The Quest of the Silver Fleece

by W. E. B. Dubois

  “I understand you do, and that you made an unusually fine speech on the subject the other night.”

  “Thank you, sir.” This was a good deal more than Bles had expected, and he was embarrassed.

  “Well, now, we think you’re just the man to take the stump during September and October and convince the colored people of their real interests.”

  “I doubt if I could, sir; I’m not a speaker. In fact, that was my first public speech.”

  “So much the better. Are you willing to try?”

  “Why, yes, sir; but I could hardly afford to give up my position.”

  “We’ll arrange for a leave of absence.”

  “Then I’ll try, sir.”

  “What would you expect as pay?”

  “I suppose my salary would stop?”

  “I mean in addition to that.”

  “Oh, nothing, sir; I’d be glad to do the work.”

  The chairman nearly choked; sitting back, he eyed the young man. Either they were dealing with a fool, or else a very astute politician. If the former, how far could they trust him; if the latter, what was his game?

  “Of course, there’ll be considerable travelling,” the chairman ventured, looking reflectively out of the window.

  “Yes, sir, I suppose so.”

  “We might pay the railroad fare.”

  “Thank you, sir. When shall I begin?”

  The chairman consulted his calendar.

  “Suppose you hold yourself in readiness for one week from today.”

  “All right,” and Bles rose. “Good-day, gentlemen.”

  But the chairman was still puzzled.

  “Now, what’s his game?” he asked helplessly.

  “He may be honest,” offered Senator Smith, contemplating the door almost wistfully.

  The campaign progressed. The National Republican Committee said little about the Negro revolt and affected to ignore it. The papers were silent. Underneath this calm, however, the activity was redoubled. The prominent Negroes were carefully catalogued, written to, and put under personal influence. The Negro papers were quietly subsidized, and they began to ridicule and reproach the new leaders.

  As the Fall progressed, mass-meetings were held in Washington and the small towns. Larger and larger ones were projected, and more and more Alwyn was pushed to the front. He was developing into a most effective speaker. He had the voice, the presence, the ideas, and above all he was intensely in earnest. There were other colored orators with voice, presence, and eloquence; but their people knew their record and discounted them. Alwyn was new, clear, and sincere, and the black folk hung on his words. Large and larger crowds greeted him until he was the central figure in a half dozen great negro mass-meetings in the chief cities of the country, culminating in New York the night before election. Perhaps the secret newspaper work, the personal advice of employers and friends, and the liberal distribution of cash, would have delivered a large part of the Negro vote to the Republican candidate. Perhaps—but there was a doubt. With the work of Alwyn, however, all doubt disappeared, and there was little reason for denying that the new President walked into the White House through the instrumentality of an unknown Georgia Negro, little past his majority. This is what Senator Smith said to Mr. Easterly; what Miss Wynn said to herself; and it was what Mrs. Vanderpool remarked to Zora as Zora was combing her hair on the Wednesday after election.

  Zora murmured an indistinct response. As already something of the beauty of the world had found question and answer in her soul, and as she began to realize how the world had waxed old in thought and stature, so now in their last days a sense of the power of men, as set over against the immensity and force of their surroundings, became real to her. She had begun to read of the lives and doing of those called great, and in her mind a plan was forming. She saw herself standing dim within the shadows, directing the growing power of a man: a man who would be great as the world counted greatness, rich, high in position, powerful—wonderful because his face was black. He would never see her; never know how she worked and planned, save perhaps at last, in that supreme moment as she passed, her soul would cry to his, “Redeemed!” And he would understand.

  All this she was thinking and weaving; not clearly and definitely, but in great blurred clouds of thought of things as she said slowly:

  “He should have a great position for this.”

  “Why, certainly,” Mrs. Vanderpool agreed, and then curiously: “What?”

  Zora considered. “Negroes,” she said, “have been Registers of the Treasury, and Recorders of Deeds here in Washington, and Douglas was Marshal; but I want Bles—” she paused and started again. “Those are not great enough for Mr. Alwyn; he should have an office so important that Negroes would not think of leaving their party again.”

  Mrs. Vanderpool took pains to repeat Zora’s words to Mr. Easterly. He considered the matter.

  “In one sense, it’s good advice,” he admitted; “but there’s the South to reckon with. I’ll think it over and speak to the President. Oh, yes; I’m going to mention France at the same time.”

  Mrs. Vanderpool smiled and leaned back in her carriage. She noted with considerable interest the young colored woman who was watching her from the sidewalk: a brown, well-appearing young woman of notable self-possession. Caroline Wynn scrutinized Mrs. Vanderpool because she had been speaking with Mr. Easterly, and Mr. Easterly was a figure of political importance. That very morning Miss Wynn had telegraphed Bles Alwyn. Alwyn arrived at Washington just as the morning papers heralded the sweeping Republican victory. All about he met new deference and new friends; strangers greeted him familiarly on the street; Sam Stillings became his shadow; and when he reported for work his chief and fellow clerks took unusual interest in him.

  “Have you seen Senator Smith yet?” Miss Wynn asked after a few words of congratulation.

  “No. What for?”

  “What for?” she answered. “Go to him today; don’t fail. I shall be at home at eight tonight.”

  It seemed to Bles an exceedingly silly thing to do—calling on a busy man with no errand; but he went. He decided that he would just thank the Senator for his interest, and get out; or, if the Senator was busy, he would merely send in his card. Evidently the Senator was busy, for his waiting-room was full. Bles handed the card to the secretary with a word of apology, but the secretary detained him.

  “Ah, Mr. Alwyn,” he said affably; “glad to see you. The Senator will want to see you, I know. Wait just a minute.” And soon Bles was shaking Senator Smith’s hand.

  “Well, Mr. Alwyn,” said the Senator heartily, “you delivered the goods.”

  “Thank you, sir. I tried to.”

  Senator Smith thoughtfully looked him over and drew out the letters.

  “Your friends, Mr. Alwyn,” he said, adjusting his glasses, “have a rather high opinion of you. Here now is Stillings, who helped on the campaign. He suggests an eighteen-hundred-dollar clerkship for you.” The Senator glanced up keenly and omitted to state what Stillings suggested for himself. Alwyn was visibly grateful as well as surprised.

  “I—I hoped,” he began hesitatingly, “that perhaps I might get a promotion, but I had not thought of a first-class clerkship.”

  “H’m.” Senator Smith leaned back and twiddled his thumbs, staring at Alwyn until the hot blood darkened his cheeks. Then Bles sat up and stared politely but steadily back. The Senator’s eyes dropped and he put out his hand for the second note.

  “Now, your friend, Miss Wynn”—Alwyn started—“is even more ambitious. He handed her letter to the young man, and pointed out the words.

  “Of course, Senator,” Bles read, “we expect Mr. Alwyn to be the next Register of the Treasury.”

  Bles looked up in amazement, but the Senator reached for a third letter. The room was very still. At last he found it. “This,” he announced quietly, “is from a man of great power and influence, who has the ear of the new President.” He smoothed out the letter, paused briefly, then r
ead aloud:

  “ ‘It has been suggested to me by’ ”—the Senator did not read the name; if he had “Mrs. Vanderpool” would have meant little to Alwyn—“ ‘It has been suggested to me by blank that the future allegiance of the Negro vote to the Republican Party might be insured by giving to some prominent Negro a high political position—for instance, Treasurer of the United States’—salary, six thousand dollars,” interpolated Senator Smith—“ ‘and that Alwyn would be a popular and safe appointment for that position.’ ”

  The Senator did not read the concluding sentence, which ran: “Think this over; we can’t touch political conditions in the South; perhaps this sop will do.”

  For a long time Alwyn sat motionless, while the Senator said nothing. Then the young man rose unsteadily.

  “I don’t think I quite grasp all this,” he said as he shook hands. “I’ll think it over,” and he went out.

  When Caroline Wynn heard of that extraordinary conversation her amazement knew no bounds. Yet Alwyn ventured to voice doubts:

  “I’m not fitted for either of those high offices; there are many others who deserve more, and I don’t somehow like the idea of seeming to have worked hard in the campaign simply for money or fortune. You see, I talked against that very thing.”

  Miss Wynn’s eyes widened.

  “Well, what else—” she began and then changed. “Mr. Alwyn, the line between virtue and foolishness is dim and wavering, and I should hate to see you lost in that marshy borderland. By a streak of extraordinary luck you have gained the political leadership of Negroes in America. Here’s your chance to lead your people, and here you stand blinking and hesitating. Be a man!”

  Alwyn straightened up and felt his doubts going. The evening passed very pleasantly.

  “I’m going to have a little dinner for you,” said Miss Wynn finally, and Alwyn grew hot with pleasure. He turned to her suddenly and said:

  “Why, I’m rather—black.” She expressed no surprise but said reflectively:

  “You are dark.”

  “And I’ve been given to understand that Miss Wynn and her set rather—well, preferred the lighter shades of colored folk.”

  Miss Wynn laughed lightly.

  “My parents did,” she said simply. “No dark man ever entered their house; they were simply copying the white world. Now I, as a matter of aesthetic beauty, prefer your brown-velvet color to a jaundiced yellow, or even an uncertain cream; but the world doesn’t.”

  “The world?”

  “Yes, the world; and especially America. One may be Chinese, Spaniard, even Indian—anything white or dirty white in this land, and demand decent treatment; but to be Negro or darkening toward it unmistakably means perpetual handicap and crucifixion.”

  “Why not, then, admit that you draw the color-line?”

  “Because I don’t; but the world does. I am not prejudiced as my parents were, but I am foresighted. Indeed, it is a deep ethical query, is it not, how far one has the right to bear black children to the world in the Land of the Free and the home of the brave. Is it fair—to the children?”

  “Yes, it is!” he cried vehemently. “The more to take up the fight, the surer the victory.”

  She laughed at his earnestness.

  “You are refreshing,” she said. “Well, we’ll dine next Tuesday, and we’ll have the cream of our world to meet you.”

  He knew that this was a great triumph. It flattered his vanity. After all, he was entering this higher dark world whose existence had piqued and puzzled him so long. He glanced at Miss Wynn beside him there in the dimly lighted parlor: she looked so aloof and unapproachable, so handsome and so elegant. He thought how she would complete a house—such a home as his prospective four or six thousand dollars a year could easily purchase. She saw him surveying her, and she smiled at him.

  “I find but one fault with you,” she said.

  He stammered for a pretty speech, but did not find it before she continued:

  “Yes—you are so delightfully primitive; you will not use the world as it is but insist on acting as if it were something else.”

  “I am not sure I understand.”

  “Well, there is the wife of my Judge: she is a fact in my world; in yours she is a problem to be stated, straightened, and solved. If she had come to you, as she did to me yesterday, with her theory that all that Southern Negroes needed was to learn how to make good servants and lay brick—”

  “I should have shown her—” Bles tried to interject.

  “Nothing of the sort. You would have tried to show her and would have failed miserably. She hasn’t learned anything in twenty years.”

  “But surely you didn’t join her in advocating that ten million people be menials?”

  “Oh, no; I simply listened.”

  “Well, there was no harm in that; I believe in silence at times.”

  “Ah! but I did not listen like a log, but positively and eloquently; with a nod, a half-formed word, a comment begun, which she finished.”

  Bles frowned.

  “As a result,” continued Miss Wynn, “I have a check for five hundred dollars to finish our cooking-school and buy a cast of Minerva for the assembly-room. More than that, I have now a wealthy friend. She thinks me an unusually clever person who, by a process of thought not unlike her own, has arrived at very similar conclusions.”

  “But—but,” objected Bles, “if the time spent cajoling fools were used in convincing the honest and upright, think how much we would gain.”

  “Very little. The honest and upright are a sad minority. Most of these white folk—believe me, boy,” she said caressingly,—“are fools and knaves: they don’t want truth or progress; they want to keep niggers down.”

  “I don’t believe it; there are scores, thousands, perhaps millions such, I admit; but the average American loves justice and right, and he is the one to whom I appeal with frankness and truth. Great heavens! don’t you love to be frank and open?”

  She narrowed her eyelids.

  “Yes, sometimes I do; once I was; but it’s a luxury few of us Negroes can afford. Then, too, I insist that it’s jolly to fool them.”

  “Don’t you hate the deception?”

  She chuckled and put her head to one side.

  “At first I did; but, do you know, now I believe I prefer it.”

  He looked so horrified that she burst out laughing. He laughed too. She was a puzzle to him. He kept thinking what a mistress of a mansion she would make.

  “Why do you say these things?” he asked suddenly.

  “Because I want you to do well here in Washington.”

  “General philanthropy?”

  “No, special.” Her eyes were bright with meaning.

  “Then you care—for me?”

  “Yes.”

  He bent forward and cast the die.

  “Enough to marry me?”

  She answered very calmly and certainly:

  “Yes.”

  He leaned toward her. And then between him and her lips a dark and shadowy face; two great storm-swept eyes looked into his out of a world of infinite pain, and he dropped his head in hesitation and shame, and kissed her hand. Miss Wynn thought him delightfully bashful.

  Twenty-six

  CONGRESSMAN CRESSWELL

  The election of Harry Cresswell to Congress was a very simple matter. The Colonel and his son drove to town and consulted the Judge; together they summoned the sheriff and the local member of the State legislature.

  “I think it’s about time that we Cresswells asked for a little of the political pie,” the Colonel smilingly opened.

  “Well, what do you want?” asked the Judge.

  “Harry wants to go to Congress.”

  The Judge hesitated. “We’d half promised that to Caldwell,” he objected.

  “It will be a little costly this year, too,” suggested the sheriff, tentatively.

  “About how much?” asked the Colonel.

  “At least five thousand,”
said the Legislator.

  The Colonel said nothing. He simply wrote a check and the matter was settled. In the Fall Harry Cresswell was declared elected. There were four hundred and seventy-two votes cast but the sheriff added a cipher. He said it would look better.

  Early December found the Cresswells domiciled in a small house in Du Pont Circle, Washington. They had an automobile and four servants, and the house was furnished luxuriously. Mary Taylor Cresswell, standing in her morning room and looking out on the flowers of the square, told herself that few people in the world had cause to be as happy as she. She was tastefully gowned, in a way to set off her blonde beauty and her delicate rounded figure. She was surrounded with wealth, and above all, she was in that atmosphere of aristocracy for which she had always yearned; and already she was acquiring that poise of the head, and a manner of directing the servants, which showed her born to the purple.

  She had cause to be extremely happy, she told herself this morning, and yet she was puzzled to understand why she was not. Why was she restless and vaguely ill at ease so often these days?

  One matter, indeed, did worry her; but that would right itself in time, she was sure. She had always pictured herself as directing her husband’s work. She did not plan to step in and demand a share; she knew from experience with her brother that a woman must prove her usefulness to a man before he will admit it, and even then he may be silent. She intended gradually and tactfully to relieve her husband of care connected with his public life so that, before he realized it, she would be his guiding spirit and his inspiration. She had dreamed the details of doing this so long that it seemed already done, and she could imagine no obstacle to its realization. And yet she found herself today no nearer her goal than when first she married. Not because Mr. Cresswell did not share his work, but because, apparently, he had no work, no duties, no cares. At first, in the dim glories of the honeymoon, this seemed but part of his delicate courtesy toward her, and it pleased her despite her thrifty New England nature; but now that they were settled in Washington, the election over and Congress in session, it really seemed time for Work and Life to begin in dead earnest, and New England Mary was dreaming mighty dreams and golden futures.