high-
ceilinged room, with its friendly ivory woodwork; the same inviting
bay windows, half hidden by vines, with the circular window seats;
the same rosewood furniture. In the center of one wall was the
fireplace and on either side the bookcases lined with the old
textbooks and his favorite volumes. Home again.
Robert arose, undressed and slipped into his bathrobe. He walked
about the room to verify the presence of certain objects. Yes, even
his class pipe was there. He removed his wrist watch and laid it on
the dressing table. There would just be time enough for a shower.
 His spirits rose under the stinging spray and he began humming’
an old army tune:
“I wanna go home,
Gee, but I wanna go home.
The bullets they whistle,
The cannons they roar;
I don’t wanna go back to the trenches no more.
I wanna sail ’cross the sea
Where the Allemand can’t get at me.
Oh, my, I’m too young to die.
Gee, but I wanna go home!”
As he rubbed himself with a bath towel he thought: “Mammy
Chloe is right at that. I am pretty thin.” He flexed his muscles and
posed before the mirror. Not so much thinner than when he had left
home. He had gained almost fifteen pounds in the army and lost it
all and a little more in the hospital. The scar was barely visible. He
remembered the wound that his grandfather had received in the Civil
War and wondered whether inquisitive children would ever ask him
to show his scar. He inspected his face in the mirror. Not such a bad
job for shaving on the train. He threw on his bathrobe and returned
to his room. In the closet, carefully protected by a wardrobe bag
hung his dinner clothes, perfectly pressed. After he had dressed he
again stood before the mirror. Civilian clothes felt loose. They felt as
though he had forgotten to put something on. They were careless,
unrestrained, individualistic garments.
“Gee, but I wanna go home,” he sang.
When Captain Hamilton, in conventional dinner clothes, reached
the foot of the stairs it was to shock his mother and Margaret.
“Wherever did you get those?” asked Margaret.
“Why, dear,” pleaded Mrs. Hamilton, “I thought you would surely
wear your uniform. A few friends are coming over and I’m sure they
would like to see you in uniform.”
 Robert grinned.
“Oh, I don’t know. I just thought it would be rather nice to slip
into these for a change. You know I’ve worn olive-drab for two years
now.”
“But they will want to see you in uniform,” urged his mother.
“And Howard is going to be here and I do want him to see you in
uniform. He’s going to wear his,” added Margaret.
“Which is all the more reason why I shouldn’t. Anyway my
uniform’s too hot, and my gabardine is in the trunk.”
But Mrs. Hamilton triumphantly pointed to the fact that George
had just returned from another trip to the depot with Robert’s locker
trunks and would carry them up in another minute, and Captain
Hamilton was forced to turn back and resume the habiliments of war.
But he did it happily. The last time, he thought.
 XIX
Howard Pinkney did come, as Margaret had predicted, and, as
she had likewise predicted, he wore his captain’s uniform. He made
some sort of explanation. He was either coming from an affair or
going to one which all the officers of the home guards were to
attend or had attended, and there was no time left for changing into
“civies.” He was very apologetic about it and very effulgent in his
praise of the returning captain.
Hamilton’s dislike for Pinkney was reborn. He had disliked him in
childhood because Howard had rosy cheeks—an unforgivable offense
in a boy. He had punched his nose for that reason many, many years
ago, although the announced reason was that Pinkney “was too
darned smart.” And having harmed him for no legitimate reason, he
naturally disliked him still more. Pinkney, however, in spite of
Robert’s opinion, had turned out disappointingly successful. He had
stepped out of college into a large lumber firm, showed a precocious
grasp of business principles and within two years had been made
vice-president. During the war he had made his spectacular coup of
cornering most of the available Southern walnut used in fashioning
rifle stocks.
For a young man he had a peculiarly set—Hamilton called it
“ossified”—mind. He accepted traditional ideas as firmly as do men
of twice his years and without youth’s questioning of them. In
business he had a whole set of principles that Hamilton never knew
existed. He had ideas about the position of the South in industry and
about the South’s contribution to world commerce. Things that no
healthy young man would think twice about. Where Hamilton would
be interested in discussing a football game or a play, Pinkney would
discuss the extension of the federal reserve system.
 To Robert, business was a mere incident in life, a necessary evil
whereby one provided one’s self with the means of enriching and
enjoying it. To Pinkney, business was one of life’s essentials. He took
it quite as seriously as tennis or riding. A surprising fellow.
Tennis and riding he did well—efficiently—that was the word. Just
as he did everything else. It was part of his physical life. He had
departments—physical, mental, moral, social, and all separated from
each other like boxes in a vault. In order to succeed one must give
so much time and effort to each of these divisions. One must play
tennis or take some other suitable form of exercise every day so as
to keep in trim for the more serious duties of life. When Pinkney
went for a walk, he didn’t say: “I’m going out to commune with
nature,” which is sentimental, but understandable, or “I’m going
along a picturesque road,” or simply “I’m going for a walk,” but “I’m
going to get an hour’s exercise.”
He had an annoying way of keeping up with the times in
everything. He even subscribed to the New York Times so that he
might profit by the book reviews and bought the volumes there
recommended.
He attended church and the most important social functions with
regularity and was looked up to everywhere. He was pointed out as
an example of the Southern young man in business. On public
committees he frequently represented the young business man.
Nothing could keep him from becoming in time president of his firm,
a bank director, president of the Chamber of Commerce and a
college trustee.
It was only characteristic that Howard Pinkney should still aspire
to Margaret’s hand long after she had chosen Robert, and it was also
characteristic of him that he should neither show nor feel the
slightest animosity towards his successful rival. He treated him with
all the charity that he used toward a formidable business competitor.
Pinkney was undeniably handsome in his concentrated, alert way.
He was nearly as tall as Robert, slighter-framed but heavier, with
straight, light brown hair combed back from a sloping forehead. His
features were more regular, less rugged than Robert’s and his gray
eyes were intelligent and intense. Hamilton noticed all this as
Pinkney first entered the room and wondered why Margaret had so
often rejected him in favor of himself. It was Howard’s only failure.
Howard, as an officer of the home guard, somehow
supererogated to himself the function of reintroducing Hamilton to
his townsfolk.
“Judge, here is Captain Hamilton. Isn’t he looking splendid after
his harassing experiences in France? We must have him recount
them to us some evening at the club. Lieutenant Brownlow—Mr.
Brownlow is one of the lieutenants in the guards. He was exempt
because of fallen arches—Lieutenant Brownlow has been longing to
see you and I have taken the liberty of inviting him. Of course he
knows all about your splendid exploits. Mr. Jarvis, our hero has come
back again. Have you a card with you? We must bring him into the
Trick Track Tribe. Yes, here it is. Thank you. Give it to me when you
have filled it out.”
Hamilton slipped the card into his pocket without reading it. He
was becoming tired of meeting so many people. He had always
looked forward to his home coming as to an opportunity for
unlimited rest. And here he was in the midst of a buzz of many
conversations, shaking hands, answering a hundred questions,
standing up, moving around to different groups, always smiling. Of
course, he understood, this was his first night at home. One had to
sacrifice one’s self to the duties of society. But he heartily wished
that it was over. He wished, above all, that the home guard would
suddenly mobilize for some reason and that Pinkney would be called
out.
In Paris he had enjoyed the salons, the stimulating exchange of
ideas; but in his own home he wished to be alone with his parents,
and perhaps with Margaret. His parents, he perceived, were
probably wishing the same thing. They kept throwing little smiles at
him and to each other and Mrs. Hamilton kept coming over to
squeeze his hand. How beautiful his mother really must have been
when she was, say, Margaret’s age. He loved her soft gray hair. And
how distinguished his father looked, with his immaculate moustache
and goatee.
Robert moved to a little group of men who were discussing some
subject animatedly and sat down.
“There’s only one solution for this problem,” the fat, bald-headed
little man, who had been introduced to him as Mr. Jarvis, was saying,
“and that’s Americanization.”
“Americanization?” It was Pinkney’s father speaking, a heavy
moustached man, with hawk-like features—Howard “took after” his
mother. “Americanization? What they need is a good dose of tar and
feathers. Yes, sir, good old tar and feathers. What do you think
about it, Captain Hamilton?” He leaned forward in his chair.
“What is that?” asked Robert.
“Those damned foreigners,” the older Pinkney drawled. “The
niggers are bad enough. But now these damned foreigners are
getting too strong here.”
Mr. Pinkney was the sort of man who never referred to foreigners,
save as “damned foreigners,” nor to women without adding “God
bless ’em.”
“Do you know what some of those Jews are doing? Yes, sir, let
me tell you! They’re bringing business up Telfair Avenue. When my
father built there, yes, sir, it was the finest district in Corinth. He
thought he’d leave it for his children and his children’s children.
Never thought the town would grow to it. Now, sir, just take a drive
past the place. I had to sell it three years ago. What are they doing?
Putting up apartments, yes, sir, apartments.”
He looked fiercely at Hamilton as if to see whether Robert could
possibly have any sympathy with a foreigner who put up apartment
buildings.
 “Five years ago that Jew real estate man, Abrams, came to me.
Said it was inevitable that business must expand and that it would
march up Telfair Avenue. Said he was negotiating for some leases
there and advised me to convert my property into something that
would pay. Pay, sir, pay! I told him that my father hadn’t built his
house to pay, but to live in. Ha, Ha!”
Jarvis and Pinkney and the other gentlemen laughed.
“That’s a good one, all right,” said Jarvis.
“Yes, sir, live in. Well, he said that as the lower part of Telfair
Avenue became a business section, the value of the upper part
would fall because it would lose its exclusiveness. And he advised
me to tear down the home or at least remodel it into an apartment
building, and move out in Fairview. Said he was moving there
himself.”
Pinkney looked about sharply and paused a moment to
accentuate the effect of the denouement of the incident.
“What did I tell him? I said, ‘So you’re moving out to Fairview?
Well, that’s every reason in the world why I shouldn’t! Just like that,
sir. Shut him up, right off, like that.’”
“That’s the way to fix ’em!” said Jarvis, nodding his head.
“But wasn’t the real estate man right after all?” Hamilton asked
timidly after the laughter had subsided. “Wasn’t it good advice?”
“Good advice? Why, if it weren’t for Abrams and his kind Telfair
Avenue would still be an exclusive residence district. Yes, sir.
Everybody else sold and moved out, but I stuck to my property until
they built up all around it. When they tried to get my place I put up
a stiff price. I didn’t want ’em to come there in the first place with
their apartment houses and, if they wanted it bad enough I thought
they could pay for it. But the shrewd rascals wouldn’t buy. They
went ahead with their plans. Well, sir, when I moved I offered the
land at their price, but they wouldn’t take it. No, sir, wouldn’t take it.
We had some words, and I told Abrams what I thought of him and
the Jerusalem he was bringing to Corinth.”
The older Pinkney went into a detailed and often vituperative
account of his real estate dealings, the upshot of which was that the
“damned Jew” wouldn’t buy, the Pinkney property was sold
piecemeal to other dealers for a song, sold in turn to some other
“damned Jew” and a large apartment building erected.
Someone else capped the story with an account of how a Jewish
merchant was enlarging his department store, the few original
merchants whose fathers or grandfathers had founded their
businesses having been slowly forced out of business by
competition.
“You’ve been away so long, young sir,” said Mr. Pinkney, “that you
don’t realise what’s been happening here. But we’ve got something
to remedy that. Yes, sir, remedy it. It’s the good old remedy of tar
applied externally with a lot of feathers. It cured the carpetbaggers
after the War and it’ll cure the niggers and foreigners now. Maybe
Howard has told you something about it. My son has been up
against un-Americanism here while you were fighting the enemy
over in France. And he’s one of the leaders in reviving the Trick Track
Tribe.”
Mr. Forsythe, Margaret’s father, a gray, small man of uncertain
gestures and opinions, darted him a swift look. He had greeted
Hamilton previously with a subdued warmth, which had puzzled his
prospective son-in-law.
“Is it?” he was going to say ‘safe,’ thought better of it, “that is,
does he know?”
“Oh, yes, he’ll be one of us. We’re all Trick Tracks here, aren’t we?
Jarvis has given Robert an application card. Ordinarily we wouldn’t
use the name, but Robert’s all right. Yes, sir. We all know where he
stands.”
Reassured, Mr. Forsythe spoke about Mill Town, a suburb which
had sprung up during the war for the housing of workers in Corinth
factories.
“You don’t appreciate this, young man,” he began. “When our
supply of labor ran low meeting war orders, we tried an experiment,
brought a few foreign laborers from Baltimore through an agency.
Now we’re sorry we did it. We paid them high wages and they
settled down with their families. There’s quite a colony of them now.
They’re a vicious lot. They wouldn’t stand for a cut of wages after
the armistice, because, they said, prices hadn’t come down yet. And
they actually had the audacity to insist on our continuing to
recognise the union.”
“It’s the same all over. All over. Yes, sir,” Mr. Pinkney cut in. “But
we’ll crush the unions. They’ve no place in a free government.
They’re un-American.”
“Un-American” was one of the most frequent words in Mr.
Pinkney’s vocabulary and it took the place of argument. It was
enough to call a thing un-American to condemn it immediately. Thus
he never said that labor unions are a bad thing because they
interfere with freedom of contract, or because they tend to form a
monopoly of labor under the control of a few men, or because they
engender class consciousness. He never raised arguments, even bad
arguments, against them! They were simply un-American.
Socialism was not even discussable, because it “bore the stamp
‘Made in Germany,’” and was moreover the theory of a Jew. It was
so un-American that its mere mention caused him to turn purple
with rage. And having decided that Socialism was un-American,
there was a whole category of other institutions that were tabooed
as Socialistic. He had viewed with alarm the control by the
government of the railroads during the war, “because it was
Socialistic.” He never argued that it expedited or delayed the
transportation of men and materials to the sea-board. He never
argued that it raised or lowered freight rates. He never argued that it
increased or lowered the morale of the workers. He never argued
that it aided or hindered the financial condition of the roads. Not he.
No, sir. With a single word he knocked down the fallacy of all
government ownership. It was socialistic.
Foreign language papers were per se un-American and the use of
a foreign language an open insult. No matter whether the offender
had been imported into this country only a few years before, had
been working too hard in the steel or textile mills to learn English
and was gaining his conceptions of Americanism through the foreign
papers and in a foreign tongue, or whether he had lived in this
country thirty years. It was un-American.
Un-American, Hamilton perceived, as Mr. Pinkney rattled on, were
the meetings of labor unions and the speeches made there. Mr.
Pinkney had not attended them, the idea, sir, and he had no
intention of doing so, but he knew that no good could come of
them. Drinking in a saloon as the foreigners did and drinking beer
with their meals were un-American, although partaking of beverages
in one’s club or drawing room was proper. The graduated income tax
with its damnable surtaxes was confiscatory, Socialistic and un-
American. The tariff, except on cotton, certain kinds of lumber and a
few articles in which he was interested, was un-American. Even the
Republican party was a party of nigger-lovers and foreigners, an un-
American institution, foisted on the nation by the North and to which
no gentleman of standing belonged.
Mr. Pinkney’s tirade amused Hamilton. It was what he had heard
in his father’s drawing room and at his club before the war, only
stronger than ever. The war had liberalized his own ideas, but
evidently it had increased the conservatism of those who had
remained at home. He had accepted the Germans for the time being
as a foe, but as a worthy foe and one to be treated according to
ideas of chivalry traditional with white civilization. Here they held an
exaggerated hatred for things not only German, but even foreign.
Hamilton recalled with a smile Levin’s description of the hundred per
centers who remained at home and refused to eat German fried
potatoes.
 In Paris, too, he had heard Socialism discussed on every hand. He
was not a Socialist. The persons who discussed it were divided in
their opinions. Some were bitter opponents. Others were ardent
supporters. Still others believed in a modified Socialistic program. It
was the same way with other ideas—with Bolshevism, with the
League of Nations, with post-impressionism, with vers libre. Men and
women discussed these subjects animatedly on both, sides; but he
had never heard anyone condemn an institution or an idea simply
because it was un-French or condemn the discussion of it.
Of course, Paris had its Bourbons, but even they did not seem
quite so intolerant.
In Paris, in fact, he had witnessed an excess of liberality—in
morals, in art, in literature, as well as in political philosophy. It had
even made Hamilton uncomfortable. He felt that in contrast Mr.
Pinkney’s philosophy was sound. It had, at least, the soundness of
conservatism—the unwillingness to change what time has proved to
be good, for the new and untried. There was no danger that a city
of Pinkneys would ever tolerate any of the shocking spectacles that
he had seen in the Paris concert halls. There was no danger that a
city of Pinkneys would ever hold ideas of free love. It was
inconceivable that any Pinkney would ever aid in razing a bastile or
setting up a commune or a system of soviets. It was inconceivable
even that a state of Pinkneys would attempt to operate public cotton
mills, as some Socialistic western state was trying to operate grain
elevators. Pinkney was certainly safe and sane—so insanely sane.
Come what might he would forget nothing of his principles of
Americanism. And would never learn anything.
Hamilton mildly expressed the view that practically every
inhabitant of the United States was as American as even Mr. Pinkney
would have him. The exceptions were so few that one could
disregard them. But the holding of a different opinion on political,
economic or even social questions did not at all interfere with their
Americanism. If the opinion was wrong, full discussion of it, even a
little experimentation of certain theories, would prove them wrong.
 “A lie must fall of its own weight,” said Hamilton.
“But we’ll help push it over,” said the younger Pinkney coming up
at this point, “won’t we dad? And we need men like you, Captain
Hamilton, to help us. There are abuses that must be corrected. The
Negro must be kept in his place. The supremacy of the white man
must be maintained. The Constitution of the United States must be
upheld. Unwarranted strikes must be prevented. Law and order must
prevail.”
It was rather pompous nonsense, Hamilton thought. Certainly,
law and order should prevail and unwarranted strikes be prevented
and the Constitution upheld. As for the Negro, of course he must
remain in his place. But what was his place? Two years ago he would
have said that the Negro’s place was on the plantation and in the
less skilled classes of labor exclusively. In Paris he had been ready to
defend that theory fiercely. Now he was not so sure. He
remembered the reception where Williams had been received on
even terms with the white guests and he wondered what would
happen should Williams suddenly walk into the room. Out of the
corner of his eye he noticed Margaret approaching with
refreshments of some kind.
Neither Chlorabelle nor Chlorine had appeared that evening.
Ordinarily they would have distributed the trays. Instead, Mrs.
Hamilton, assisted by Margaret, was performing that service.
Mammy Chloe and George were the only servants visible and they,
from time to time, appeared with plates of sandwiches or cakes or
ices or to renew the punch bowl.
Hamilton listened impatiently to Pinkney.
“When I was in Paris,” he began, “I saw something that I suppose
would have shocked you all. It was at a reception, one of a number
that I attended in the Champs Elysées. The hostess, the Countess
Montfort....”
Hamilton went on to describe the reception.
 “And who do you think was the center of attraction? Not any
Frenchman, nor any of the foreign generals or ambassadors—but a
Negro officer!”
Mr. Jarvis puffed out his cheeks.
“Horrible! Horrible!”
Mr. Forsythe shook his head vaguely. The elder Pinkney looked as
though he had barely escaped swallowing his moustache. His son
clenched his fists and puffed out his chest importantly.
“Really not,” exclaimed Margaret. “I hope you didn’t stay there.”
“No,” he replied, “I didn’t. I flew into a rage, said something that
I’m afraid might have been misconstrued as rude and left.”
The Pinkneys uttered their approval and the others added their
smaller voices.
“Splendid! That was exactly what I should have done!” declared
Margaret, her brown eyes blazing. She looked like a reincarnation of
Dixie aroused—lithe, beautiful, impassioned.
“But,” Hamilton gulped. He was aware that he was about to spoil
the tableau. Of course he realised that he might explain that
Williams had saved his life, which would make his feelings excusable.
But why should he do that? The fact that a colored man had or had
not rescued him really ought not to affect their attitude. He would
not tell them. “But,” said Hamilton, “the queer thing about it was
that later I felt ashamed of myself. Not right away, but a few days
later. I felt ashamed that I, as an American, as an officer in an army
which had gone over there with the avowed purpose of making the
world safe for democracy, had held that attitude to another
American, to a brother officer in the same army.” Hamilton watched
Margaret’s face turn pale and then red and her eyes fall in
embarrassment, but he went on. “I felt ashamed that of all the
people there, representatives of every race and nation, that an
American should have been the only one to express so un-American
an attitude.”
 He warmed to his subject as he noticed his hearers exchange
uneasy glances. His mother, too, had come up to look for him, and
he noticed her in a little fringe of guests who had been attracted by
the discussion. She was listening.
“It isn’t as though I don’t think my race the finest on earth,” he
went on. “But it seems that in some things we haven’t always been
just—haven’t lived up to that high standard that we ought to
maintain. To the outside world we have proclaimed our democratic
ideals, our moral support of the different people of Europe in
obtaining representative government. Have we been as just to our
own citizens—to the Negro?”
Hamilton’s father looked surprised and tugged at his moustache.
“Robert doesn’t mean exactly what he—m’m, a—implies,” he
offered a verbal straw at which his son might grasp. “Perhaps in
some places the Negro isn’t accorded, what shall I say, kindness, or,
perhaps better, human treatment. But not here in our city.”
Young Pinkney threw out a life preserver.
“There’s something in what Robert has said. I find that you can
get more out of a Negro if you treat him considerately. For instance,
in one of our lumber mills we found that the Negroes work best
when they are allowed to sing. For a time we made them work
quietly, but we found by a series of tests that they actually did more
work when permitted to sing, so we reinstituted the custom and our
output rose nearly 10 per cent.”
“Nobody in the South really mistreats the coon,” put in Jarvis,
shaking his head. “In the North, maybe, where they don’t
understand his nature. But not in the South.”
Mrs. Hamilton looked appealingly at him. Margaret still stared at
the floor, but Hamilton could no more stop himself than he could
that night in Paris.
“No,” he said. “That’s not what I mean at all. Only a brute treats
human beings cruelly. I don’t mean to say you—we—that most of us
do that. But I do mean to say that perhaps we haven’t given him a
fair chance. We don’t let him vote, and we complain that he’s not a
loyal citizen. We don’t provide equal educational facilities for him
with the white child, and we complain that he’s ignorant. We don’t
give him a fair trial in our courts and we accuse him of being a
criminal. We crowd him off our sidewalks, we make him sit in Jim
Crow cars, we treat him like a dog, and we complain that he’s less
than the highest type of human being—and in Paris, the cream of
European society shaking hands with a colored man and listening to
him sing.”
There was a sound of clearing throats. Margaret turned her eyes
from one side of the circle to the other, but there was no escape.
The Hamiltons looked self-consciously at each other.
“Well, those Parisians,” began Mr. Forsythe in a small voice, as if
his impending relationship with Robert made it incumbent upon him
to say something that would relieve the tension; but young Pinkney,
with a swift glance toward Margaret, took up the cudgels for white
supremacy and the South.
“The French,” he began in his confidential manner, as though the
French were the Smiths who lived in the next block, “the French, as
you know, Robert, hardly ever see a Negro. He’s a novelty to them.
The Frenchman invites him to his receptions just as—as a New York
society woman might have an ape at a dinner. He sees only the
Negro in a million with a gift for poetry or writing—and he’s never
full-blooded. He has not seen the masses.” His voice suddenly
became intense. “He hasn’t lived where there are three blacks for
every white and breeding faster every year; where his whole white
civilization is trembling on a foundation of lazy, ignorant, dirty,
diseased, unruly niggers.
“You say, give them the vote. Give it to them, and they’ll fill every
office in the state in time and make and enforce the laws that
govern white men. For it’s only a matter of time when they’ll be
outnumbering us in every locality throughout the South, only a
matter of more time when they’ll be controlling politics throughout
the country.
“Let them sit on the benches of our courts, and they’ll dispossess
us of our property and our rights. Give them higher education, and
they’ll become dissatisfied with their lot and revolt. Take away your
Jim Crow cars, let them into the hotels and restaurants, and they’ll
enter the club and the home. Bring them into the home, give them
social equality, wipe cut the anti-marriage laws, and they’ll drag the
white race down to their stinking level. Cruel are we?—unjust?
Remember there’s only one crime for which a nigger is ever lynched
in the South.
“I’ve been brought up by a Negro mammy and our family’s had
colored servants. They stuck to us through the Civil War and after.
There is a place for that kind of nigger—the good nigger, the nigger
who knows his level and keeps it, the nigger who respects white
authority and white supremacy. To him the Southerner’s heart is
always open. He’ll find him the best friend in the world. But there’s
no place for the smart nigger, the white-collared nigger, the nigger
who wants what he calls equal rights.
“What does France or, for that matter, the North, know about the
colored man? We here, in defense of white supremacy, pure
womanhood and law and order, know that we have to make the
nigger walk the mark. We know that the strong arm of justice—but
the white man’s justice, with bullet, noose and torch, if need be—is
the one thing that will keep this country from being overrun by an
inferior race. It is a case of ruling or being ruled. We have had our
experience, a brief one, at being ruled, by niggers and
carpetbaggers after the war. We’re through.
“Maybe you don’t know what the colored races are doing? Japan
coming into the conference on equal terms with the great Christian
nations. The Hindus revolting. The Turks ready to strike back at the
white nations which have shut her back into Asia, where she
belongs, and spreading the doctrine of Islam throughout the brown
and the black world of Asia and Africa. And now the same thing in
America. The colored races outnumber us. Only our brains, our
ability to rule, by word and by sword, keeps us on top. But let us
once relax our grip, let the nigger only make the United States the
mulatto paradise of which he dreams, and the agitator and nigger
lover will wish to God he’d never started. The Red, the Yellow, the
Brown and the Black people, outnumbering us ten to one, will rise
like a black wave—dark water, that’s it—and sweep the white world
away.”
Hamilton sat flushed and conscious of the glances directed at
him. Pinkney had addressed all his remarks to Robert, as though he
were the attacker of the white race and himself the defender. Robert
was not particularly keen for an argument, especially with a guest in
his own house, for the discussion had grown into that now and
threatened to become even more heated. He noticed that Margaret’s
eyes were intent upon Pinkney. He was tired from traveling and
wished to be alone. Confound these receptions anyway! Why didn’t
Pinkney change the subject or yield the floor to someone else? A
score of answers came to him. He wondered what Dorothy was
doing. He fell to comparing her with Margaret.
He was conscious of murmuring a few hazy affirmations or
denials to Pinkney, while his mind was somewhere else. “Well,
perhaps”; or “I don’t know about that.” He heard some one making
apologies—not exactly apologies, but speaking about his services
overseas and complimenting him. They were saying that he was all
right anyway and that he was simply taking a side for an argument.
Pinkney was still talking. Margaret was still hanging on to his words.
He was quoting Du Bois. He was telling Hamilton to read him. He
was telling him about diverse threats against the peace of the white
world by more or less responsible writers of color. He was quoting
Japanese militarists and Hindu pacifists as well as Georgia blacks.
“No, we need you, Hamilton, Captain Hamilton, in the fight for a
higher and purer Americanism,” Pinkney was saying. “We need your
type to carry on our fight for white supremacy, for the protection of
pure womanhood”—his eyes were flashing proudly at Margaret.
Hamilton was watching his little gestures without catching all the
words. But for some time the circle had broken up into smaller
groups and now Pinkney was simply inviting Robert to see him in his
office at his earliest convenience. There was an arrangement he
wished to discuss which might prove profitable.
“Oh, yes, of course,” said Hamilton, “I’ll drop in,” although he
wondered how Pinkney could possibly discuss a profitable
arrangement of any kind with him.
 XX
Becoming reacquainted with the family and the city was an
adventure. During his absence, he noted, the help had been cut
down to Mammy Chloe and George. With Virginia Ruth living in New
Orleans and himself away from home, the wants of the Hamiltons
were really very simple, in spite of their standing in society. They
had given up all the horses but one and had kept only the touring
car.
“We don’t need much and it simplifies things,” Mr. Hamilton had
explained. “You see, your mother is getting, well, is getting to the
point where she wishes to be free from the responsibilities of
managing a large household and we have even been considering
selling the house—we’ve been offered a good price—and renting an
apartment.”
Renting an apartment? What a dismal outlook. Robert detested
apartments. They were all right in New York, but in the South! He
wanted room—room to loaf about and read, room for riding and
playing tennis, room to entertain his friends. The tennis court, he
noticed, had been allowed to run down and he decided to have it
put back in shape the first chance he got.
In the meantime there were so many old friends to visit, so many
questions to answer. On the first night home, a reporter from the
morning paper had come—it was almost midnight—to interview him,
and the reporters from the afternoon papers had followed the next
day. They had asked not merely questions about his personal
experiences, but questions of which he knew nothing. About the
peace conference, about the League of Nations. What did the French
think of President Wilson and of Americans in general? Who won the
war? And what part did the Southern, and particularly the Georgian,
troops play in the war? Of course, he had been with New York
troops, but he generously accorded the Southern soldiers their full
meed of praise, which they doubtlessly deserved anyway, and of
which he had heard indirectly.
And Margaret? He had to become acquainted with her all over
again, too. She seemed younger than before he had left her to go to
France. It was not alone her dress. He noticed that the women were
wearing short skirts in imitation of the Parisiennes. It was not alone
in her manner of combing her hair. It lay in a childish freshness that
was at once impudent and sophisticated. Margaret had never been a
serious-minded young lady, but now she seemed fairly to flutter
above the realities of life.
They were returning from a dance one evening, at which Robert
had incurred Margaret’s displeasure by attempting to sit out most of
his dances. It was almost two o’clock and they were driving down a
deserted street. Before the war, midnight had generally been the
limit for a dance, unless it was some exceptional occasion, like the
annual charity ball, for instance.
“You know, you seem—you seem so much younger than when I
left,” said Robert.
“Oh, do I?”
“Yes.”
“And I suppose you don’t like it. You’d want me to stay home
every evening and darn socks and go to bed at nine, I suppose.
What’s the matter with you, Bob? We used to be such good pals.
Don’t, don’t—oh, I don’t know.”
They drove on in silence. How could he explain things to her?
How could he make her understand his feelings? He wished, in a
way, that he had postponed their engagement, not that they
wouldn’t marry eventually anyway, but that it placed him under
obligations. He had to escort her to dances and receptions and take
her to the theatre. Of course, he got a certain amount of pleasure
out of these things, but then he preferred simply to loaf about the
house. It was queer, a fellow lay in the mud in Flanders for months
under a drizzling sky and dreamed of coming home. Home was pre-
eminently a place for loafing. A place where one could sleep as late
as one wanted, lounge about in old clothes and sleep some more.
Now that one finally did reach home, one found that practise did not
square with theory. Theoretically, Hamilton could have stayed in bed
all morning. But when his parents were at the breakfast table at
eight o’clock, he felt under a moral obligation to do likewise,
especially now that the burden of housework had fallen on the
shoulders of a single servant. Theoretically, too, he could have
retired at eight every evening or stayed up until three in the
morning, but practically, there were always social duties to perform.
Margaret was always calling him up and claiming him.
There was no use trying to explain a thing like that to Margaret.
How could she understand? She would probably think that he was
getting old. He was only twenty-six. Had the war aged him? He had
always taken Pinkney for a prematurely aged young man, and yet,
while Pinkney was able to talk business and finances with the elders
of the city, he was able to cut a commanding figure in the younger
social set. He knew all the latest steps and even introduced little
variations that he had picked up in New Orleans, Charleston and
Baltimore.
With Dorothy, he reflected, he could sit idly at a table or walk
along the street and express his thoughts—he had need to express
them to some one. He wished, too, that Margaret did not so openly
disapprove of what he had said in defense of the Negro that evening
at his home. For a woman, anyway, he would have preferred that
Margaret take the more humane point of view. He was old-fashioned
enough to believe that a woman should display the softer virtues.
“What are you thinking about?” Margaret pouted coquettishly.
“You haven’t said a word to me for five minutes, excepting
monosyllables.”
“Oh, a lot of things. I—”
 “Well, you mustn’t. That’s a bad habit. You should live instead of
thinking about it. See ‘how sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this
bank.’”
Margaret’s mood could change from the colloquial to the mock
poetic in a moment. When she quoted poetry it was with a little
exaggerated air, as though she were pretending to act.
“‘Eat thou and drink,’” she quoted grandiloquently, “‘tomorrow
thou shalt die.’ That’s what Howard recites to me sometimes. Don’t
you think that’s right?”
“Yes, perhaps it is, but it’s only one point of view. Rossetti, you
know, wrote three sonnets, each giving a different viewpoint, and
that is only one of them.”
“Oh, is that so? Anyway, I think it’s very beautiful. Don’t you?”
Margaret relapsed into her poetic mood. She would ask Robert if
he had heard this or that and then recite it with her coquettishly
exaggerated emotion. It was very delightful on the whole. If she
wished to sit closer to him, too, or hold his hand she could do it in
play, as though it were part of the gestures accompanying the
recitation. Some of the poems she quoted, Robert thought splendid,
but others were sentimental bits that she had picked up from the
fillers in the evening newspaper. She would quote, almost in the
same breath with Shakespeare, the rhymed imbecilities of a
syndicate humorist whose chief contribution to poesy was his
method of arranging the lines so that they were separated by little
asterisks and so that one had to read from the bottom line to the
top. Probably otherwise nobody would ever read the stuff. The
announced object of arranging the lines from bottom to top was to
get the reader in the habit of always looking upward and onward to
higher things, the highest thing being the rhymster’s signature, Milt
Elkron, on the very pinnacle.
There were quarter hours, too, when Margaret would discuss
“books,” that is, fiction. Here, too, she would speak of O. Henry,
Henry James and James Branch Cabell with indiscriminate
enthusiasm, although the first of the three was the only one of
whom she had really read more than one volume.
“I didn’t like Wells’ last book. It was very disappointing. Not much
plot. Too heavy. But Harold Bell Wright has a corking story. It’s just
like life!”
Robert liked Margaret’s make-believe mood, during which she
pretended to be giving expression to some inner spirit through the
medium of verse. Pretense, after all, was something. And she
pretended without in the least attempting to deceive. It was just a
game. Of course, she expected him to return her little sallies with
others in kind or with graceful, flowery compliments, which he could
do skilfully. For instance, if she, coming to a dark spot in the road,
and letting go of his arm, suddenly cried: “Thou know’st the wash of
night is on my face, else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek,”
he would reply: “Lady, by yonder blessed moon, I swear”—or
something about Stygian darkness, and they would both laugh.
“Why don’t you ever write poetry?” asked Margaret, as they
stopped before her house. “I think you ought to write something
splendid. I have a trade-last for you.”
“Oh, have you? What is it? I’m all ears.”
“But you must tell me one first,” she pouted.
That struck him as another one of her childish absurdities.
“Oh, I—a—know some one who thinks you’re the prettiest girl in
Corinth.”
“Do you? Who’s that?”
“Guess?”
“Can’t.”
“Try.”
“It isn’t, it isn’t you? Oh, that isn’t fair? You just made that up!”