Darkwater: Voices from Within the Veil (Dover Thrift Editions) [Paperback]

W. E. B. Du Bois (Author)

Book Description

Series: Dover Thrift Editions | Publication Date: July 2, 1999

The distinguished American civil rights leader, W. E. B. Du Bois first published these fiery essays, sketches, and poems individually nearly 80 years ago in the Atlantic, the Journal of Race Development, and other periodicals. This volume has long inspired readers with its militant cry for social, political, and economic reforms for black Americans.

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CHAPTER I: THE SHADOW OF YEARS

I was born by a golden river and in the shadow of two great hills, five years after the Emancipation Proclamation. The house was quaint, with clapboards running up and down, neatly trimmed, and there were five rooms, a tiny porch, a rosy front yard, and unbelievably delicious strawberries in the rear. A South Carolinian, lately come to the Berkshire Hills, owned all this -- tall, thin, and black, with golden earrings, and given to religious trances. We were his transient tenants for the time.

My own people were part of a great clan. Fully two hundred years before, Tom Burghardt had come through the western pass from the Hudson with his Dutch captor, "Coenraet Burghardt," sullen in his slavery and achieving his freedom by volunteering for the Revolution at a time of sudden alarm. His wife was a little, black, Bantu woman, who never became reconciled to this strange land; she clasped her knees and rocked and crooned:

"Do bana coba -- gene me, gene me! Ben d'nuli, ben d'le -- "

Tom died about 1787, but of him came many sons, and one, Jack, who helped in the War of 1812. Of Jack and his wife, Violet, was born a mighty family, splendidly named: Harlow and Ira, Cloë, Lucinda, Maria, and Othello! I dimly remember my grandfather, Othello, -- or "Uncle Tallow," -- a brown man, strong-voiced and redolent with tobacco, who sat stiffly in a great high chair because his hip was broken. He was probably a bit lazy and given to wassail. At any rate, grandmother had a shrewish tongue and often berated him. This grandmother was Sarah -- "Aunt Sally" -- a stern, tall, Dutch-African woman, beak-nosed, but beautiful-eyed and golden-skinned. Ten or more children were theirs, of whom the youngest was Mary, my mother.

Mother was dark shining bronze, with a tiny ripple in her black hair, black-eyed, with a heavy, kind face. She gave one the impression of infinite patience, but a curious determination was concealed in her softness. The family were small farmers on Egremont Plain, between Great Barrington and Sheffield, Massachusetts. The bits of land were too small to support the great families born on them and we were always poor. I never remember being cold or hungry, but I do remember that shoes and coal, and sometimes flour, caused mother moments of anxious thought in winter, and a new suit was an event!

At about the time of my birth economic pressure was transmuting the family generally from farmers to "hired" help. Some revolted and migrated westward, others went cityward as cooks and barbers. Mother worked for some years at house service in Great Barrington, and after a disappointed love episode with a cousin, who went to California, she met and married Alfred Du Bois and went to town to live by the golden river where I was born.

Alfred, my father, must have seemed a splendid vision in that little valley under the shelter of those mighty hills. He was small and beautiful of face and feature, just tinted with the sun, his curly hair chiefly revealing his kinship to Africa. In nature he was a dreamer, -- romantic, indolent, kind, unreliable. He had in him the making of a poet, an adventurer, or a Beloved Vagabond, according to the life that closed round him; and that life gave him all too little. His father, Alexander Du Bois, cloaked under a stern, austere demeanor a passionate revolt against the world. He, too, was small, but squarish. I remember him as I saw him first, in his home in New Bedford, -- white hair close-cropped; a seamed, hard face, but high in tone, with a gray eye that could twinkle or glare.

Long years before him Louis XIV drove two Huguenots, Jacques and Louis Du Bois, into wild Ulster County, New York. One of them in the third or fourth generation had a descendant, Dr. James Du Bois, a gay, rich bachelor, who made his money in the Bahamas, where he and the Gilberts had plantations. There he took a beautiful little mulatto slave as his mistress, and two sons were born: Alexander in 1803 and John, later. They were fine, straight, clear-eyed boys, white enough to "pass." He brought them to America and put Alexander in the celebrated Cheshire School, in Connecticut. Here he often visited him, but one last time, fell dead. He left no will, and his relations made short shrift of these sons. They gathered in the property, apprenticed grandfather to a shoemaker; then dropped him.

Grandfather took his bitter dose like a thoroughbred. Wild as was his inner revolt against this treatment, he uttered no word against the thieves and made no plea. He tried his fortunes here and in Haiti, where, during his short, restless sojourn, my own father was born. Eventually, grandfather became chief steward on the passenger boat between New York and New Haven; later he was a small merchant in Springfield; and finally he retired and ended his days at New Bedford. Always he held his head high, took no insults, made few friends. He was not a "Negro"; he was a man! Yet the current was too strong even for him. Then even more than now a colored man had colored friends or none at all, lived in a colored world or lived alone. A few fine, strong, black men gained the heart of this silent, bitter man in New York and New Haven. If he had scant sympathy with their social clannishness, he was with them in fighting discrimination. So, when the white Episcopalians of Trinity Parish, New Haven, showed plainly that they no longer wanted black folk as fellow Christians, he led the revolt which resulted in St. Luke's Parish, and was for years its senior warden. He lies dead in the Grove Street Cemetery, beside Jehudi Ashmun.

Beneath his sternness was a very human man. Slyly he wrote poetry, -- stilted, pleading things from a soul astray. He loved women in his masterful way, marrying three beautiful wives in succession and clinging to each with a certain desperate, even if unsympathetic, affection. As a father he was, naturally, a failure, -- hard, domineering, unyielding. His four children reacted characteristically: one was until past middle life a thin spinster, the mental image of her father; one died; one passed over into the white world and her children's children are now white, with no knowledge of their Negro blood; the fourth, my father, bent before grandfather, but did not break -- better if he had. He yielded and flared back, asked forgiveness and forgot why, became the harshly-held favorite, who ran away and rioted and roamed and loved and married my brown mother.

So with some circumstance having finally gotten myself born, with a flood of Negro blood, a strain of French, a bit of Dutch, but, thank God! no "Anglo-Saxon," I come to the days of my childhood.

They were very happy. Early we moved back to Grandfather Burghardt's home, -- I barely remember its stone fireplace, big kitchen, and delightful woodshed. Then this house passed to other branches of the clan and we moved to rented quarters in town, -- to one delectable place "upstairs," with a wide yard full of shrubbery, and a brook; to another house abutting a railroad, with infinite interests and astonishing playmates; and finally back to the quiet street on which I was born, -- down a long lane and in a homely, cozy cottage, with a living-room, a tiny sitting-room, a pantry, and two attic bedrooms. Here mother and I lived until she died, in 1884, for father early began his restless wanderings. I last remember urgent letters for us to come to New Milford, where he had started a barber shop. Later he became a preacher. But mother no longer trusted his dreams, and he soon faded out of our lives into silence.

From the age of five until I was sixteen I went to school on the same grounds, -- down a lane, into a widened yard, with a big choke-cherry tree and two buildings, wood and brick. Here I got acquainted with my world, and soon had my criterions of judgment.

Wealth had no particular lure. On the other hand, the shadow of wealth was about us. That river of my birth was golden because of the woolen and paper waste that soiled it. The gold was theirs, not ours; but the gleam and glint was for all. To me it was all in order and I took it philosophically. I cordially despised the poor Irish and South Germans, who slaved in the mills, and annexed the rich and well-to-do as my natural companions. Of such is the kingdom of snobs!

Most of our townfolk were, naturally, the well-to-do, shading downward, but seldom reaching poverty. As playmate of the children I saw the homes of nearly every one, except a few immigrant New Yorkers, of whom none of us approved. The homes I saw impressed me, but did not overwhelm me. Many were bigger than mine, with newer and shinier things, but they did not seem to differ in kind. I think I probably surprised my hosts more than they me, for I was easily at home and perfectly happy and they looked to me just like ordinary people, while my brown face and frizzled hair must have seemed strange to them.

Yet I was very much one of them. I was a center and sometimes the leader of the town gang of boys. We were noisy, but never very bad, -- and, indeed, my mother's quiet influence came in here, as I realize now. She did not try to make me perfect. To her I was already perfect. She simply warned me of a few things, especially saloons. In my town the saloon was the open door to hell. The best families had their drunkards and the worst had little else.

Very gradually, -- I cannot now distinguish the steps, though here and there I remember a jump or a jolt -- but very gradually I found myself assuming quite placidly that I was different from other children. At first I think I connected the difference with a manifest ability to get my lessons rather better than most and to recite with a certain happy, almost taunting, glibness, which brought frowns here and there. Then, slowly, I realized that some folks, a few, even several, actually considered my brown skin a misfortune; once or twice I became painfully aware that some human beings even thought it was a crime. I was not for a moment daunted, -- although, of course, there were some ... --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

Product Details

• Reading level: Ages 14 and up
  
• Paperback: 176 pages
• Publisher: Dover Publications (July 2, 1999)
• Language: English
• ISBN-10: 0486408906
• ISBN-13: 978-0486408903
• Product Dimensions: 8.2 x 5.2 x 0.5 inches
• Shipping Weight: 4.8 ounces (View shipping rates and policies)
• Average Customer Review: 4.7 out of 5 stars  See all reviews (3 customer reviews)
• Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #319,667 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
  • #15 in Books > 4-for-3 Books > Biographies & Memoirs > Leaders & Notable People > Political
  • #54 in Books > 4-for-3 Books > Biographies & Memoirs > Ethnic & National > General
  • #81 in Books > 4-for-3 Books > Nonfiction > Social Sciences > Special Groups > African-American Studies

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36 of 38 people found the following review helpful:

5.0 out of 5 stars BELOVED, LISTEN TO CONSCIENTIOUS VOICES., March 9, 2003

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reviewer (Zurich, Switzerland.) - See all my reviews

This review is from: Darkwater: Voices from Within the Veil (Dover Thrift Editions) (Paperback)

Fondly called W.E.B., Dr William Edward Burghardt DuBois was a conscientious voice, whose mouthpiece was just a pen. Each of his writings buttressed this point.
A bundle of intellect, all his works have remained potent till this day. Having enumerated the problems and experiences of emancipated slaves in "The Souls of Black Folk", Dr DuBois used this book, "Darkwater: Voices from Within the Veil", to highlight the intricacies of the then White-Black relationships. This book has a socio-economic focus, and dealt with such associational issues like exploitative labour, voting rights, women's rights, and family values. It suggested guidance and remedies wherever necessary. The ideas and insights of Dr DuBois were general in perspective: both Whites and Blacks were thought of.
This book is more than eighty years old; however, anybody who reads it, needs only to turn a few pages before discovering that we are still grappling with most of its lamentations.
Finally, I must say that I cherished reading this book. "Darkwater: Voices from Within the Veil" is a compelling piece; especially for anyone who is familiar with either "The Souls of Black Folk" or "Dusk of Dawn".

2 of 2 people found the following review helpful:

5.0 out of 5 stars Powerhouse Book from the Greatest, March 7, 2011

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Osiris Jones "(And you know its on)" (The Dirty South) - See all my reviews

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This review is from: Darkwater: Voices from Within the Veil (Dover Thrift Editions) (Paperback)

If you don't know, Dr. Du Bois is the greatest social scientist of all time. In this book, Du Bois emerges as a fearless truthteller while remaining erudite in his observations. Du Bois is also simultaneously a poet, as several of his poems are embedded in this work. Much of his cogent analysis remains highly relevant and proves even to be prophetic.

2 of 3 people found the following review helpful:

4.0 out of 5 stars Back to the Future with Du Bois, January 15, 2007

By 

Gilbert W. Crampton - See all my reviews
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This review is from: Darkwater: Voices from Within the Veil (Dover Thrift Editions) (Paperback)

This book addresses global issues, immigration policy, womens rights, civil rights, and the nature of European colonizaton of Africa. Du Bois connects the dots that tie the East St. Louis riots, the brutal treatment of african labor by european colonists, the low wages of domestic african american workers and women in america, and the shortage of european migration/workers because of the "great war". This is a first hand account of history by an African American that differs from past accounts of the above mentioned events in history texts, the movies, and the majority press.
Darkwater is an easy read that educates. This is history not written as history by the author but as a comment on the events of his time that have significance to what is occuring in the world today.
I found the book very enjoyable and enlightening. I witheld one star from the rating because the poetry, although good, seemed be tossed in as a filler.