The Quest of the Silver Fleece

by W. E. B. Dubois

  Essentially Mrs. Vanderpool was unmoral. She held the code of her social set with sportsmanlike honor; but even beyond this she stooped to no intrigue, because none interested her. She had all the elements of power save the motive for doing anything in particular. For the first time, perhaps, Zora gave her life a peculiar human interest. She did not love the girl, but she was intensely interested in her; some of the interest was selfish, for Zora was going to be a perfect maid. The girl’s language came to be more and more like Mrs. Vanderpool’s; her dress and taste in adornment had been Mrs. Vanderpool’s first care, and it led to a curious training in art and sense of beauty until the lady now and then found herself learner before the quick suggestiveness of Zora’s mind.

  When Mrs. Harry Cresswell called a month or so later the talk naturally included mention of Zora. Mary was happy and vivacious, and noted the girl’s rapid development.

  “I wonder what I shall make out of her?” queried Mrs. Vanderpool. “Do you know, I believe I could mould her into a lady if she were not black.”

  Mary Cresswell laughed. “With that hair?”

  “It has artistic possibilities. You should have seen my hair-dresser’s face when I told her to do it up. Her face and Zora’s were a pantomime for the gods. Yet it was done. It lay in some great twisted cloud and in that black net gown of mine Zora was simply magnificent. Her form is perfect, her height is regal, her skin is satin, and my jewels found a resting place at last. Jewels, you know, dear, were never meant for white folk. I was tempted to take her to the box at the opera and let New York break its impudent neck.”

  Mary was shocked.

  “But, Mrs. Vanderpool,” she protested, “is it right? Is it fair? Why should you spoil this black girl and put impossible ideas into her head? You can make her a perfect maid, but she can never be much more in America.”

  “She is a perfect maid now; that’s the miracle of it—she’s that deft and quick and quiet and thoughtful! The hotel employees think her perfect; my friends rave—really, I’m the most blessed of women. But do you know I like the girl? I—well, I think of her future.”

  “It’s wrong to treat her as you do. You make her an equal. Her room is one of the best and filled with books and bric-a-brac. She sometimes eats with you—is your companion, in fact.”

  “What of it? She loves to read, and I guide her while she keeps me up on the latest stuff. She can talk much better than many of my friends and then she piques my curiosity: she’s a sort of intellectual sauce that stirs my rapidly failing mental appetite. I think that as soon as I can make up my mind to spare her, I’ll take her to France and marry her off in the colonies.”

  “Well, that’s possible; but one doesn’t easily give up good servants. By the way, I learn from Miss Smith that the boy, Bles Alwyn, in whom Zora was so interested, is a clerk in the Treasury Department at Washington.”

  “Indeed! I’m going to Washington this winter; I’ll look him over and see if he’s worth Zora—which I greatly doubt.”

  Mrs. Cresswell pursed her lips and changed the subject.

  “Have you seen the Easterlys?”

  “The ladies left their cards—they are quite impossible. Mr. Easterly calls this afternoon. I can’t imagine why, but he asked for an appointment. Will you go South with Mr. Cresswell? I’m glad to hear he’s entering politics.”

  “No, I shall do some early house hunting in Washington,” said Mrs. Cresswell, rising as Mr. Easterly was announced.

  Mr. Easterly was not at home in Mrs. Vanderpool’s presence. She spoke a language different from his, and she had shown a disconcerting way, in the few times when he had spoken with her, of letting the weight of the conversation rest on him. He felt very distinctly that Mrs. Vanderpool was not particularly desirous of his company, nor that of his family. Nevertheless, he needed Mrs. Vanderpool’s influence just now, and he was willing to pay considerable for it. Once under obligation to him her services would be very valuable. He was glad to find Mrs. Cresswell there. It showed that the Cresswells were still intimate, and the Cresswells were bound to him and his interests by strong ties. He bowed as Mrs. Cresswell left, and then did not beat around the bush because, in this case, he did not know how.

  “Mrs. Vanderpool, I need your aid.”

  Mrs. Vanderpool smiled politely, and murmured something.

  “We are, you know, in the midst of a rather warm presidential campaign,” continued Mr. Easterly.

  “Yes?” with polite interest.

  “We are going to win easily, but our majority in Congress for certain matters will depend on the attitude of Southerners and you usually spend the winters in Washington. If, now, you could drop a word here and there—”

  “But why should I?” asked Mrs. Vanderpool.

  “Mrs. Vanderpool, to be frank, I know some excellent investments that your influence in this line would help. I take it you’re not so rich but that—”

  Mrs. Vanderpool smiled faintly.

  “Really, Mr. Easterly, I know little about such matters and care less. I have food and clothes. Why worry with more?”

  Mr. Easterly half expected this and he determined to deliver his last shot on the run. He arose with a disappointed air.

  “Of course, Mrs. Vanderpool, I see how it is: you have plenty and one can’t expect your services or influence for nothing. It had occurred to me that your husband might like something political; but I presume not.”

  “Something political?”

  “Yes. You see, it’s barely possible, for instance, that there will be a change in the French ambassadorship. The present ambassador is old and—well, I don’t know, but as I say, it’s possible. Of course though, that may not appeal to you, and I can only beg your good offices in charity if—if you see your way to help us. Well, I must be going.”

  “What is—I thought the President appointed ambassadors.”

  “To be sure, but we appoint Presidents,” laughed Mr. Easterly. “Good-day. I shall hope to see you in Washington.”

  “Good-day,” Mrs. Vanderpool returned absently.

  After he had gone she walked slowly to Zora’s room and opened the door. For a long time she stood quietly looking in. Zora was curled in a chair with a book. She was in dreamland; in a world of books builded thoughtfully for her by Mrs. Vanderpool, and before that by Miss Smith. Her work took but little of her time and left hours for reading and thinking. In that thought-life, more and more her real living centred.

  Hour after hour, day after day, she lay buried, deaf and dumb to all else. Her heart cried, up on the World’s four corners of the Way, and to it came the Vision Splendid. She gossiped with old Herodotus across the earth to the black and blameless Ethiopians; she saw the sculptured glories of Phidias marbled amid the splendor of the swamp; she listened to Demosthenes and walked the Appian Way with Cornelia—while all New York streamed beneath her window.

  She saw the drunken Goths reel upon Rome and heard the careless Negroes yodle as they galloped to Toomsville. Paris, she knew,—wonderful, haunting Paris: the Paris of Clovis, and St. Louis; of Louis the Great, and Napoleon III; of Balzac, and her own Dumas. She tasted the mud and comfort of thick old London, and the while wept with Jeremiah and sang with Deborah, Semiramis, and Atala. Mary of Scotland and Joan of Arc held her dark hands in theirs, and Kings lifted up their sceptres.

  She walked on worlds, and worlds of worlds, and heard there in her little room the tread of armies, the paeans of victory, the breaking of hearts, and the music of the spheres.

  Mrs. Vanderpool watched her a while.

  “Zora,” she presently broke into the girl’s absorption, “how would you like to be Ambassador to France?”

  Twenty-four

  THE EDUCATION OF ALWYN

  Miss Caroline Wynn of Washington had little faith in the world and its people. Nor was this wholly her fault. The world had dealt cruelly with the young dreams and youthful ambitions of the girl; partly with its usual heartlessness, partly with that cynical and deadening reser
ve fund which it has today for its darker peoples. The girl had bitterly resented her experiences at first: she was brilliant and well-trained; she had a real talent for sculpture, and had studied considerably; she was sprung from at least three generations of respectable mulattoes, who had left a little competence which yielded her three or four hundred dollars a year. Furthermore, while not precisely pretty, she was good-looking and interesting, and she had acquired the marks and insignia of good breeding. Perhaps she wore her manners just a trifle consciously; perhaps she was a little morbid that she would fail of recognition as a lady. Nor was this unnatural: her brown skin invited a different assumption. Despite this almost unconscious mental aggressiveness, she was unusually presentable and always well-groomed and pleasant of speech. Yet she found nearly all careers closed to her. At first it seemed accidental, the luck of life. Then she attributed it to her sex; but at last she was sure that, beyond chance and womanhood, it was the colorline that was hemming her in. Once convinced of this, she let her imagination play and saw the line even where it did not exist.

  With her bit of property and brilliant parts she had had many suitors but they had been refused one after another for reasons she could hardly have explained. For years now Tom Teerswell had been her escort. Whether or not Caroline Wynn would every marry him was a perennial subject of speculation among their friends and it usually ended in the verdict that she could not afford it—that it was financially impossible.

  Nevertheless, the two were usually seen in public together, and although she often showed her quiet mastery of the situation, seldom had she snubbed him so openly as at the Treble Clef concert.

  Teerswell was furious and began to plot vengeance; but Miss Wynn was attracted by the personality of Bles Alwyn. Southern country Negroes were rare in her set, but here was a man of intelligence and keenness coupled with an amazing frankness and modesty, and perceptibly shadowed by sorrow. The combination was, so far as she had observed, both rare and temporary and she was disposed to watch it in this case purely as a matter of intellectual curiosity. At the door of her home, therefore, after a walk of unusual interest, she said:

  “I’m going to have a few friends in next Tuesday night; won’t you come, Mr. Alwyn?” And Mr. Alwyn said that he would.

  Next morning Miss Wynn rather repented her hasty invitation, but of course nothing could be done now. Nothing? Well, there was one thing; and she went to the telephone. A suggestion to Bles that he might profitably extend his acquaintance sent him to a certain tailor shop kept by a friend of hers; a word to the tailor guarded against the least suspicion of intrigue entering Bles’s head.

  It turned out quite as Miss Wynn had designed; Mr. Grey, the tailor, gave Bles some points on dressing, and made him, Southern fashion, a frock-coat for dress wear that set off his fine figure. On the night of the gathering at Miss Wynn’s Bles dressed with care, hesitating long over a necktie, but at last choosing one which he had recently purchased and which pleased him particularly. He was prompt to the minute and was consequently the first guest; but Miss Wynn’s greeting was so quietly cordial that his embarrassment soon fled. She looked him over at leisure and sighed at his tie; otherwise he was thoroughly presentable according to the strictest Washington standard.

  They sat down and talked of generalities. Then an idea occurring to her, she conducted the conversation by devious paths to ties and asked Alwyn if he had heard of the fad of collecting ties. He had not, and she showed him a sofa pillow.

  “Your tie quite attracted me,” she said; “it would make just the dash of color I need in my new pillow.”

  “You may have it and welcome. I’ll send—”

  “Oh, no! A bird in the hand, you know. I’ll trade with you now for another I have.”

  “Done!”

  The exchange was soon made, Miss Wynn tying the new one herself and sticking a small carved pin in it. Bles slowly sat down again, and after a pause said, “Thank you.”

  She looked up quickly, but he seemed quite serious and good-natured.

  “You see,” he explained, “in the country we don’t know much about ties.”

  The well-balanced Miss Wynn for a moment lost her aplomb, but only for a moment.

  “We must all learn,” she replied with penetration, and so their friendship was established.

  The company now began to gather, and soon the double parlor held an assemblage of twenty-five or thirty persons. They formed a picturesque group: conventional but graceful in dress; animated in movement; full of good-natured laughter, but quite un-American in the beautiful modulation of their speaking tones; chiefly noticeable, however, to a stranger, in the vast variety of color in skin, which imparted to the throng a piquant and unusual interest. Every color was here; from the dark brown of Alwyn, who was customarily accounted black, to the pale pink-white of Miss Jones, who could “pass for white” when she would, and found her greatest difficulties when she was trying to “pass” for black. Midway between these two extremes lay the sallow pastor of the church, the creamy Miss Williams, the golden yellow of Mr. Teerswell, the golden brown of Miss Johnson, and the velvet brown of Mr. Grey. The guest themselves did not notice this; they were used to asking one’s color as one asks of height and weight; it was simply an extra dimension in their world whereby to classify men.

  Beyond this and their hair, there was little to distinguish them from a modern group of men and women. The speech was a softened English, purely and, on the whole, correctly spoken—so much so that it seemed at first almost unfamiliar to Bles, and he experienced again the uncomfortable feeling of being among strangers. Then, too, he missed the loud but hearty good-nature of what he had always called “his people.” To be sure, a more experienced observer might have noted a lively, excitable tropical temperament set and cast in a cold Northern mould, and yet flashing fire now and then in a sudden anomalous out-bursting. But Bles missed this; he seemed to have slipped and lost his bearings, and the characteristics of his simple world were rolling curiously about. Here stood a black man with a white man’s voice, and yonder a white woman with a Negro’s musical cadences; and yet again, a brown girl with exactly Miss Cresswell’s air, and yonder, Miss Williams, with Zora’s wistful willfulness.

  Bles was bewildered and silent, and his great undying sorrow sank on his heart with sickening hopeless weight. His hands got in the way, and he found no natural nook in all those wide and tastefully furnished rooms. Once he discovered himself standing by a marble statue of a nude woman, and he edged away; then he stumbled over a rug and saved himself only to step on Miss Jones’s silken train. Miss Jones’s smile of pardon was wintry. When he did approach a group and listen, they seemed speaking of things foreign to him—usually of people he did not know, their homes, their doings, their daughters and their fathers. They seemed to know people intimately who lived far away.

  “You mean the Smiths of Boston?” asked Miss Jones.

  “No, of Cleveland. They’re not related.”

  “I heard that McGhee of St. Paul will be in the city next week with his daughter.”

  “Yes, and the Bentleys of Chicago.”

  Bles passed on. He was disappointed. He was full of things to say, of mighty matters to discuss; he felt like stopping these people and crying: “Ho! What of the morning? How goes the great battle for black men’s rights? I have came with messages from the host, to you who guard the mountain tops.”

  Apparently they were not discussing or caring about “the Problem.” He grew disgusted and was edging toward the door when he encountered his hostess.

  “Is all well with you, Mr. Alwyn?” she asked lightly.

  “No, I’m not enjoying myself,” said Bles, truthfully.

  “Delicious! And why not?”

  He regarded her earnestly.

  “There are so many things to talk about,” he said; “earnest things; things of importance. I—I think when our people—” he hesitated. Our?—was our right? But he went on: “When our people meet we ought to talk of our
situation, and what to do and—”

  Miss Wynn continued to smile.

  “We’re all talking of it all the time,” she said.

  He looked incredulous.

  “Yes, we are,” she insisted. “We veil it a little, and laugh as lightly as we can; but there is only one thought in this room, and that’s grave and serious enough to suit even you, and quite your daily topic.”

  “But I don’t understand.”

  “Ah, there’s the rub. You haven’t learned our language yet. We don’t just blurt into the Negro Problem; that’s voted bad form. We leave that to our white friends. We saunter to it sideways, touch it delicately because”—her face became a little graver—“because, you see, it hurts.”

  Bles stood thoughtful and abashed.

  “I—I think I understand,” he gravely said at last.

  “Come here,” she said with a sudden turn, and they joined an absorbed group in the midst of a conversation.

  “—Thinking of sending Jessie to Bryn Mawr,” Bles heard Miss Jones saying.

  “Could she pass?”

  “Oh, they might think her Spanish.”

  “But it’s a snobbish place and she would have to give up all her friends.”

  “Yes, Freddie could scarcely visit—” the rest was lost.

  “Which, being interpreted,” whispered Miss Wynn, “means that Bryn Mawr draws the color line while we at times surmount it.”

  They moved on to another group.

  “—Splendid draughtsman,” a man was saying, “and passed at the head of the crowd; but, of course, he has no chance.”

  “Why, it’s civil-service, isn’t it?”

  “It is. But what of that? There was Watson—”