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About the Author
W.E.B. DU BOIS (1868–1963) is regarded as one of the most influential Black leaders of the twentieth century, and his seminal work, The Souls of Black Folk, first published in 1903, is considered one of the most important works in the African American literary canon. Du Bois later went on to help create the premier civil rights organization, the NAACP, and moved to New York in 1910 to found The Crisis, the association’s magazine.
Read an Excerpt
Night fell. The red waters of the swamp grew sinister and sullen. The tall pines lost their slimness and stood in wide blurred blotches all across the way, and a great shadowy bird arose, wheeled and melted, murmuring, into the black-green sky.
The boy wearily dropped his heavy bundle and stood still, listening as the voice of crickets split the shadows and made the silence audible. A tear wandered down his brown cheek. They were at supper now, he whispered-the father and old mother, away back yonder beyond the night. They were far away; they would never be as near as once they had been, for he had stepped into the world. And the cat and Old Billy-ah, but the world was a lonely thing, so wide and tall and empty! And so bare, so bitter bare! Somehow he had never dreamed of the world as lonely before; he had fared forth to beckoning hands and luring, and to the eager hum of human voices, as of some great, swelling music.
Yet now he was alone; the empty night was closing all about him here in a strange land, and he was afraid. The bundle with his earthly treasure had hung heavy and heavier on his shoulder; his little horde of money was tightly wadded in his sock, and the school lay hidden somewhere far away in the shadows. He wondered how far it was; he looked and harkened, starting at his own heartbeats, and fearing more and more the long dark fingers of the night.
Then of a sudden up from the darkness came music. It was human music, but of a wildness and a weirdness that startled the boy as it fluttered and danced across the dull red waters of the swamp. He hesitated, then impelled by some strange power, left the highway and slipped into theforest of the swamp, shrinking, yet following the song hungrily and half forgetting his fear. A harsher, shriller note struck in as of many and ruder voices; but above it flew the first sweet music, birdlike, abandoned, and the boy crept closer.
The cabin crouched ragged and black at the edge of black waters. An old chimney leaned drunkenly against it, raging with fire and smoke, while through the chinks winked red gleams of warmth and wild cheer. With a revel of shouting and noise, the music suddenly ceased. Hoarse staccato cries and peals of laughter shook the old hut, and as the boy stood there peering through the black trees, abruptly the door flew open and a flood of light illumined the wood.
Amid this mighty halo, as on clouds of flame, a girl was dancing. She was black, and lithe, and tall, and willowy. Her garments twined and flew around the delicate moulding of her dark, young, half-naked limbs. A heavy mass of hair clung motionless to her wide forehead. Her arms twirled and flickered, and body and soul seemed quivering and whirring in the poetry of her motion.
As she danced she sang. He heard her voice as before, fluttering like a bird's in the full sweetness of her utter music. It was no tune nor melody, it was just formless, boundless music. The boy forgot himself and all the world besides. All his darkness was sudden light; dazzled he crept forward, bewildered, fascinated, until with one last wild whirl the elf-girl paused. The crimson light fell full upon the warm and velvet bronze of her face-her midnight eyes were aglow, her full purple lips apart, her half hid bosom panting, and all the music dead. Involuntarily the boy gave a gasping cry and awoke to swamp and night and fire, while a white face, drawn, red-eyed, peered outward from some hidden throng within the cabin.
"Who's that?" a harsh voice cried.
"Where?" "Who is it?" and pale crowding faces blurred the light.
The boy wheeled blindly and fled in terror stumbling through the swamp, hearing strange sounds and feeling stealthy creeping hands and arms and whispering voices. On he toiled in mad haste, struggling toward the road and losing it until finally beneath the shadows of a mighty oak he sank exhausted. There he lay a while trembling and at last drifted into dreamless sleep.
It was morning when he awoke and threw a startled glance upward to the twisted branches of the oak that bent above, sifting down sunshine on his brown face and close curled hair. Slowly he remembered the loneliness, the fear and wild running through the dark. He laughed in the bold courage of day and stretched himself.
Then suddenly he bethought him again of that vision of the night-the waving arms and flying limbs of the girl, and her great black eyes looking into the night and calling him. He could hear her now, and hear that wondrous savage music. Had it been real? Had he dreamed? Or had it been some witch-vision of the night, come to tempt and lure him to his undoing? Where was that black and flaming cabin? Where was the girl-the soul that had called him? She must have been real; she had to live and dance and sing; he must again look into the mystery of her great eyes. And he sat up in sudden determination, and, lo! gazed straight into the very eyes of his dreaming.
She sat not four feet from him, leaning against the great tree, her eyes now languorously abstracted, now alert and quizzical with mischief. She seemed but half-clothed, and her warm, dark flesh peeped furtively through the rent gown; her thick, crisp hair was frowsy and rumpled, and the long curves of her bare young arms gleamed in the morning sunshine, glowing with vigor and life. A little mocking smile came and sat upon her lips.
"What you run for?" she asked, with dancing mischief in her eyes.
"Because-" he hesitated, and his cheeks grew hot.
"I knows," she said, with impish glee, laughing low music.
"Why?" he challenged, sturdily.
"You was a-feared."
He bridled. "Well, I reckon you'd be a-feared if you was caught out in the black dark all alone."
"Pooh!" she scoffed and hugged her knees. "Pooh! I've stayed out all alone heaps o' nights."
He looked at her with a curious awe.
"I don't believe you," he asserted; but she tossed her head and her eyes grew scornful.
"Who's a-feared of the dark? I love night." Her eyes grew soft.
He watched her silently, till, waking from her daydream, she abruptly asked:
"Where you from?"
He looked at her in surprise, but she seemed matter-of-fact.
"It's away over yonder," he answered.
"Behind where the sun comes up?"
"Then it ain't so far," she declared. "I knows where the sun rises, and I knows where it sets." She looked up at its gleaming splendor glinting through the leaves, and, noting its height, announced abruptly:
"So'm I," answered the boy, fumbling at his bundle; and then, timidly: "Will you eat with me?"
"Yes," she said, and watched him with eager eyes.
Untying the strips of cloth, he opened his box, and disclosed chicken and biscuits, ham and corn-bread. She clapped her hands in glee.
"Is there any water near?" he asked.
Without a word, she bounded up and flitted off like a brown bird, gleaming dull-golden in the sun, glancing in and out among the trees, till she paused above a tiny black pool, and then came tripping and swaying back with hands held cupwise and dripping with cool water.
"Drink," she cried. Obediently he bent over the little hands that seemed so soft and thin. He took a deep draught; and then to drain the last drop, his hands touched hers and the shock of flesh first meeting flesh startled them both, while the water rained through. A moment their eyes looked deep into each other's-a timid, startled gleam in hers; a wonder in his. Then she said dreamily:
"We'se known us all our lives, and-before, ain't we?"
"Ye-es-I reckon," he slowly returned. And then, brightening, he asked gayly: "And we'll be friends always, won't we?"
"Yes," she said at last, slowly and solemnly, and another brief moment they stood still.
Then the mischief danced in her eyes, and a song bubbled on her lips. She hopped to the tree.
"Come-eat!" she cried. And they nestled together amid the big black roots of the oak, laughing and talking while they ate.
"What's over there?" he asked pointing northward.
"Cresswell's big house."
"And yonder to the west?"
He started joyfully.
"The school! What school?"
"Old Miss' School."
"Miss Smith's school?"
"Yes." The tone was disdainful.
"Why, that's where I'm going. I was a-feared it was a long way off; I must have passed it in the night."
"I hate it!" cried the girl, her lips tense.
"But I'll be so near," he explained. "And why do you hate it?"
"Yes-you'll be near," she admitted; "that'll be nice; but-" she glanced westward, and the fierce look faded. Soft joy crept to her face again, and she sat once more dreaming.
"Yon way's nicest," she said.
"Why, what's there?"
"The swamp," she said mysteriously.
"And what's beyond the swamp?"
She crouched beside him and whispered in eager, tense tones: "Dreams!"
He looked at her, puzzled.
"Dreams?" vaguely-"dreams? Why, dreams ain't-nothing."
"Oh, yes they is!" she insisted, her eyes flaming in misty radiance as she sat staring beyond the shadows of the swamp. "Yes they is! There ain't nothing but dreams-that is, nothing much.
"And over yonder behind the swamps is great fields full of dreams, piled high and burning; and right amongst them the sun, when he's tired o' night, whispers and drops red things, 'cept when devils make 'em black."
The boy stared at her; he knew not whether to jeer or wonder.
"How you know?" he asked at last, skeptically.
"Promise you won't tell?"
"Yes," he answered.
She cuddled into a little heap, nursing her knees, and answered slowly.
"I goes there sometimes. I creeps in 'mongst the dreams; they hangs there like big flowers, dripping dew and sugar and blood-red, red blood. And there's little fairies there that hop about and sing, and devils-great, ugly devils that grabs at you and roasts and eats you if they gits you; but they don't git me. Some devils is big and white, like ha'nts; some is long and shiny, like creepy, slippery snakes; and some is little and broad and black, and they yells-"
The boy was listening in incredulous curiosity, half minded to laugh, half minded to edge away from the black-red radiance of yonder dusky swamp. He glanced furtively backward, and his heart gave a great bound.
"Some is little and broad and black, and they yells-" chanted the girl. And as she chanted, deep, harsh tones came booming through the forest:
"Zo-ra! Zo-ra! O-o-oh, Zora!"
He saw far behind him, toward the shadows of the swamp, an old woman-short, broad, black and wrinkled, with fangs and pendulous lips and red, wicked eyes. His heart bounded in sudden fear; he wheeled toward the girl, and caught only the uncertain flash of her garments-the wood was silent, and he was alone.
He arose, startled, quickly gathered his bundle, and looked around him. The sun was strong and high, the morning fresh and vigorous. Stamping one foot angrily, he strode jauntily out of the wood toward the big road.
But ever and anon he glanced curiously back. Had he seen a haunt? Or was the elf-girl real? And then he thought of her words:
"We'se known us all our lives."
* * *
Reading Group Guide
1. By the end of the novel, The Quest of the Silver Fleece reveals itself as a tale largely concerned with exploring the complex issues of morality in American life. Considering W.E.B. Du Bois’s seeming affinity for the power of the “Word” throughout the story, how would you assess his characterization of Zora’s mother, the witch Elspeth? Described as “old...black and wrinkled with yellow fangs, red hanging lips and wicked eyes,” Elspeth potentially represents many things for Du Bois racially. What are the racial implications of her crude characterization? What is to be made of the nature and fact of her death? How important is her ghostly “return” toward the end of the book?
2. As a place of both oppression and redemption for Zora, the swamp is a contradictory location throughout the novel. What is the significance of Zora’s early departure from its confines? Is her flight to Miss Smith’s school and ultimately to the North a necessary one? What is Du Bois’s interest in staging her triumphant return to the school, the South, and the swamp? Why must the cabin of Elspeth be made to “tremble, sigh and disappear” from its boundaries by novel’s end?
3. At the outset, Bles and Zora quickly forge what seems to be an important bond. What is the significance of their differences? What larger issues of black life loom at the heart of their coupling?
4. The romantic pairing of Zora and Bles is soon ruptured when it is revealed that Zora has lost her “innocence” and is not “pure” due to her early sexual compromise by her master. Why is the issue of purity soimportant to Bles? How does gender figure in his quick and summary refusal ofZora as a suitable partner? How are traditional conceptions of female virture complicated by Du Bois’s representation of Zora’s and other black girls’ brutal violation? What is Du Bois suggesting about the nature and character of the institution of slavery?
5. Zora’s beauty and intelligence are the subject of much speculation and interest throughout. Compare her characterization in the novel’s early stages to her depiction toward its end. What differences emerge? How are her training at Miss Smith’s school and her relationship to Mrs. Vanderpool significant? What is Du Bois suggesting about the role of education in ending black suffering? Why is it important that Du Bois has placed a black woman at the center of this novel of black pain and resistance?
6. Through different means, Bles and Zora acquire knowledge and education and emerge as vanguards in their community. What issues of class are at work here? How significant is language? How does Du Bois’s famous notion of “The Talented Tenth” figure in the novel?
7. A central figure throughout, Miss Sarah Smith is presented as a white woman whose “noble efforts” over three decades to maintain a “Negro school” confirm her commitment to the upward mobility of black people. Looking at her expressions in defense of black humanity and those declaring her contempt for white exploitation and superiority, how would you describe her notions of race in America? Has she succeeded in transcending its pitfalls? Or does she continue to support some notions of white subjectivity and superiority?
8. As a title, The Quest of the Silver Fleeceis well chosen. Not only is the novel concerned with that special crop of cotton Zora and Bles succeed in producing in the swamp, but it is more generally interested in examining the historically central role of cotton in determining the economic future of the nation’s inhabitants. What is the connection between race and capitalism in the novel? What issues of morality does Du Bois bring up in this context? What is to be made of Bles’s negotiation of this complexterrain? How significant is Zora’s socially conscious economic venture toward the end of the book?
9. At the moment of his death, Colonel Cresswell grants Emma, his mulatto and previously unacknowledged granddaughter, a measure of financial legacy. Two hundred thousand dollars and the Cresswell home and plantation are later revealed as bequeathed to Miss Smith’s school. What is the significance of Colonel Cresswell’s deathbed generosity? How do you view the issue of white philanthropy throughout the novel?
10. Upon his return to the South after his “failure” in Washington, Bles asks Zora to marry him and she refuses. Why does Zora decline this offer? What accounts for her change of heart by novel’s end? Why is it significantthat ultimatelysheasks for Bles’s hand in marriage?
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
"Night fell. The red waters of the swamp grew sinister and sullen. the tall pines lost their slimness and stood in wide blurred blotches all across the way, and a great shadowy bird arose, wheeled and melted, murmuring, into the black-green sky."So begins this epic novel, first published in 1911 but possibly existing, at least in embryonic form, some years before.On a personal, and entirely subjective, note, I read that paragraph, immediately fell in love with the book and have not had cause to revise my opinion.In general, I am not particularly keen on political/politically-motivated novels (whether or not I agree with the writers` viewpoint), though I am prepared to make the odd exception (I thoroughly enjoyed Margery Allingham`s `Tiger in the Smoke`, though the author`s views seem to me to be those of a mad woman !). This book seems to me to be primarily a work of literature and certainly not a simple work of propoganda (though I`d concede that the author`s viewpoint becomes more and more noticeable towards the end).The silver fleece of the title is cotton, the setting is the deep south and the underlying themes are race relations, capitalism/labour relations and good old fashioned romance.The plot is complicated, though not unnecessarily convoluted, and I will not try to summarise it here. The characters are well-depicted. One does catch glimpses of Du Bois himself here and there in his characters, especially the brusque but idealistic teacher Miss Smith, but no one character is a self-portrait. In fact the array of characters encountered during the course of the tale is one of it`s greatest strengths. It is pleasing that even the villains of the piece, Southern gentleman Colonel Cresswell and his dissolute son Harry, are not presented as mere ciphers, and the Colonel in particular is presented as having his own standards of ethics, in which he believes deeply, even though these are clearly not shared by the author or intended to be seen as admirable by the reader. Arnold Rampersad in his introduction, claims that the novel suffers because characters are given unconvincingly `poetic` dialogue here and there. I was not conscious of this. I did feel that some dialogue was a little stilted and maybe a little artificial but then again, I do not know how people spoke in the Southern states of the US over 100 years ago.My sole major reservation woul be that I have been reading books from the late 19th/early 20th century for literally years and am very accustomed to the writing of the time. A reader more accustomed to modern writing may struggle.Having said that, this makes it into my personal top ten books easily !
Who ever said this book needs a new name and storyline YOU need to watch your back cause i am GOING TO KILL YOUR GAY FAGET ASS AND MURDER U TOO