The Quest of the Silver Fleece

by W. E. B. Dubois

  “Perhaps,” said Mrs. Stillings, as she brought out some specimens of her work.

  Mrs. Vanderpool was both ashamed and grateful. With money and leisure Mrs. Stillings had been able to get in New York and Boston the training she had been denied in Washington on account of her color. The things she exhibited really had merit and one curiously original group appealed to Mrs. Vanderpool tremendously.

  “Send it,” she counseled with strangely contradictory feelings of enthusiasm, and added: “Enter it under the name of Wynn.”

  In addition to the general invitations to the art exhibit numbers of special ones were issued to promising Southern amateurs who had never exhibited. For these a prize of a long-term scholarship and other smaller prizes were offered. When Mrs. Vanderpool suggested the name of “Miss Wynn” to Mrs. Cresswell among a dozen others, for special invitation, there was nothing in its sound to distinguish it from the rest of the names, and the invitation went duly. As a result there came to the exhibit a little group called “The Outcasts,” which was really a masterly thing and sent the director, Signor Alberni, into hysterical commendation.

  In the private view and award of prizes which preceded the larger social function the jury hesitated long between “The Outcasts” and a painting from Georgia. Mrs. Cresswell was enthusiastic and voluble for the bit of sculpture, and it finally won the vote for the first prize.

  All was ready for the great day. The President was coming and most of the diplomatic corps, high officers of the army, and all the social leaders. Congress would be well represented, and the boom for Cresswell as ambassador to France was almost visible in the air.

  Mary Cresswell paused a moment in triumph looking back at the darkened hall, when a little woman fluttered up to her and whispered:

  “Mrs. Cresswell, have you heard the gossip?”

  “No—what?”

  “That Wynn woman they say is a nigger. Some are whispering that you brought her in purposely to force social equality. They say you used to teach darkies. Of course, I don’t believe all their talk, but I thought you ought to know.” She talked a while longer, then fluttered furtively away.

  Mrs. Cresswell sat down limply. She saw ruin ahead—to think of a black girl taking a prize at an all-Southern art exhibit! But there was still a chance, and she leaped to action. This colored woman was doubtless some poor deserving creature. She would call on her immediately, and by an offer of abundant help induce her to withdraw quietly.

  Entering her motor, she drove near the address and then proceeded on foot. The street was a prominent one, the block one of the best, the house almost pretentious. She glanced at her memorandum again to see if she was mistaken. Perhaps the woman was a domestic; probably she was, for the name on the door was Stillings. It occurred to her that she had heard that name before—but where? She looked again at her memorandum and at the house.

  She rang the bell, asking the trim black maid: “Is there a person named Caroline Wynn living in this house?”

  The girl smiled and hesitated.

  “Yes, ma’am,” she finally replied. “Won’t you come in?” She was shown into the parlor, where she sat down. The room was most interesting, furnished in unimpeachable taste. A few good pictures were on the walls, and Mrs. Cresswell was examining one when she heard the swish of silken skirts. A lady with gold brown face and straight hair stood before her with pleasant smile. Where had Mrs. Cresswell seen her before? She tried to remember, but could not.

  “You wished to see—Caroline Wynn?”

  “Yes.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  Mrs. Cresswell groped for her proper cue, but the brown lady merely offered a chair and sat down silently. Mrs. Cresswell’s perplexity increased. She had been planning to descend graciously but authoritatively upon some shrinking girl, but this woman not only seemed to assume equality but actually looked it. From a rapid survey, Mrs. Cresswell saw a black silk stocking, a bit of lace, a tailor-made gown, and a head with two full black eyes that waited in calmly polite expectancy.

  Something had to be said.

  “I—er—came; that is, I believe you sent a group to the art exhibit?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was good—very good.”

  Miss Wynn said nothing, but sat calmly looking at her visitor. Mrs. Cresswell felt irritated.

  “Of course,” she managed to continue, “we are very sorry that we cannot receive it.”

  “Indeed? I understood it had taken the first prize.”

  Mrs. Cresswell was aghast. Who had rushed the news to this woman? She realized that there were depths to this matter that she did not understand and her irritation increased.

  “You know that we could not give the prize to a—Negro.”

  “Why not?”

  “That is quite immaterial. Social equality cannot be forced. At the same time I recognize the injustice, and I have come to say that if you will withdraw your exhibit you will be given a scholarship in a Boston school.”

  “I do not wish it.”

  “Well, what do you want?”

  “I was not aware that I had asked for anything.”

  Mrs. Cresswell felt herself getting angry.

  “Why did you send your exhibit when you knew it was not wanted?”

  “Because you asked me to.”

  “We did not ask for colored people.”

  “You asked all Southern-born persons. I am a person and I am Southern born. Moreover, you sent me a personal letter.”

  Mrs. Cresswell was sure that this was a lie and was thoroughly incensed.

  “You cannot have the prize,” she almost snapped. “If you will withdraw I will pay you any reasonable sum.”

  “Thank you. I do not want money; I want justice.”

  Mrs. Cresswell arose and her face was white.

  “That is the trouble with you Negroes: you wish to get above your places and force yourselves where you are not wanted. It does no good, it only makes trouble and enemies.” Mrs. Cresswell stopped, for the colored woman had gone quietly out of the room and in a moment the maid entered and stood ready. Mrs. Cresswell walked slowly to the door and stepped out. Then she turned.

  “What does Miss Wynn do for a living?”

  The girl tittered.

  “She used to teach school but she don’t do nothing now. She’s just married; her husband is Mr. Stillings, Register of the Treasury.”

  Mrs. Cresswell saw light as she turned to go down the steps. There was but one resource—she must keep the matter out of the newspapers, and see Stillings, whom she now remembered well.

  “I beg pardon, does the Miss Wynn live here who got the prize in the art exhibition?”

  Mrs. Cresswell turned in amazement. It was evidently a reporter, and the maid was admitting him. The news would reach the papers and be blazoned to-morrow. Slowly she caught her motor and fell wearily back on its cushions.

  “Where to, Madame?” asked the chauffeur.

  “I don’t care,” returned Madame; so the chauffeur took her home.

  She walked slowly up the stairs. All her carefully laid plans seemed about to be thwarted and her castles were leaning toward ruin.

  Yet all was not lost, if her husband continued to believe in her. If, as she feared, he should suspect her on account of this Negro woman, and quarrel with her—

  But he must not. This very night, before the morning papers came out, she must explain. He must see; he must appreciate her efforts.

  She rushed into her dressing-room and called her maid. Contrary to her Puritan notions, she frankly sought to beautify herself. She remembered that it was the anniversary of her coming to this house. She got out her wedding-dress, and although it hung loosely, the maid draped the Silver Fleece beautifully about her.

  She heard her husband enter and come up-stairs. Quickly finishing her toilet, she hurried down to arrange the flowers, for they were alone that night. The telephone rang. She knew it would ring up-stairs in his room, but she usually answere
d it for he disliked to. She raised the receiver and started to speak when she realized that she had broken into the midst of a conversation.

  “—committee won’t meet tonight, Harry.”

  “So? All right. Anything on?”

  “Yes—big spree at Nell’s. Will you go?”

  “Sure thing; you know me! What time?”

  “Meet us at the Willard by nine. S’long.”

  “Good-bye.”

  She slowly, half guiltily, replaced the receiver. She had not meant to listen, but now to her desperate longing to keep him home was added a new motive. Where was “Nell’s”? What was “Nell’s”? What was—and there was fear in her heart. At dinner she tried all her powers on him. She had his favorite dishes; she mixed his salad and selected his wine; she talked interestingly, and listened sympathetically, to him. He looked at her with more attention. Her cheeks were more brilliant, for she had touched them with rouge. Her eyes flashed; but he glanced furtively at her short hair. She saw the act; but still she strove until he was content and laughing; then coming round back of his chair, she placed her arms about his neck.

  “Harry, will you do me a favor?”

  “Why, yes—if—”

  “It is something I want very, very much.”

  “Well, all right, if—”

  “Harry, I feel a little—hysterical, tonight, and—you will not refuse me, will you, Harry?”

  Standing there, she saw the tableau in her own mind, and it looked strange. She was afraid of herself. She knew that she would do something foolish if she did not win this battle. She felt that overpowering fanaticism back within her raging restlessly. If she was not careful—

  “But what is it you want?” asked her husband.

  “I don’t want you to go out tonight.”

  He laughed awkwardly.

  “Nonsense, girl! The sub-committee on the cotton schedule meets tonight—very important; otherwise—”

  She shuddered at the smooth lie and clasped him closer, putting her cheek to his.

  “Harry,” she pleaded, “just this once—for me.”

  He disengaged himself, half impatiently, and rose, glancing at the clock. It was nearly nine. A feeling of desperation came over her.

  “Harry,” she asked again as he slipped on his coat.

  “Don’t be foolish,” he growled.

  “Just this once—Harry—I—” But the door banged to, and he was gone.

  She stood looking at the closed door a moment. Something in her head was ready to snap. She went to the rack and taking his long heavy overcoat slipped it on. It nearly touched the floor. She seized a soft broad-brimmed hat and umbrella and walked out. Just what she meant to do she did not know, but somehow she must save her husband and herself from evil. She hurried to the Willard Hotel and watched, walking up and down the opposite sidewalk. A woman brushed by her and looked her in the face.

  “Hell! I thought you was a man,” she said. “Is this a new gag?”

  Mrs. Cresswell looked down at herself involuntarily and smiled wanly. She did look like a man, with her hat and coat and short hair. The woman peered at her doubtingly. She was, as Mrs. Cresswell noticed, a young woman, once pretty, perhaps, and a little over-dressed.

  “Are you walking?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Cresswell, and then in a moment it flashed upon her. She took the woman’s arm and walked with her. Suddenly she stopped.

  “Where’s—Nell’s?”

  The woman frowned. “Oh, that’s a swell place,” she said. “Senators and millionaires. Too high for us to fly.”

  Mrs. Cresswell winced. “But where is it?” she asked.

  “We’ll walk by it if you want to.”

  And Mary Cresswell walked in another world. Up from the ground of the drowsy city rose pale gray forms; pale, flushed, and brilliant, in silken rags. Up and down they passed, to and fro, looking and gliding like sheeted ghosts; now dodging policemen, now accosting them familiarly.

  “Hello, Elise,” growled one big blue-coat.

  “Hello, Jack.”

  “What’s this?” and he peered at Mrs. Cresswell, who shrank back.

  “Friend of mine. All right.”

  A horror crept over Mary Cresswell: where had she lived that she had seen so little before? What was Washington, and what was this fine, tall, quiet residence? Was this—“Nell’s”?

  “Yes, this is it—good-bye—I must—”

  “Wait—what is your name?”

  “I haven’t any name,” answered the woman suspiciously.

  “Well—pardon me! Here!” and she thrust a bill into the woman’s hand.

  The girl stared. “Well, you’re a queer one! Thanks. Guess I’ll turn in.”

  Mary Cresswell turned to see her husband and his companions ascending the steps of the quiet mansion. She stood uncertainly and looked at the opening and closing door. Then a policeman came by and looked at her.

  “Come, move on,” he brusquely ordered. Her vacillation promptly vanished, and she resolutely mounted the steps. She put out her hand to ring, but the door flew silently open and a man-servant stood looking at her.

  “I have some friends here,” she said, speaking coarsely.

  “You will have to be introduced,” said the man. She hesitated and started to turn away. Thrusting her hand in her pocket it closed upon her husband’s card-case. She presented a card. It worked a rapid transformation in the servant’s manner, which did not escape her.

  “Come in,” he invited her.

  She did not stop at the outstretched arm of the cloakman, but glided quickly up the stairs toward a vision of handsome women and strains of music. Harry Cresswell was sitting opposite and bending over an impudent blue-and-blonde beauty. Mary slipped straight across to him and leaned across the table. The hat fell off, but she let it go.

  “Harry!” she tried to say as he looked up.

  Then the table swayed gently to and fro; the room bowed and whirled about; the voices grew fainter and fainter—all the world receded suddenly far away. She extended her hands languidly, then, feeling so utterly tired, let her eyelids drop and fell asleep.

  She awoke with a start, in her own bed. She was physically exhausted but her mind was clear. She must go down and meet him at breakfast and talk frankly with him. She would let bygones be bygones. She would explain that she had followed him to save him, not to betray him. She would point out the greater career before him if only he would be a man; she would show him that they had not failed. For herself she asked nothing, only his word, his confidence, his promise to try.

  After his first start of surprise at seeing her at the table, Cresswell uttered nothing immediately save the commonplaces of greeting. He mentioned one or two bits of news from the paper, upon which she commented while dawdling over her egg. When the servant went out and closed the door, she paused a moment considering whether to open by appeal or explanation. His smooth tones startled her:

  “Of course, after your art exhibit and the scene of last night, Mary, it will be impossible for us to live longer together.”

  She stared at him, utterly aghast—voiceless and numb.

  “I have seen the crisis approaching for some time, and the Negro business settles it,” he continued. “I have now decided to send you to my home in Alabama, to my father or your brother. I am sure you will be happier there.”

  He rose. Bowing courteously, he waited, coldly and calmly, for her to go.

  All at once she hated him and hated his aristocratic repression; this cold calm that hid hell and its fires. She looked at him, wide-eyed, and said in a voice hoarse with horror and loathing:

  “You brute! You nasty brute!”

  Thirty-two

  ZORA’S WAY

  Zora was looking on her world with the keener vision of one who, blind from very seeing, closes the eyes a space and looks again with wider clearer vision. Out of a nebulous cloudland she seemed to step; a land where all things floated in strange confusion
, but where one thing stood steadfast, and that was love. When love was shaken all things moved, but now, at last, for the first time she seemed to know the real and mighty world that stood behind that old and shaken dream.

  So she looked on the world about her with new eyes. These men and women of her childhood had hitherto walked by her like shadows; today they lived for her in flesh and blood. She saw hundreds and thousands of black men and women: crushed, half-spirited, and blind. She saw how high and clear a light Sarah Smith, for thirty years and more, had carried before them. She saw, too, how that the light had not simply shone in darkness, but had lighted answering beacons here and there in these dull souls.

  There were thoughts and vague stirrings of unrest in this mass of black folk. They talked long about their firesides, and here Zora began to sit and listen, often speaking a word herself. All through the coutry-side she flitted, till gradually the black folk came to know her and, in silent deference to some subtle difference, they gave her the title of white folk, calling her “Miss” Zora.

  today, more than ever before, Zora sensed the vast unorganized power in this mass, and her mind was leaping here and there, scheming and testing, when voices arrested her.

  It was a desolate bit of the Cresswell manor, a tiny cabin, new-boarded and bare, in front of it a blazing bonfire. A white man was tossing into the flames different household articles—a feather bed, a bedstead, two rickety chairs. A young, boyish fellow, golden-faced and curly, stood with clenched fists, while a woman with tear-stained eyes clung to him. The white man raised a cradle to dash it into the flames; the woman cried, and the yellow man raised his arm threateningly. But Zora’s hand was on his shoulder.

  “What’s the matter, Rob?” she asked.

  “They’re selling us out,” he muttered savagely. “Millie’s been sick since the last baby died, and I had to neglect my crop to tend her and the other little ones—I didn’t make much. They’ve took my mule, now they’re burning my things to make me sign a contract and be a slave. But by—”

  “There, Rob, let Millie come with me—we’ll see Miss Smith. We must get land to rent and arrange somehow.”