But this is alway--is it not?--the Riddle of Life. W.E. BURGHARDT DU BOIS. New York, 1919. Ten or more children were theirs, of
whom the youngest was Mary, my mother. Some revolted and
migrated westward, others went cityward as cooks and barbers. In nature he was a
dreamer,--romantic, indolent, kind, unreliable. He, too, was small, but squarish. Here he often visited him, but one last time,
fell dead. He left no will, and his relations made short shrift of these
sons. Always he held his head high, took no insults, made few friends. He
lies dead in the Grove Street Cemetery, beside Jehudi Ashmun. As a father he was, naturally, a failure,--hard, domineering,
unyielding. no "Anglo-Saxon," I come to the days of my childhood. But mother no longer trusted his dreams, and he soon faded out
of our lives into silence. Here I got acquainted with my world,
and soon had my criterions of judgment. The gold was theirs, not ours; but the
gleam and glint was for all. The homes I saw impressed me, but did not overwhelm me. Yet I was very much one of them. She
did not try to make me perfect. I was not for a
moment daunted,--although, of course, there were some days of secret
tears--rather I was spurred to tireless effort. But ever after, he was polite. Naturally, it was in our town voted bad form for boys of twelve and
fourteen to show any evident weakness for girls. She was lame, then, and a bit drawn, but very happy. I felt a certain gladness to see her, at last,
at peace, for she had worried all her life. At last, I was going beyond
the hills and into the world that beckoned steadily. I
promptly lost my appetite, but I was deliriously happy! I was
bursting with the joy of living. It was
done. I needed money;
scholarships and prizes fell into my lap,--not all I wanted or strove
for, but all I needed to keep in school. I
announced my plan of studying in Germany, but Harvard had no more
fellowships for me. I rushed at the chance. I crossed the ocean in a trance. Always I seemed to be saying, "It is
not real; I must be dreaming!" I was not less fanatically a
Negro, but "Negro" meant a greater, broader sense of humanity and
world-fellowship. I dreamed and loved
and wandered and sang; then, after two long years, I dropped suddenly
back into "nigger"-hating America! I was not nice or hard to
please. I just got down on my knees and begged for work, anything and
anywhere. I wrote to Hampton, Tuskegee, and a dozen other places. They
politely declined, with many regrets. I taught
Latin, Greek, English, and German. Or if it stirred, it soon slept
again. Of course, I was too impatient! In all this I was as one bound hand and foot. I had, naturally, my triumphs here and there. I was slowly winning a way, but quickly losing faith in the
value of the way won. Thus,
the third period of my life began. I do not know. Yet they spelled salvation. I dared a home and a temporary job. I labored morning,
noon, and night. They set me to groping. Here I found myself. I lost most of my mannerisms. With all this came the strengthening and hardening of my own character. The billows of birth, love, and death swept over me. At last, forbear and waver as I would, I faced the great Decision. Heaven knows I tried. I hated the role. I dreamed of being
an editor myself some day. I am an editor. The National Association for the Advancement of
Colored People is such a body, and it grows daily. I am speaking now. I came at their call. My
salary even for a year was not assured, but it was the "Voice without
reply." But it was not my time. Forgive these wild, blasphemous words! The way, O God, show us the way and point us the path! North is greed and South is blood; within, the coward, and
without, the liar. But not this life, dear God, not this. It is a red and awful
shape. _Amen!_
In silence, O Silent God. I see in and through them. Not as a foreigner do I come, for I
am native, not foreign, bone of their thought and flesh of their
language. This knowledge makes them now embarrassed, now furious. My word is to
them mere bitterness and my soul, pessimism. Weep not nor rage. I know, too well, that the
curse of God lies heavy on you. Why? That is not for me to say, but be
brave! I do not laugh. "To your tents, O Israel!" It ought, at least, to
look plausible. And if all this be a
lie, is it not a lie in a great cause? The first minor note is
struck, all unconsciously, by those worthy souls in whom consciousness
of high descent brings burning desire to spread the gift abroad,--the
obligation of nobility to the ignoble. He
was a white man. He was a white man. We have seen,--Merciful God! Unfortunate? Unfortunate. Am I, in my
blackness, the sole sufferer? I suffer. Say
this and act it and the nation must move toward it, if not to it. Only when this basic, iron rule is involved is our defense of
right nation-wide and prompt. Let us, then, turn to more
mundane matters of honor and fairness. Something, to be sure. Consider
our chiefest industry,--fighting. Laboriously the Middle Ages built its
rules of fairness--equal armament, equal notice, equal conditions. Mind you, there were for
most of these wars no Red Cross funds. It is. It is not. Why, then, is Europe great? Hardly, save in the half-Asiatic problems of the Balkans. What, then, does Hauptmann mean when he says: "Our jealous enemies
forged an iron ring about our breasts and we knew our breasts had to
expand,--that we had to split asunder this ring or else we had to cease
breathing. Such as they are civilization must, naturally, raise them, but soberly
and in limited ways. They are not simply dark white men. They are not
"men" in the sense that Europeans are men. It is quite as old as the world. The imperial width of the thing,--the
heaven-defying audacity--makes its modern newness. But there is a loophole. It has its literature, it
has its secret propaganda and above all--it pays! There's the rub,--it pays. It had to come. The cause of war is preparation
for war; and of all that Europe has done in a century there is nothing
that has equaled in energy, thought, and time her preparation for
wholesale murder. No! Where sections could not be owned by one dominant
nation there came a policy of "open door," but the "door" was open to
"white people only." Most men belong to this
world. What, then, is this dark world thinking? Is, then, this war
the end of wars? No nation is less fitted for this rôle. Well and good,
O Prometheus, divine thief! Why, then, devour your own vitals
if I answer even as proudly, "I am black!" Wailing, "O woman, arise!" I hate them well,
I hate them, Christ! If I were God,
I'd sound their knell
This day! Ah, well! He echoes a legend of gold from the days of Punt and Ophir to those of
Ghana, the Gold Coast, and the Rand. Gin has been
one of the greatest of European imports, having increased fifty per
cent. Naturally, the picture is not all lurid. "It is the clear, common sense of the
African situation," says H.G. It is impossible." It is much more likely
to be a hell. If the slave cannot be taken from Africa, slavery can be
taken to Africa. Out of them in days
without date flowed the beginnings of Egypt; among them rose, later,
centers of culture at Ghana, Melle, and Timbuktu. I, myself, would have agreed with them. The first great essential is that the
civilized world believe in its possibility. Men of education and
decency ask, and ask seriously, if it is really possible to uplift
Africa. It is simply passionate, deep-seated heritage, and as such can be moved
by neither argument nor fact. blurted the princess. "No,--it's mine," he maintained stolidly. She raised her eyes. "It belongs," she said, "to the Empire of the Sun." She looked back, too, but in half-wondering terror,
for it seemed--
A beggar man was creeping across the swamp, shuffling through the dirt
and slime. "I hate beggars," he said, "especially brown and black ones." He, the beggar man, was--was what? Yet they all
walked as one. She watched it
with fascinated eyes,--how it rose and sailed and whirled and struggled
in the air, then seemed to burst, and upward flew its light and sheen
and downward dropped its dross. She watched the dross wallow in the slime, but the
sunlight fell on the back of the beggar's neck, and he turned his head. So, then, she knew. She rose as to a dream come
true, with solemn face and waiting eyes. With her rose the king of Yonder Kingdom, almost eagerly. he cried. But she, looking up and on with radiant face, answered softly: "I come." he repeated fiercely. "It's neither God nor man, but a
nigger!" "I seek the sun," the princess sang, and started into the west. cried the king of Yonder Kingdom, "for such were blasphemy and
defilement and the making of all evil." So, raising his great sword he struck with all his might, and more. I tried to be natural
and honest and frank, but it was a bitter hard. There
was little danger, then, of my teaching or of their thinking becoming
purely theoretical. The city overflows
into the valleys of Illinois and lies there, writhing under its grimy
cloud. They laughed and disported themselves. It was a good town. There was no veil of
hypocrisy here, but a wickedness, frank, ungilded, and open. Gamblers, big and little, rioted in East St. Louis. Hands that made food made powder, and iron for railways was iron
for guns. The North called to the South. They went to the mines of West
Virginia, because war needs coal; they went to the industries of New
Jersey and Pennsylvania, because war needs ships and iron; they went to
the automobiles of Detroit and the load-carrying of Chicago; and they
went to East St. Louis. He was slipping stealthily
northward to escape hunger and insult, the hand of oppression, and the
shadow of death. Nature-defying cranes, grim elevators rise above pile on pile of
black and grimy lumber. This is the stage for the tragedy: the armored might of the modern world
urged by the bloody needs of the world wants, fevered today by a
fabulous vision of gain and needing only hands, hands, hands! Stupidity,
license, and graft sat enthroned in the City Hall. They, too, were willing to
join in the new union movement. But the unions did not want them. No, the end was not simple. They will
stay there. And
first of all, here is no simple question of race antagonism. This is the great and real revolution that is
coming in future industry. But this is not the need of the revolution nor indeed, perhaps, its real
beginning. The laborers' hire must
increase, the employers' profit must be curbed. Certainly not. Of course, the foundation of such a system must be a high, ethical
ideal. We must want the
wants of all men. Here, in a world full of folk, men are lonely. The rich are lonely. said the black bishop of New Orleans, turning uneasily in
his chair. "I must go down there. "I am troubled," said the governor, "about the niggers. I'm not certain but Fleming is back of it." They talked in
whispers. he asked, "but I am sorely troubled! He found
himself before an old, black, rickety stable. No. He paused until he heard the faint wail of a child. He turned away to the left and saw a golden Japanese
in golden garb. He
stepped back with a gesture of disgust, hardly listening to and yet
hearing the black bishop, who spoke almost as if in apology:
"She's not really white; I know Lucy--you see, her mother worked for the
governor--" The white bishop turned on his heel and nearly trod on the
yellow priest, who knelt with bowed head before the pale mother and
offered incense and a gift of gold. Ah, he knew! It was
music,--some strong and mighty chord. So high and clear that music flew, it seemed above, around, behind
them. I finished and shook weary hands, while she lay in
wait. she asked. she panted. They won't
try. He fought and won. Why? I could not have said. Once, and once only, I felt the sting
of its talons. We were all eager, but we knew nothing
of table-waiting. I listened askance, but I went. We
gulped and hesitated. It was nasty business. I hated it. I was too cowardly to steal
much myself, and not coward enough to refuse what others stole. Our work was easy, but insipid. It was uncanny. I stood staring and thinking,
while the other boys hustled about. He beckoned
me. It was his way,
his air, his assumption. Dogs recognized the gesture. I did not. He may be
beckoning yet for all I know, for something froze within me. I did not
look his way again. cried the Hebrew priests. The movement was slow, but vast. In 1860, 98 per cent of the Negroes were servants and serfs. In 1880, 30
per cent were servants and 65 per cent were serfs. Whey, then, does it linger? The cause of this perversity, to my mind, is twofold. Not alone is the hurt thus offered to the lowly,--Society and Science
suffer. Yet we are silent. It is not
really discussed. Hire servants, but never be one. Here the absurdity ends. True. _Jesus Christ in Texas_
It was in Waco, Texas. "I don't know," he said, "I hadn't thought of
that." He was slight, with a sharp
nose. "The convicts," he said, "would cost us $96 a year and board. Why,
man, you'll be a millionaire in less than ten years." He was a thick, short man, with a clean-shaven face
and a certain air of breeding about the lines of his countenance; the
word millionaire sounded well to his ears. "Of course," answered the promoter. he said, half in question. "The guard makes strange friends," he thought to
himself. "What's this man doing here, anyway?" He said:
"Well, at least, it can't harm them; they're beyond that." "It will do them good, then," said the stranger again. "It will do us good," he said. "It is settled, then," said the promoter. I want to talk with you about this." They went out to the car. He was a tall, powerfully built black fellow. There was revolt written about his mouth despite the hang-dog
expression. He stood bending over his pile of stones, pounding
listlessly. Beside him stood a boy of twelve,--yellow, with a hunted,
crafty look. The long,
cloak-like coat told this. He said he had some business for his father,
about town. The soft, tear-filled eyes of
a brown girl. She looked at the
colonel in reproachful consternation. The doorbell rang. She did not notice the shadow of
the stranger as he came slowly down the stairs and paused by the newel
post, dark and silent. The judge strode in
unseeing, thinking of a puzzling case of theft. Oh--er--yes,--good evening," he said, "good evening." She came
in lightly, but stopped with a little gasp; then she laughed gaily and
said:
"Why, I beg your pardon. What a turn it gave me." And she smiled again. With her came a
tall, handsome, young naval officer. Last came the rector, a man of forty, and well-clothed. He started to
pass the stranger, stopped, and looked at him inquiringly. "I beg your pardon," he said. "I beg your pardon,--I think I have met
you?" "Surely, I know you. I have met you somewhere," he said, putting his
hand vaguely to his head. "You--you remember me, do you not?" "I never knew you," he said in low tones as he went. "I beg a thousand pardons," he said to the hostess absently. I am sure
I knew him once." He touched her lightly with his hand and said: "Go, and sin no more!" With a glad cry the maid left the house, with its open door, and turned
north, running. she said. Really, they need
severer measures." Then he stopped. Howl after howl rose in the night, swelled, and died away. There he
paused and stood waiting, tall and still. He ran and jumped, in little, short steps, and his
chains rang. By and by the convict stood up. "Why, you are a nigger, too," he said. "I never had no chance," he said furtively. "Thou shalt not steal," said the stranger. The man bridled. "No, I didn't steal just to keep from starving. I stole to be stealing. There
was a new glory in the day. "You can sleep in the barn," he said, and turned away. asked the black man. "Now see here," said he. "If you'll sign a contract for the season, I'll
give you ten dollars a month." "I won't sign no contract," said the black man doggedly. And he grinned. No one was there,
but the supper was spread as if the mistress had laid it and gone out. He ate ravenously. Only
yesterday one had escaped, and another the day before. At last she gossiped of her neighbors, how good they were and how bad. asked the stranger. She hesitated. She hesitated. "They are niggers," she said briefly. Suddenly a confusion came over her and she insisted,
she knew not why. She saw his dark
face and curly hair. "I knew it," he said. Down the highway
came the convict guard, with hound and mob and gun. "He--attacked--my wife," he gasped. "No--no, I want nothing," she insisted, until they left her, as they
thought, asleep. Then she rose. He stretched
his arms out like a cross, looking upward. She knew, and the very horror of it lifted her dull and shrinking
eyelids. Now before this giant aspect of
things, the new democracy stood aghast and impotent. There was a chance here to try democratic rule in a new way, that is,
against the new industrial oppression with a mass of workers who were
not yet in its control. We say easily, for instance,
"The ignorant ought not to vote." Today the civilized world is being ruled by the descendants of
persons who a century ago were pronounced incapable of ever developing a
self-ruling people. It is simply
the old cry of privilege, the old assumption that there are those in the
world who know better what is best for others than those others know
themselves, and who can be trusted to do this best. Infinite is human nature. So, too, we are told that American Negroes can
have done for them by other voters all that they could possibly do for
themselves with the ballot and much more because the white voters are
more intelligent. Further than this, it is argued that many of the disfranchised people
recognize these facts. Such a combination is, however, rare and the selection of the
right ruler is very difficult. Then comes the problem, who shall elect. The earlier answer was: a
select few, such as the wise, the best born, the able. By no
means. The best and most effective aristocracy, like the best monarchy,
suffered from lack of knowledge. When women ask
for the ballot, they are asking, not for a privilege, but for a
necessity. You may not see the necessity, you may easily argue that
women do not need to vote. Nevertheless, women do need the ballot. So, too, with American Negroes: the South continually insists that a
benevolent guardianship of whites over blacks is the ideal thing. So, too, with the darker races of the world. This is, of course, denied. All this goes
to prove that human beings are, and must be, woefully ignorant of each
other. There still remains, however, the problem of the Majority. Surely not and surely, too, the remedy for absolutism lies in calling
these same minorities to council. Insane, wicked, and wasteful as the tyranny of the few over the many may
be, it is not more dangerous than the tyranny of the many over the few. Brutal physical revolution can, and usually does, end the tyranny of the
few. Today the scientific and ethical boundaries of our industrial activities
are not in the hands of scientists, teachers, and thinkers; nor is the
intervening opportunity for decision left in the control of the public
whose welfare such decisions guide. The making of the rules
of Industry, then, is not in the hands of All, but in the hands of the
Few. The Few who govern industry envisage, not the wants of mankind, but
their own wants. Who
makes these inner, but powerful, rules? Few people know. And yet,--and
yet is it so easy to give up the dream of democracy? That the problem of the democratization of industry is tremendous, let
no man deny. And the King, who
sat upon the Great White Throne, raised his eyes and saw afar off how
the hills around were hot with hostile feet and the sound of the mocking
of his enemies struck anxiously on the King's ears, for the King loved
his enemies. And the servants cowered
in very shame, but none came forth. And the woman straightway left her
baking and sweeping and the rattle of pans; and the woman straightway
left her chatting and gossiping and the sewing of garments, and the
woman stood before the King, saying: "The servant of thy servants, O
Lord." And the woman quailed and trembled. And seeing, she shrank--three times she shrank and crept to the
King's feet. "O King," she cried, "I am but a woman." And the King answered: "Go, then, Mother of Men." And the woman said, "Nay, King, but I am still a maid." it was black. They existed not for themselves,
but for men; they were named after the men to whom they were related and
not after the fashion of their own souls. We did not know the truth or believe
it when we heard it. We did not know or greatly
care. I liked her. Inez was a pretty, brown cousin who married. We did
not know, neither did she, poor thing! Why? There was no sweeter sight than Emma,--slim, straight, and dainty,
darkly flushed with the passion of youth; but her life was a wild, awful
struggle to crush her natural, fierce joy of love. She crushed it and
became a cold, calculating mockery. What she was, we did not know. She stood to us as embodied filth
and wrong,--but whose filth, whose wrong? This is the damnation of women. God is Love,
Love is God;
There is no God but Love
And Work is His Prophet! All this of woman,--but what of black women? And the Krus and Fantis say the same. "As the mist in the swamps," cries the Angola Negro, "so lives
the love of father and mother." All the
way back in these dim distances it is mothers and mothers of mothers who
seem to count, while fathers are shadowy memories. Under it there was
no legal marriage, no legal family, no legal control over children. She is small for
her age--very sprightly and very likely. "SANFORD THOMSON." "T. DAVIS." These
acts are daily occurring in the midst of us. Impossible. And she would
say, 'I am groaning to think of my poor children; they do not know where
I be and I don't know where they be. She was tall and
slim, of that ravishing dream-born beauty,--that twilight of the races
which we call mulatto. She toiled and
dreamed. These women are passing through, not only a moral, but an
economic revolution. Out of these homes walked
daily to work two million women and girls over ten years of age,--over
half of the colored female population as against a fifth in the case of
white women. Broken
families. "Back to the
homes with the women," they cry, "and higher wage for the men." In other years women's way was clear: to be beautiful, to be petted, to
bear children. and, "Suppose you think them ugly, what
then? "She's no lady; she's a nigger," answered another. Today the dreams of the
mothers are coming true. This, then,--a little thing--to their memory and inspiration. "Woman, woman, woman!" I cried in mounting terror. And the cry sang back
Through heaven, with the
Whirring of almighty wings. I cried. Up! Up! Up! And endless folding and unfolding,
Rolling and unrolling of almighty wings. Trembled to unfold. We do not know. All human problems, then, center in the
Immortal Child and his education is the problem of problems. It seemed, and
was, prophetic. While there
he met an English girl and this son was born, in London, in 1875. And this was but one side of the man. When such a man dies, it must bring pause to a reasoning world. Coleridge-Taylor's life work was not finished,--it was but well begun. He smiled at it lightly, as we all do,--we who
live within the veil,--to hide the deeper hurt. He was used to that. Yet, consider: to many millions of people this man was all wrong. _Fourthly_, the children of such a union--but why
proceed? You know it all by heart. No. He should never have been born, for he is a
"problem." He should never be educated, for he cannot be educated. He
should never marry, for that means children and there is no place for
black children in this world. The first temptation is to shield the child,--to hedge it about that it
may not know and will not dream of the color line. It is, all said, a brutal, unfair method,
and in its way it is as bad as shielding and indulgence. Why not,
rather, face the facts and tell the truth? Here, at last, we can speak with no hesitation, with no lack of faith. Why? But, it is objected, what else can we do? No! America is
conceived of as existing for the sake of its mines, fields and
factories, and not those factories, fields and mines as existing for
America. Who goes to high school, the Bright
or the Well-to-Do? Therefore, get wisdom. It is simple. All our hopes, our dreams are for
our children. We shirk and complain. If the ignorant
mass, panting to know, revolts, we dole them gingerly enough knowledge
to pacify them temporarily. It cannot be done. It will cost too much. What has been done with man can be done with men, if the world tries
long enough and hard enough. I mean it. In one year, 1917, we spent $96,700,000,000 for war. We blew
it away to murder, maim, and destroy! Why? We did it. We had to do it, and we are glad
the putrid horror is over. Feed and clothe them. If they are worth teaching to anybody,
the masses need them most. Everybody. Never. These questions are not "problems." You and I say it, and in saying it we sin against the Holy Ghost. Then haply I may see what things I have not seen,
Then I may know what things I have not known;
Then may I do my dreams. [Footnote 1: For Joseph Pulitzer, October 29, 1911.] Like all true
beauty this thing of dying was so simple, so matter-of-fact. The boy
clothed in his splendid youth stood before us and laughed in his own
jolly way,--went and was gone. I admit, I am--sensitive. I am artificial. I am intellectually dishonest, art-blind, and I lack humor. she retorts triumphantly. You will not let us. "There you go, again. I answer. I arise at seven. I walk
softly, lest I disturb him. I try
to lunch, but no place near will serve me. No, but how shall I know which do not--except--
I hurry home through crowds. They mutter or get angry. I go to a
mass-meeting. They stare. I go to a church. I seek new work. "Why--er--we will write you." I enter the free field of science. I seek the universal mistress, Art; the studio door is locked. I write literature. It's the only type I know. This is my life. It makes me idiotic. I
hesitate, I rush, I waver. In fine,--I am sensitive! Certainly not, I answer low. "But you just said--"
They do happen. Not all each day,--surely not. That's the hell of
it. You hesitate. "Yes, sir." And in he goes. And first and before all, we cannot forget that this world
is beautiful. And so, too, there are depths of human degradation which it is not fair
for us to probe. With all their horrible prevalence, we cannot call them
natural. Then was the hour to talk of
life and the meaning of life, while above gleamed silently, suddenly,
star on star. "I should think you would like to travel," said the white one. But no, the thought of a journey seemed to depress them. As for
toilet rooms,--don't! "No," said the little lady in the corner (she looked like an ivory cameo
and her dress flowed on her like a caress), "we don't travel much." And then the miracle is done. Then comes the moon. I go. asked many. He refused. "We will
obey the law, but to ask for voluntary segregation is to insult
ourselves." But strong, sober second thought came to our rescue. We said
to our protesting brothers: "We face a condition, not a theory. The city of Des Moines promptly protested, but it finally changed its
mind. It is not so much that they fear that the Negro will strike if he gets a
chance, but rather that they assume with curious unanimity that he has
_reason_ to strike, that any other persons in his circumstances or
treated as he is would rebel. It is awful. You stand upon their roots
and fall into their pinnacles, a mighty mile. No human foot has trod it. Listen to the accents of that gorge which mutters: "Before
Abraham was, I am." I see greens,--is it moss or giant pines? Ever the gorge lies motionless, unmoved, until I
fear. It is a grim thing, unholy, terrible! It gives back no sound. It is not red, and blue, and green, but,
ah! Tell me, black and boiling water! It is not real. It is but shadows. The shading of eternity. It was a dream. I have profaned the
sanctuary. I have looked upon the dread disrobing of the Night, and yet
I live. Slowly she stripped them from her gaunt
and shapely limbs--her cold, gray garments shot with shadows stood
revealed. Ours was a fellowship of common books,
common knowledge, mighty aims. There was no elegant and elaborate
condescension of--"We once had a colored servant"--"My father was an
Abolitionist"--"I've always been interested in _your people_"--there was
only the community of kindred souls, the delicate reverence for the
Thought that led, the quick deference to the guest. Fellow blacks, we must
join the democracy of Europe. There lay France--a strange, unknown, unfamiliar France. The
city was dispossessed. The audience was framed in smoke. It was a tiny stone house
whose front window lipped the passing sidewalk where ever tramped the
feet of black soldiers marching home. There was a cavernous wardrobe, a
great fireplace invaded by a new and jaunty iron stove. Vast, thick
piles of bedding rose in yonder corner. But not the
Paris the world knows. Only the flowers are
there, always the flowers, the Roses of England and the Lilies of
France. But all
this is nothing. Princes Street and the Elysian Fields, the Strand and the
Ringstrasse--these are the Ways of the World today. It drops as drops the night on southern seas--vast,
sudden, unanswering. There is Hate behind it, and Cruelty and Tears. And yet it
hangs there, this Veil, between Then and Now, between Pale and Colored
and Black and White--between You and Me. But I cannot. But
Beauty is fulfilment. It satisfies. It is always new and strange. Therein is the triumph of Beauty. They
are called optimists, and they lie. All is not beauty. And Thou art dumb. Dead are the living; deep--dead the dead. Have mercy! Have mercy upon us, miserable sinners! Forgive me, God! (Wait, God, a little space. I took it. Forgive; I did not know. (I know; his hands are mine.) It flowed for Thee, O Lord. Are, then, these bullets piercing Thee? Prayest Thou, Lord, and to me? Poor, wounded soul! Of this I never dreamed. Few noticed him. as he said
bitterly. "No," said the messenger shortly. I saw it last night. Of course, they wanted
_him_ to go down to the lower vaults. He smiled grimly and listened. Suppose you nose around down there,--it isn't very pleasant, I suppose." "Not very," said the messenger, as he walked out. "Well, Jim, the tail of the new comet hits us at noon this time," said
the vault clerk, as he passed over the keys; but the messenger passed
silently down the stairs. Here at last was peace, and he
groped moodily forward. Nothing. Then he went back
to the far end, where somehow the wall felt different. Nothing. He started away. It was a long, narrow
room with shelves, and at the far end, an old iron chest. On a high
shelf lay the two missing volumes of records, and others. It was old, strong, and rusty. Looking about, he
found a bit of iron and began to pry. He started up
and looked about. All was black and still. He groped for his light and
swung it about him. There lay the body
of the vault clerk, cold and stiff. He stared at it, and then felt sick
and nauseated. The air seemed unaccountably foul, with a strong,
peculiar odor. He stepped forward, clutched at the air, and fell
fainting across the corpse. The watchman sat as if asleep, with the
gate swinging free. In vain he called to the guards. His voice echoed and
re-echoed weirdly. Here another
guard lay prostrate on his face, cold and still. He dashed up to the cellar floor, up into the bank. He
glanced about, tiptoed cautiously to a side door, and again looked
behind. Not a soul was stirring, and yet it was
high-noon--Wall Street? Before her stood a street car,
silent, and within--but the messenger but glanced and hurried on. Seek the cellar." "Yesterday, they would not have served me," he whispered, as he forced
the food down. Then he started up the street,--looking, peering, telephoning, ringing
alarms; silent, silent all. He saw one. He tested the throttle. There
was gas. He glided off, shivering, and drove up the street. He gasped. "Hello--hello--help, in God's name!" wailed the woman. "There's a dead
girl in here and a man and--and see yonder dead men lying in the street
and dead horses--for the love of God go and bring the officers----" And
the words trailed off into hysterical tears. There was a long pause, but at last the heavy
door swung back. They stared a moment in silence. She stared at him. she cried. she cried again. "He started for the office." "Leave a note for him here and come." Then he stopped. "No," he said firmly--"first, we must go--to Harlem." she cried. Then she understood. She looked back and shuddered. "There's a swifter car in the garage in the court," she said. "I don't know how to drive it," he said. "I do," she answered. He was gone but a moment. Then he returned, and his face was gray. She
did not look, but said:
"You have lost--somebody?" "I'm afraid I was selfish," he said. Out of the park, and down Fifth
Avenue they whirled. The door of the office stood open. On the
threshold lay the stenographer, and, staring at her, sat the dead clerk. J.B.H. "Come," she cried nervously. Up and down, over and across, back again--on went that ghostly search. Silence, silence everywhere, and no
human sign. He sniffed the
air. she cried. It was his turn now to take the lead, and he did it quickly. She looked at him now with strength and confidence. When she entered, he was
alone in the room. She looked at the mouthpiece. She was calling to the world. she cried, full-voiced. She listened. It was
as if she had heard the last flicker of creation, and the evil was
silence. She looked out. He was standing at the top of the alley,--silhouetted, tall and black,
motionless. She did not know--she did not
care. She was alone. She looked
behind and sideways, started at strange sounds and heard still stranger,
until every nerve within her stood sharp and quivering, stretched to
scream at the barest touch. They climbed into the car. It lay wreathed in crime and squalor, greed and lust. They
seemed to move in a world silent and asleep,--not dead. He paused on the threshold. she asked. She hardly heard. He
stepped within. Slowly she walked to the wall, where the water called
below, and stood and waited. Long she waited, and he did not come. The waters
lapped on in luring, deadly rhythm. She looked into his stricken, tired face, and a great pity surged within
her heart. She answered in a voice clear and calm, "No." Upward they turned toward life again, and he seized the wheel. It
seemed natural. For a while she rested and sank to dreamy somnolence,
watching the worlds above and wondering. She looked up at him with thankfulness in
her eyes, eating what he served. He watched the city. She watched him. He seemed very human,--very near now. she asked softly. "Always," he said. "I have always been idle," she said. "I was rich." "I was poor," he almost echoed. "Yes--I was not--human, yesterday," he said. She looked at him. "And your people were not my people," she said; "but
today----" She paused. Yet yesterday----
"Death, the leveler!" he muttered. He turned away, and after fumbling a moment sent a rocket into the
darkening air. She was no mere woman. She was
neither high nor low, white nor black, rich nor poor. She looked
upon the man beside her and forgot all else but his manhood, his strong,
vigorous manhood--his sorrow and sacrifice. She saw him glorified. It was as though some mighty Pharaoh lived again,
or curled Assyrian lord. He turned and looked upon the lady, and found
her gazing straight at him. Silently, immovably, they saw each other face to face--eye to eye. It was a thought divine, splendid. He lifted up his
mighty arms, and they cried each to the other, almost with one voice,
"The world is dead." She
covered her eyes with her hands, and her shoulders heaved. He dropped
and bowed, groped blindly on his knees about the floor. he sobbed. She looked up at him with strange, searching eyes. "Fred," she murmured, almost vaguely, "is the world--gone?" "Only New York," he answered; "it is terrible--awful! she said. he asked, encircling her drooping form with one arm
and turning toward the Negro. he snarled. "He has dared--all, to rescue me," she said quietly, "and I--thank
him--much." But she did not look at him again. As the couple turned
away, the father drew a roll of bills from his pockets. "Jim Davis," came the answer, hollow-voiced. "Well, Jim, I thank you. I've always liked your people. If you ever want
a job, call on me." And they were gone. "Who was it?" "Well, what do you think of that?" A woman mounted to the platform and looked
about, shading her eyes. She was brown, small, and toil-worn, and in one
arm lay the corpse of a dark baby. He whirled and, with a sob of joy, caught her in his arms. So sit we all as one. Lo, our hands be red! End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Darkwater, by W. E. B.