The Quest of the Silver Fleece

by W. E. B. Dubois

  Zora rose and walked up the aisle; she knelt before the altar and answered the call: “Here am I—send me.”

  And then she walked out. Above her sailed the same great stars; around her hummed the same hoarse city; but within her soul sang some new song of peace.

  “What is the matter, Zora?” Mrs. Vanderpool inquired, for she seemed to see in the girl’s face and carriage some subtle change; something that seemed to tell how out of the dream had stepped the dreamer into the realness of things; how suddenly the seeker saw; how to the wanderer, the Way was opened.

  Just how she sensed this Mrs. Vanderpool could not have explained, nor could Zora. Was there a change, sudden, cataclysmic? No. There were to come in future days all the old doubts and shiverings, the old restless cry: “It is all right—all right!” But more and more, above the doubt and beyond the unrest, rose the great end, the mighty ideal, that flickered and wavered, but ever grew and waxed strong, until it became possible, and through it all things else were possible. Thus from the grave of youth and love, amid the soft, low singing of dark and bowed worshippers, the Angel of the Resurrection rolled away the stone.

  “What is the matter, Zora?” Mrs. Vanderpool repeated.

  Zora looked up, almost happily—standing poised on her feet as if to tell of strength and purpose.

  “I have found the Way,” she cried joyously.

  Mrs. Vanderpool gave her a long searching look.

  “Where have you been?” she asked. “I’ve been waiting.”

  “I’m sorry—but I’ve been—converted.” And she told her story.

  “Pshaw, Zora!” Mrs. Vanderpool uttered impatiently. “He’s a fakir.”

  “Maybe,” said Zora serenely and quietly; “but he brought the Word.”

  “Zora, don’t talk cant; it isn’t worthy of your intelligence.”

  “It was more than intelligent—it was true.”

  “Zora—listen, child! You were wrought up tonight, nervous—wild. You were happy to meet your people, and where he said one word you supplied two. What you attribute to him is the voice of your own soul.”

  But Zora merely smiled. “All you say may be true. But what does it matter? I know one thing, like the man in the Bible: ‘Whereas I was blind now I see.’ ”

  Mrs. Vanderpool gave a little helpless gesture. “And what shall you do?” she asked.

  “I’m going back South to work for my people.”

  “When?” The old careworn look stole across Mrs. Vanderpool’s features.

  Zora came gently forward and slipped her arms lovingly about the other woman’s neck.

  “Not right off,” she said gently; “not until I learn more. I hate to leave you, but—it calls!”

  Mrs. Vanderpool held the dark girl close and began craftily:

  “You see, Zora, the more you know the more you can do.”

  “Yes.”

  “And if you are determined I will see that you are taught. You must know settlement-work and reform movements; not simply here but—” she hesitated—“in England—in France.”

  “Will it take long?” Zora asked, smoothing the lady’s hair.

  Mrs. Vanderpool considered. “No—five years is not long; it is all too short.”

  “Five years: it is very long; but there is a great deal to learn. Must I study five years?”

  Mrs. Vanderpool threw back her head.

  “Zora, I am selfish I know, but five years truly is none too long. Then, too, Zora, we have work to do in that time.”

  “What?”

  “There is Alwyn’s career,” and Mrs. Vanderpool looked into Zora’s eyes.

  The girl did not shrink, but she paused.

  “Yes,” she said slowly, “we must help him.”

  “And after he rises—”

  “He will marry.”

  “Whom?”

  “The woman he loves,” returned Zora, quietly.

  “Yes—that is best,” sighed Mrs. Vanderpool. “But how shall we help him?”

  “Make him Treasurer of the United States without sacrificing his manhood or betraying his people.”

  “I can do that,” said Mrs. Vanderpool slowly.

  “It will cost something,” said Zora.

  “I will do it,” was the lady’s firm assurance. Zora kissed her.

  The next afternoon Mrs. Cresswell went down to a white social settlement of which Congressman Todd had spoken, where a meeting of the Civic Club was to be held. She had come painfully to realize that if she was to have a career she must make it for herself. The plain, unwelcome truth was that her husband had no great interests in life in which she could find permanent pleasure. Companionship and love there was and, she told herself, always would be; but in some respects their lives must flow in two streams. Last night, for the second time, she had irritated him; he had spoken almost harshly to her, and she knew she must brood or work today. And so she hunted work, eagerly.

  She felt the atmosphere the moment she entered. There were carelessly gowned women and men smart and shabby, but none of them were thinking of clothes nor even of one another. They had great deeds in mind; they were scanning the earth; they were toiling for men. The same grim excitement that sends smaller souls hunting for birds and rabbits and lions, had sent them hunting the enemies of mankind: they were bent to the chase, scenting the game, knowing the infinite meaning of their hunt and the glory of victory. Mary Cresswell had listened but a half hour before her world seemed so small and sordid and narrow, so trivial, that a sense of shame spread over her. These people were not only earnest, but expert. They acknowledged the need of Mr. Todd’s educational bill.

  “But the Republicans are going to side-track it; I have that on the best authority,” said one.

  “True; but can’t we force them to it?”

  “Only by political power, and they’ve just won a campaign.”

  “They won it by Negro votes, and the Negro who secured the votes is eager for this bill; he’s a fine, honest fellow.”

  “Very well; work with him; and when we can be of real service let us know. Meantime, this Child Labor bill is different. It’s bound to pass. Both parties are back of it, and public opinion is aroused. Now our work is to force amendments enough to make the bill effective.”

  Discussion followed; not flamboyant and declamatory, but tense, staccato, pointed. Mrs. Cresswell found herself taking part. Someone mentioned her name, and one or two glances of interest and even curiosity were thrown her way. Congressmen’s wives were rare at the Civic Club.

  Congressmen Todd urged Mrs. Cresswell to stay after the discussion and attend a meeting of the managers and workers of the Washington social settlements.

  “Have you many settlements?” she inquired.

  “Three in all—two white and one colored.”

  “And will they all be represented?”

  “Yes, of course, Mrs. Cresswell. If you object to meeting the colored people—”

  Mrs. Cresswell blushed.

  “No, indeed,” she answered; “I used to teach colored people.”

  She watched this new group gather: a business man, two fashionable ladies, three college girls, a gray-haired colored woman, and a young spectacled brown man, and then, to her surprise, Mrs. Vanderpool and Zora.

  Zora was scarcely seated when that strange sixth sense of hers told her that something had happened, and it needed but a side-glance from Mrs. Vanderpool to indicate what it was. She sat with folded hands and the old dreamy look in her eyes. In one moment she lived it all again—the red cabin, the moving oak, the sowing of the Fleece, and its fearful reaping. And now, when she turned her head, she would see the woman who was to marry Bles Alwyn. She had often dreamed of her, and had set a high ideal. She wanted her to be handsome, well dressed, earnest and good. She felt a sort of person proprietorship in her, and when at last the quickened pulse died to its regular healthy beat, she turned and looked and knew.

  Caroline Wynn deemed it a part of the white world’s education to
participate in meetings like this; doing so was not pleasant, but it appealed to her cynicism and mocking sense of pleasure. She always roused hostility as she entered: her gown was too handsome, her gloves too spotless, her air had hauteur enough to be almost impudent in the opinion of most white people. Then gradually her intelligence, her cool wit and self-possession, would conquer and she would go gracefully out leaving a rather bewildered audience behind. She sat today with her dark gold profile toward Zora, and the girl looked and was glad. She was such a woman she would have Bles marry. She was glad, and she choked back the sob that struggled and fought in her throat.

  The meeting never got beyond a certain constraint. The Congressman made an excellent speech; there were various sets of figures read by the workers; and Miss Wynn added a touch of spice by several pertinent questions and comments. Then, as the meeting broke up and Mrs. Cresswell came forward to speak to Zora, Mrs. Vanderpool managed to find herself near Miss Wynn and to be introduced. They exchanged a few polite phrases, fencing delicately to test the other’s wrist and interest. They touched on the weather, and settlement work; but Miss Wynn did not propose to be stranded on the Negro problem.

  “I suppose the next bit of excitement will be in the inauguration,” she said to Mrs. Vanderpool.

  “I understand it will be unusually elaborate,” returned Mrs. Vanderpool, a little surprised at the turn. Then she added pleasantly: “I think I shall see it through, from speech to ball.”

  “Yes, I do usually,” Miss Wynn asserted, adjusting her furs.

  Mrs. Vanderpool was further surprised. Did colored people attend the ball?

  “We sorely need a national ball-room,” she said. “Isn’t the census building wretched?”

  “I do not know,” smiled Miss Wynn.

  “Oh, I thought you said—”

  “I meant our ball.”

  “Oh!” said Mrs. Vanderpool in turn. “Oh!” Here a thought came. Of course, the colored people had their own ball; she remembered having heard about it. Why not send Zora? She plunged in:

  “Miss Wynn, I have a maid—such an intelligent girl; I do wish she could attend your ball—” seeing her blunder, she paused. Miss Wynn was coolly buttoning her glove.

  “Yes,” she acknowledged politely, “few of us can afford maids, and therefore we do not usually arrange for them; but I think we can have your protégée look on from the gallery. Good-afternoon.”

  As Mrs. Vanderpool drove home she related the talk to Zora. Zora was silent at first. Then she said deliberately:

  “Miss Wynn was right.”

  “Why, Zora!”

  “Did Helene attend the ball four years ago?”

  “But, Zora, must you folk ape our nonsense as well as our sense?”

  “You force us to,” said Zora.

  Twenty-eight

  THE ANNUNCIATION

  The new President had been inaugurated. Beneath the creamy pile of the old Capitol, and facing the new library, he had stood aloft and looked down on a waving sea of faces—black-coated, jostling, eager-eyed fellow creatures. They had watched his lips move, had scanned eagerly his dress and the gowned and decorated dignitaries beside him; and then, with blare of band and prancing of horses, he had been whirled down the dip and curve of that long avenue, with its medley of meanness and thrift and hurry and wealth, until, swinging sharply, the dim walls of the White House rose before him. He entered with a sigh.

  Then the vast welter of humanity dissolved and streamed hither and thither, gaping and laughing until night, when thousands poured into the red barn of the census shack and entered the artificial fairyland within. The President walked through, smiling; the senators protected their friends in the crush; and Harry Cresswell led his wife to a little oasis of Southern ladies and gentlemen.

  “This is democracy for you,” said he, wiping his brow.

  From a whirling eddy Mrs. Vanderpool waved at them, and they rescued her.

  “I think I am ready to go,” she gasped. “Did you ever!”

  “Come,” Cresswell invited. But just then the crowd pushed them apart and shot them along, and Mrs. Cresswell found herself clinging to her husband amid two great whirling variegated throngs of driving, white-faced people. The band crashed and blared; the people laughed and pushed; and with rhythmic sound and swing the mighty throng was dancing.

  It took much effort, but at last the Cresswell party escaped and rolled off in their carriages. They swept into the avenue and out again, then up 14th Street, where, turning for some street obstruction, they passed a throng of carriages on a cross street.

  “It’s the other ball,” cried Mrs. Vanderpool, and amid laughter she added, “Let’s go!”

  It was—the other ball. For Washington is itself, and something else besides. Along beside it ever runs that dark and haunting echo; that shadowy world-in-world with its accusing silence, its emphatic self-sufficiency. Mrs. Cresswell at first demurred. She thought of Elspeth’s cabin: the dirt, the smell, the squalor: of course, this would be different; but—well, Mrs. Cresswell had little inclination for slumming. She was interested in the under-world, but intellectually, not by personal contact. She did not know that this was a side-world, not an under-world. Yet the imposing building did not look sordid.

  “Hired?” asked some one.

  “No, owned.”

  “Indeed!”

  Then there was a hitch.

  “Tickets?”

  “Where can we buy them?”

  “Not on sale,” was the curt reply.

  “Actually exclusive!” sneered Cresswell, for he could not imagine any one unwelcome at a Negro ball. Then he bethought himself of Sam Stillings and sent for him. In a few minutes he had a dozen complimentary tickets in his hand.

  They entered the balcony and sat down. Mary Cresswell leaned forward. It was interesting. Beneath her was an ordinary pretty ball—flowered, silked, and ribboned; with swaying whirling figures, music, and laughter, and all the human fun of gayety and converse.

  And then she was impressed with the fact that this was no ordinary scene; it was, on the contrary, most extraordinary.

  There was a black man waltzing with a white woman—no, she was not white, for Mary caught the cream and curl of the girl as she swept past: but there was a white man (was he white?) and a black woman. The color of the scene was wonderful. The hard human white seemed to glow and live and run a mad gamut of the spectrum, from morn till night, from white to black; through red and sombre browns, pale and brilliant yellows, dead and living blacks. Through her opera-glasses Mary scanned their hair; she noted everything from the infinitely twisted, crackled, dead, and grayish-black to the piled mass of red golden sunlight. Her eyes went dreaming; there below was the gathering of the worlds. She saw types of all nations and all lands swirling beneath her in human brotherhood, and a great wonder shook her. They seemed so happy. Surely, this was no nether world; it was upper earth, and—her husband beckoned; he had been laughing incontinently. He saw nothing but a crowd of queer looking people doing things they were not made to do and appearing absurdly happy over it. It irritated him unreasonably.

  “See the washer-woman in red,” he whispered. “Look at the monkey. Come, let’s go.”

  They trooped noisily down-stairs, and Cresswell walked unceremoniously between a black man and his partner. Mrs. Vanderpool recognized and greeted the girl as Miss Wynn. Mrs. Cresswell did not notice her, but she paused with a start of recognition at the sight of the man.

  “Why, Bles!” she exclaimed impetuously, starting to hold out her hand. She was sincerely pleased at seeing him. Then she remembered. She bowed and smiled, looking at him with interest and surprise. He was correctly dressed, and the white shirt set off the comeliness of his black face in compelling contrast. He carried himself like a man, and bowed with gravity and dignity. She passed on and heard her husband’s petulant voice in her ear.

  “Mary—Mary! for Heaven’s sake, come on; don’t shake hands with niggers.”

  It w
as recurring flashes of temper like this, together with evidences of dubious company and a growing fondness for liquor, that drove Mary Cresswell more and more to find solace in the work of Congressman Todd’s Civic Club. She collected statistics for several of the Committee, wrote letters, interviewed a few persons, and felt herself growing in usefulness and importance. She did not mention these things to her husband; she knew he would not object, but she shrank from his ridicule.

  The various causes advocated by the Civic Club felt the impetus of the aggressive work of the organization. This was especially the case with the National Education Bill and the amendment to the Child Labor Bill. The movement became strong enough to call Mr. Easterly down from New York. He and the inner circle went over matters carefully.

  “We need the political strength of the South,” said Easterly; “not only in framing national legislation in our own interests, but always in State laws. Particularly, we must get them into line to offset Todd’s foolishness. The Child Labor Bill must either go through unamended or be killed. The Cotton Inspection Bill—our chief measure—must be slipped through quietly by Southern votes, while in the Tariff mix-up we must take good care of cotton.

  “Now, on the other hand, we are offending the Southerners in three ways: Todd’s revived Blair Bill is too good a thing for niggers; the South is clamoring for a first classy embassy appointment; and the President’s nomination of Alwyn as Treasurer will raise a howl from Virginia to Texas.”

  “There is some strong influence back of Alwyn,” said Senator Smith; “not only are the Negroes enthused, but the President has daily letters from prominent whites.”

  “The strong influence is named Vanderpool,” Easterly drily remarked. “She’s playing a bigger political game than I laid out for her. That’s the devil with women: they can’t concentrate: they get too damned many side issues. Now, I offered her husband the French ambassadorship provided she’d keep the Southerners feeling good toward us. She’s hand in glove with the Southerners, all right; but she wants not only her husband’s appointment but this darkey’s too.”