When Washington Was in Vogue and Larsen’s novel also share a relationship as examples of the “passing” narrative, a common genre in African-American literature, particularly during the early twentieth century. Like Clare Kendry and Irene Redfield in Passing, many of Williams’s characters—most notably Davy— can, and sometimes do, pass for white. In this way, When Washington Was in Vogue also bears a resemblance to James Weldon Johnson’s The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man (1912). Johnson and Williams’s novels were both originally published anonymously and were presented as nonfiction, and in each, the narrator/protagonist looks white. However, Johnson’s Ex-Colored Man eventually decides to pass permanently as white; in When Washington Was in Vogue, Davy, who does not condemn this behavior in others, is firmly set against choosing this path for himself.
While connections can be made between Williams’s text and many of the black novels of the era, there is one way in which it is sui generis. Unlike every other novel written by an African American during this period, there is not a single white character in When Washington Was in Vogue. There are, certainly, characters that look white, but none identify themselves as such. White characters are common in the novels of the Harlem Renaissance, and, from the sympathetic Stephen Jorgenson in Wallace Thurman’s Infants of the Spring (1932) to the violently racist John Bellew in Passing, they demonstrate a wide range of traits and dispositions. Even Claude McKay’s Home to Harlem (1928), which focuses almost exclusively on the black demi-monde, has at least one white minor character. When Washington Was in Vogue stands alone as a Harlem Renaissance novel comprised entirely of African-American characters. Perhaps the only surprise is that during an age of entrenched Jim Crow legislation, violent racism, and profound discrimination, more African-American novelists did not take a similar tack.
Despite this seeming racial insularity, When Washington Was in Vogue is nonetheless a quintessential American novel that reflects its time and place with great insight and a deft style. Narrated by a World War I veteran who feels like an outsider among the beautiful and talented in an unfamiliar urban setting, When Washington Was in Hogue shares more than a little with another novel published the same year: F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby (1925). Although they resolve quite differently, both novels tell stories of social glitter and emotional blindness, and for all of its mid-Victorian trappings, Williams’s novel is a tale of the Jazz Age. Or, perhaps—considering Davy’s feelings about jazz—Williams’s text is better understood as an anti—Jazz Age novel. When Washington Was in Hogue is also a tale of the Harlem Renaissance, but it may well be the book that contributes to the future disuse of that particular term. But these are issues that readers will decide for themselves. One thing is certain: Edward Christopher Williams has captured a time, a place, and a psyche previously undocumented by authors of his era, and he has preserved for us a part of our shared history. When Washington Was in Hogue is indeed an American novel of the first order.
When Washington
Was in Vogue
A LOVE STORY
{A Lost Novel of the Harlem Renaissance }
The following prefatory note was written by the editors of The Messenger, the Harlem Renaissance journal that published this novel anonymously as serial excerpts in 1925 and 1926.
THE LETTERS
OF DAVY CARR
Prefatory Note
It has long been asserted that in the city of Washington, Colored American Society has reached the point of greatest complexity, if not the highest development. The reasons for this are not far to seek, for the population of the national capital is a conglomerate of elements from every state in the Union. This explains, at least in part, the interest manifested in this favored group by society everywhere. In these days of ease and fatness, following an era of small things, we sometimes have asked ourselves if the race which survived centuries of slavery and adversity might not succumb under the degenerative influences of freedom and prosperity. It is a source of great pleasure, then, to be able to offer our readers a real judgment in the case, for the Letters of Davy Carr” present a rather brilliant cross section of Washington’s Vanity Fair. Since the publishers of contemporaneous personal letters oft-times suffer under the imputation of indelicacy, it was with some hesitation that we ventured even to consider the present undertaking. After due reflection, however, we are convinced that, through the exercises of competent and discriminating editorial censorship, the principal objections to publication could be removed.
In this connection we were fortunate in securing for this difficult and delicate task of editing a person intimately acquainted with the social life of the capital city. After making a careful study of the letters, he decided that certain alterations were imperative. First, all the names must be changed, of persons, clubs, cities, and even streets, except in the few cases in which the real name could work no harm. Next, he must distort and dislocate, so to speak, such descriptions as might make too obvious the identity of certain characters. Finally, he excised entirely a few passages which seemed too revelatory. While doing this he has striven to preserve unspoiled the flavor of the letters, by retaining the carelessness, the colloquialism, and the unstudied art of the originals, even at the cost of an occasional split infinitive, or other bugbear of the teacher of syntax and composition. What the resulting document loses in polish, and in finish of diction, it should more than gain in naturalness.
We realise that whatever pains we may take to conceal the identity of Davy Carr’s friends, there are those of our readers who will insist that they see resemblances even where none exist. This, of course, we cannot help. All we can do is to wish them joy in their difficult if fascinating task. To forestall possible questions from the over-curious, perhaps we might say now that the publishers and the editor are under pledge not to reveal the identity of anyone mentioned in this unique correspondence.
In conclusion, we feel that we are presenting to our readers something absolutely new in the field of writing as it relates to our race group. But let the letters speak for themselves. They are before you!
The Publishers
N.B. The headings are furnished by the editor.
ONE
In which Davy, having arrived in Vanity Fair, looks for lodgings and finds a home.
Washington, D.C., Monday, October 2, 1922
Dear Bob:
You certainly were right when you advised me to wait until I found just what I wanted. I was getting impatient and I should have taken the place on T Street, if it had not been for your letter. So I decided to hold out a few days longer, and my waiting has been rewarded, for I have found the best place imaginable. This self-congratulation may seem a little premature, but somehow I do not think it is. My good luck came from an unexpected source, too.
I called on the Wallaces the other night, and in the midst of a very interesting conversation Mrs. Wallace happened to ask me if I were located satisfactorily. I told her my troubles, and gave her an idea as to what I wanted. She reflected a minute, and then said she thought she could help me out. So she excused herself and, while Wallace and I talked and smoked, I could hear her in the next room telephoning. After a while she returned and handed me a note. I glanced at the envelope and noted that it was inscribed to a Mrs. Margaret Rhodes, at an address just around the corner from the T Street house I was considering. So I went there the next afternoon at about five. I was met at the door by a handsome, rather stately young woman with a very dignified manner, who ushered me into the back parlor, where I was asked to have a seat. She left me for a moment, but reappeared almost immediately to say that her mother would see me in a few minutes. She then returned to the parlor, where she was entertaining a lady caller.
Thus left to my own devices, I took the opportunity to look about me, and to say that I was delighted with what I saw expresses it mildly. Rarely have I seen a room—it was evidently a library-living room—that I have liked better. Solid, substantial furniture, walls lined with bookcases filled with good bo
oks, and more good pictures and art objects, well selected and in the best of taste, than I have seen in an ordinary home for a long time. Nothing seemed new, but, on the contrary, everything showed signs of use, and looked as if it were an integral part of the room. An open fireplace, in which a fire was laid ready for lighting, gave the final touch of coziness. To say I was charmed is putting it mildly. Mrs. Rhodes, when she entered, seemed quite in place in the picture. She is an attractive, motherly person of quiet manners and refined speech. My mind was made up the moment I saw her and I was afraid only that she might refuse me. In fear and trembling, so to speak, I gave her Mrs. Wallace’s note. She read the note attentively, and then arose and offered me her hand.
“I am pleased to meet any friend of the Wallaces, Mr. Carr. I was not planning to take anyone else,” she continued. “We have one lodger, and we have just begun to get used to him. You see, we never had anyone in the house except our own family while Mr. Rhodes was alive, and it is hard to break old habits. What Mrs. Wallace says puts a different face on it, of course. Mr. Rhodes knew your people well, I believe. I have heard him speak often of your father.” She hesitated, and looked at me again smilingly. “We have only one room available, and I don’t like to think of renting it. It was Mr. Rhodes’s private den.” Again she hesitated, and again she looked at me. “Well, let’s look at it, anyway, since you are here.”
She arose, and I followed her—two flights of stairs to the third-floor back. The room itself finished me, and I decided then and there that I must have it. It was appointed to suit me exactly—wallcases, couch, table, revolving bookcase and all.
“This is just what I want,” I said. “If only you will let me have it, I promise you I shan’t give you a bit of trouble. I am a quiet person, and you won’t know I am here.”
To make a long story short, the good lady agreed to take me in, and I hastened to clinch the bargain by paying my first month’s rental, which was most reasonable, and making immediate arrangements for the moving in of my traps.
As we reached the lower hall, the young woman who had let me in was just taking leave of her visitor. As she turned from the door, Mrs. Rhodes called her.
“Genevieve, let me present Mr. Carr. Mr. Carr, this is my daughter, Miss Rhodes.”
That dignified young person received the introduction with a cool graciousness which was a curious mixture of perfect courtesy and impersonal indifference.
Then Mrs. Rhodes explained my errand, told who I was, and otherwise oriented me for the benefit of the handsome young woman with the coldly gracious manner, who withdrew as soon as she could do so without too much abruptness.
So two days later I moved in, and had a rather enjoyable time unpacking my books, and bestowing my belongings properly. All is now in order, and I hope sincerely that I am settled for the winter. Somehow I feel that I am going to like this place. The house is certainly homelike and attractive, and the Rhodes family are surely “easy on the eyes,” for they have as high an average of good looks as any household I have seen in many a day. Mrs. Rhodes must have been a belle in her youth, and she is still good looking, with the dearest, most motherly manner in the world; Genevieve, as I have said, is very handsome, stately, fair, with fine chestnut hair and dark eyes; but the flower of the flock is Caroline, the younger daughter, who is a real beauty, much darker than her sister, more petite, and livelier. She has, apparently, all the best and the worst points of the modern flapper.
I saw her first the day I moved in. I was unpacking and arranging my books when Mrs. Rhodes came in to see how I was getting on. She was followed closely by the prettiest, trimmest, shapeliest little brown girl you ever saw, with the boldest black eyes I ever looked into. She received her mother’s introduction with the savoir faire of a duchess, and took me in with her appraising eyes in such wise that I was almost embarrassed, though, as you know, I have not a reputation for lack of poise.
There is a boy, too, it seems. He is twenty, so his mother says, and he has just matriculated in the medical school. Since he spends most of his time at the chapter house of his fraternity, I have not seen him yet. As the youngest member of the household, and a boy in a trio of doting women, I have no doubt that he has been indulged to a degree, and is consequently a spoiled darling. I am glad, then, that he spends little time at home.
There is another lodger here. He has the third-floor front, and seems quite luxuriously housed. He is surely a swell dresser, and must be popular to judge from the mail and messages he gets. Maybe you know him. I have passed him twice in the hall in the last two or three days, and I know only his name, which is Morris H. Jeffreys. I have noted through his open door two Atlanta pennants adorning his walls. Since you know almost everyone from that neck of the woods, maybe you have come across this M. H. Jeffreys. He is a tall, well-built, brownskin chap with a quick step, and a rather assured manner. His voice is very musical and soft—almost too soft, somehow. At any rate, that’s the way it strikes me. Though maybe that is just the little human touch of envy that would pick a flaw in a chap who is handsome, well dressed and unusually prosperous looking.
Of course I know the danger of judging young chaps—Jeffreys looks under twenty-five—by their outward appearance. You and I know the wonderful front that was put up by some of those impecunious, scheming, grafting birds with whom we consorted in the good old days in the Sunny South. And I guess the North is not so different. Human nature is about the same everywhere, and I have never heard that state boundaries make any difference in that particular. At any rate, “yours truly” has learned to shy at a suave, soft-spoken boy who is too well dressed. Do you remember Milton Upshaw and the vanished semester fees money to which we bade such a fond farewell? Every time I think of Milt I smell hair burning, and it isn’t a nice odor, is it, Bob? So, while I realize that it is not fair to him, maybe, I cannot help saying that every time I have seen this Jeffreys I have thought of Milt Upshaw and our vanished coin. If Jeffreys could only see my thoughts he certainly would have good grounds for a suit for slander. But enough of him!
I have heard it said many times that Washington has more pretty women than any city in the country, and I am beginning to think it is true. I had another illustration of it last night. The Wallaces, who have been very kind, invited me to supper, and there I met Dr. and Mrs. Morrow, the Hales, Miss Lillian Barton, and Mr. Morton Reese, an eligible bachelor. It was an unusually interesting group, I assure you, and such as one would not be likely to meet around one table in many cities with which I am acquainted. For example, the conversation happening to turn to France and the war, it transpired that, of the nine people present, including myself, at least six have been to Europe—I am not sure as to the other three—and one or two of them more than once. They are all highly cultivated people.
The Wallaces you know already, having met them in Boston last summer. Dr. Morrow is a very distinguished-looking dark man, tall and graceful, with the manner of an aristocrat, and Morton Reese you know by reputation. The ladies, except Mrs. Wallace, are all very fair, and would not be likely to be taken for colored, and in manner and dress they all of them showed real class. I am not sure that Miss Barton is not, taking her in all, the most brilliant woman I have ever met in colored society, but I speak, remember, after only one meeting. She is not only clever and witty, with a real sparkle about her, but she is undeniably handsome. In fact, I am not sure that one might not call her beautiful. Mrs. Hale is a rather stately beauty, with a fine color and a pair of interesting gray eyes. We took a liking to each other on sight apparently. At any rate, I am sure that I took a liking to her, and I think she did to me, but I don’t wish to appear conceited.
This much I know, that I had a ripping good time, and a very nice supper—creamed oysters, and wonderful cocoa, and other good things—and last, but by no means least, plenty of the most stimulating conversation. Wallace himself is a man who does not deal in gossip or small talk, but is a well-read chap with real brains and genuine intellectual interests, and h
e rather set the pace. I must confess that most of those present were quite able to hold their own.
Taking it all in all, I was quite elated over my evening. The company was certainly a choice one, and I was accepted without question as “belonging.” The Morrows took all the guests home in their car, and as they left me at my door, they gave me a very cordial invitation to call, which I shall certainly not let go by default.
This letter was interrupted by a voice at my door, and the entrance of Miss Caroline Rhodes, my landlady’s younger daughter. She came to bring me your telegram. She delayed her going by some errand or other in the big storeroom opening off the hall just outside my door long enough to pop her head in again, and say that she hoped it was not bad news. It is a curious thing about telegrams and long-distance telephone messages. So many people seem to have a horror of them, as expedients resorted to only in matters of life and death. In this, as in other things, we are progressing. I know that I did not get over my provincial feeling of excitement over a telegram until I had sent and received some scores of them in that very exciting winter of 1917—1918.
At any rate, Miss Caroline asked me if the news was bad, and, the ice thus broken, sat down on a corner of my couch and chatted a few moments. She is really quite a striking little beauty, with the most flashing black eyes you ever saw, and the prettiest feet and ankles imaginable. Extremes surely meet in that last sentence, don’t they?
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