When Washington Was In Vogue

by Edward Christopher Williams

  Well, so long, and be good to yourself.

  Davy

  THREE

  Pervasive Caroline. A fair lady’s parlor. Enter a fascinating brown girl.

  Washington, D.C., October 23, 1922

  Dear Bob:

  Caroline is the most pervasive personality I have run across lately. She has the faculty of being underfoot at the most inopportune times, and yet, what is one to do? She has quite taken possession of my quarters. I don’t recall if I mentioned it before, but she uses some special kind of perfume, and whenever I come into my room, I can tell if she has been there recently. There is something strangely alluring in this kind of intimate contact with a pretty woman, and yet, somehow, I resent it as an invasion of my privacy. If she were ugly and unattractive, I suppose I should close my door and thus shut her out, and of course if her mother knew how much time she spends here, she would soon put a stop to the practice, or try to. Most of the time, naturally, I am out of the house, and as Caroline knows my hours pretty well by now, she times herself accordingly. Today’s experience, for instance, was typical.

  I came in about five and found my French dictionary open on the table, the inkwell open, a penholder, blotter, and several sheets of monogrammed paper scattered about, in the midst one of Caroline’s dainty little handkerchiefs, and pervading the whole room the very faintest trace of that wonderful perfume which I am beginning, by some occult psychological process, to associate with her personality. I had a moment of irritation, for you know how I like to have my personal things for myself, and you recall how often the folks at college used to say that I was not a bit Southern in some of my ways. My irritation increased considerably when I saw that my pet copy of Amiel’s Journal, the one I bought in that queer little shop in Geneva in the spring of 1919, was lying facedown on the rug beside the couch. I swore softly, stooped to pick it up, and then suddenly changed my mind. So I left everything just as I found it, and went out to dinner. I met Reese, who now and then eats where I do, and after our meal was over, we walked around the block while he finished his cigar. When I reached home it was about seven.

  My room was straight, the table in perfect order, and the two books back in their respective places. Resting against the base of my lamp I found this note:

  Dear Old Bear:

  I really did not mean to be careless, but the phone rang for me, and then Mamma sent me out on an errand, and I forgot to come back and straighten up. But I am usually very careful, indeed I am. Your Amiel must have slipped from the couch, for I certainly did not throw it on the floor. But it was mean in you to leave it there—as a reproach! You owe me an apology.

  Caroline.

  The note made me laugh, of course, it was so characteristic, and I settled down to a cigarette and an hour’s reading in my very comfortable chair. A few minutes before eight in breezed Caroline. She had on something extra fetching, which I should set forth in words if I could, but I am aware that the angels weep when I try to describe a lady’s gown, so I shall refrain, much as I am tempted.

  “Going to the show at the Howard tonight,” she said laconically, as she sat on the corner of my couch and reached for my cigarette case. “Let me take a dozen puffs while I am waiting for the others. They won’t be here until after eight. Well, why don’t you tell me I’m ‘the class’? Where were you brought up, any-way?

  I laughed. I guess I had been looking my approval, for she was smiling contentedly. Then I said:

  “Well, you are ‘the class’—whatever that means. That’s an awfully pretty rig, and not badly placed, either.”

  “You don’t use a trowel, do you? But thanks anyway, even for small favors. But look me over, Old Bear, for I am so afraid you might someday be really displeased, and actually give me that— ah—chastisement you spoke of the other day.”

  “You are all right, little girl. I have no criticisms to offer. If I had a sister, and she looked half as well as you do, I should be proud to acknowledge the relationship.”

  “Be careful there, or you will compliment me before you know it.”

  Then she stood up to go, and I arose from my chair. She came over close to me, and looked up in that superlatively devilish way she has.

  “See, Old Grouchy, there’s not a tiny bit of rouge.”

  And she took my hands, and rubbed my fingertips over her velvety cheek. It was true, as she said, that she was not rouged, and Heaven knows she did not need it.

  “Why don’t you?” I asked, hardly knowing why.

  “Why don’t you wear spats?” she asked, with seeming irrelevance.

  I laughed.

  “Because I can’t endure them,” I answered.

  “Well, I don’t rouge for the same reason. Maybe someday necessity may overrule choice, but for the present, Old Grouchy, you can kiss me without the least risk of being poisoned.”

  Then with mischievous determination in her eyes she took a step toward me, and said, “I have half a mind …”

  Involuntarily I stepped back, startled, and she gave me a merry laugh and ran down the stairs. Why I am unable to stand my ground against her, I cannot for the life of me determine, but she always manages to startle me, to “get my goat,” as she would put it. I swore softly over my lack of poise, and sat down to write to you.

  But the real purpose of this letter was to tell you about my Sunday-evening tea at Barton’s. I wish I might show you Lillian Barton’s parlor, for I am sure I cannot describe it adequately. I am like the actor who made you laugh so hard that last wild night on Broadway, and who sang—don’t you remember it?—a silly song with the refrain:

  I cannot sing the old songs,

  For I do not know the words!

  That is just my trouble. I don’t know the words. Now if I had Leroy’s command of the King’s English and his vocabulary of modern art terms, I could make sure you see a perfect picture.

  In a few undistinguished words, it’s an old house, a rich man’s house, made over, and redecorated on modern lines—some ultramodern, I should say. Dark walls, with a few good paintings; heavy furniture in keeping with the size of the room; a wonderful rug; and a big fireplace with a real fire. Altogether it is the most attractive room I have been in—as a guest—and you know I have seen most of our handsome houses between New Orleans and Boston, and as far west as Chicago. Most of our pretentious residences are too ornate, or too luxurious, and the element of conspicuous expenditure is somewhat too pronounced. But here there were evidences of intelligent planning coupled with a cultivated individual taste. It was pleasing to the eye, and would have rejoiced your heart, I know. Somehow—and I suppose you would have said that this was the final test of the room—it seemed a perfect setting for Miss Barton.

  There were, including our hostess, just six of us, the others being the Hales, Reese, of course, and Verney. We had a most delightful tea served in a sort of library-dining room, which was quite as attractive in its way as the parlor, but we spent most of the evening seated in a semicircle around the most hospitable hearth, in the glow and warmth of a fine wood fire. It was perfect!

  We told stories, sang songs, and discussed everything in this mundane sphere, ending of course, where we always do, with the race question. Verney made one or two statements which stimulated debate. He contended that this generation is not going forward, except in the conspicuous, showy ways; that our progress is more apparent than real, except in the matter, perhaps, of mere intellectual training; and that even there we are vastly outpointed by the Jews and the Japanese. He holds that we read only those things which concern us directly, and that we have no interest in the story of the past politics of Europe and Asia; while, on the other hand, the Jews and the Japanese seem to feel the absolute necessity for understanding completely the civilization of the Western European races which now dominate the world.

  He said, further, that our most prosperous class takes little real interest even in the race question, but that many of the women think only of “getting by” the color line by paint
ing their faces, while the men, for the most part, studiously avoid it, and live strictly within their own self-sufficient circle; that better incomes are making us more cowardly, rather than more bold, for we can now procure in our own circle the satisfactions we once could get only outside, and so we shut our eyes to what we do not wish to see, and then assert that it does not exist; that we love pleasure too much, and that we will spend more both of time and money in following it than any other struggling race in the world.

  But I shall not unduly burden this letter with the details of his contention. Of course, there are rather obvious answers to most of the assertions advanced by Verney, but for every answer made he had a telling rejoinder. Someday I am going to draw him out again, for I am interested to know what is the basis of his claims.

  But let me get back to our Sunday-evening tea. Reese, whom I noted especially on this occasion, seemed to assume a distinctly proprietary manner, and certainly would give a stranger to think that the story of his engagement to Miss Barton is no mere canard. He is a cool, rather unimaginative chap, and I can quite believe what they say of him, that he is a fine man of business, who has already accumulated a snug fortune. He is a pretty good imitation of a Yankee money getter, and from all I can hear, he is regarded as a man of the highest integrity, whose word is as good as his bond.

  He does not act as if he had much sentiment, though maybe his own special virtues are more dependable. Somehow I foresee that, while Miss Barton is rather inclined to act the grand lady with everyone, if she ever assumes the matrimonial harness, it will be the old story of Greek meeting Greek. Men of Reese’s type have rather a fashion of letting a woman deceive herself all she pleases regarding their eagerness to meet her every wish, but after the ceremony they quite frequently uncover a very complete assortment of wishes of their own. Reese is probably unimaginative, as I said before, and not overshrewd or overobserving, maybe, in social matters in which he is not deeply interested, but, if I am any judge, he is nobody’s fool, and he is going to be nobody’s slave.

  I have seen nothing to indicate any effusive affection on either side. That “catty” little Miss Clay, whom I mentioned in a previous letter, said that Miss Barton was interested only in Reese’s prospects, and that he would see it if he were not stone blind. I am wondering if this is true. Of course, you are wanting to know how she treated me. Well, I’ll tell you. I have indicated that she is unusually interesting, which means, in other words, that she says and does interesting things. Every time I have talked with her she has said something to whip up my interest.

  When we were all standing up to take our leave, for one moment it happened that I remained alone in front of the fire, while the others were in the next room putting on their wraps, Reese helping Hale on with his coat and Verney assisting Mrs. Hale. Miss Barton left them quickly, and came over to me and held out her hand. As I took it she said:

  “Do you know what I have been thinking as we looked into the fire tonight? I have been thinking that we two could have some wonderfully interesting times together. What do you think, my friend? It has been so nice to know you.”

  Then without another word, she turned to greet her guests coming from the other room. I am afraid that I stood openmouthed, an attitude in which few men are conscious of looking their best. Now, Old Fellow, I ask you—what do you think of that?

  As we left rather early, Reese remained behind and we four— the Hales, Verney, and I—walked home together. They invited us to come in, but we declined with thanks, and went on to his quarters, where we smoked and talked for a while. I had an impulse to draw him out about Miss Barton and Reese, but thought better of it, and decided to watch for another opportunity.

  When I reached home the house was full of company, as it usually is on Sunday evening. I slipped upstairs, hoping to find time for a little reading or writing before I retired. I had just settled down to work when I heard my name called from below, and, on answering, was invited by Mrs. Rhodes to come down to supper. Don’t you wish you had a landlady like mine? I went to the head of the stairs, and thanked her as nicely as I could, giving as an excuse for declining that I had been out to tea. She said something about my being welcome anyway, if I wished to come down. I thanked her again in a noncommittal fashion and went back to my work.

  In a few minutes I had become so absorbed in what I was doing that I was startled by a voice close to my ear, and here was my friend Caroline with a small tray of two dishes of unusually fine homemade ice cream flanked by two huge pieces of real cake. Who—being human—could refuse? So while I attacked one dish, she seated herself calmly on the arm of my big chair, and regaled herself from the other, talking and laughing incessantly about everything and nothing. Then she insisted on dragging me downstairs to meet a particular friend of hers. I at first essayed a mild refusal.

  “Now if I were a real ‘cat,’ like Helen Clay, I should say that you are so taken up with your ‘dicty’ friends that you don’t want to meet anyone else. But then I am not a real ‘cat.’ But, come on, Old Grouchy, or I shall be compelled to resort to extreme measures.”

  Such is my helplessness in the hands of this young minx, that, when she takes this tone, there seems to be nothing to do but yield. So I arose with a cheerful grin, and prepared to follow her.

  “I don’t in the least care what you think about other folks,” she went on, “but this girl is my very dearest friend, and if you don’t like her I shall feel very badly.” And then, in a peculiar tone, which puzzled me somewhat at the time, she added impressively, “She is not very good looking, you know, and I shall be heartbroken if you treat her indifferently on account of it. When you realize the beauty of her character, you will agree with me that she is the sweetest girl in town.”

  This showed the flighty, careless, irresponsible Caroline in a new light, indeed, and I was somewhat touched by her solicitude. I hastened to assure her that I was the last person in the world to be unduly influenced by mere outward beauty, or the lack of it. But I could not help wondering what special type of physical deformity would make her feel such a warning necessary, and I prepared myself accordingly. Then I was ushered into the dining room, and found quite a company gathered about the table. A trifle self-conscious, I was led to the head of the table, where sat the loveliest brown girl it has ever been my privilege to meet. Shut your eyes for a moment to the ugliness of the everyday world about you and construct in your mind’s eye a girl of medium height, with a figure which would make the Venus de Milo hunt a new corsetier, the most wonderful rosy velvety-brown complexion, and a pair of flashing black eyes. Use your imagination a moment longer, and picture her attired in a costume which is the last word in simple good taste and elegance. I am aware that this paragraph might be blue penciled for excessive use of superlatives, but I refuse to remove a single one!

  You can, of course, imagine my slight confusion when Caroline put her arm around the girl’s neck and said in a voice in which she could not quite control the note of mischief triumphant:

  “Tommie, let me present Mr. Carr. Mr. Carr, this is my dearest friend, Miss Dawson.”

  Then the saucy baggage looked straight into my face and exploded in a perfect gale of laughter, somewhat to the mystification of everyone present, including Miss Dawson, who blushed a deep red and offered me her hand. Mrs. Rhodes, poor woman, who is being scandalized continually by Caroline, looked from one to the other of us with a sort of helpless bewilderment, but Genevieve, who always has the right word ready, said very sweetly:

  “We should all enjoy a good laugh, Carrie. Don’t be selfish.”

  But Caroline only laughed the more, and finally had a mild fit of hysterics, and had to be slapped on the back and given cold water. After a few lively minutes, order was restored, and then Genevieve returned to her request, this time pointing it my way.

  “Please, Mr. Carr, we are dying of curiosity. Won’t you tell us the joke?” I looked at Caroline, and she laughingly nodded acquiescence. I turned to Miss Dawson and b
owed slightly, and then I answered Genevieve.

  “Caroline,” said I, “made me promise very solemnly that I should be nice to Miss Dawson, even if she was very homely.”

  The spontaneous and hearty laugh which followed was a perfect tribute to the lady’s beauty. The rest of the evening was pleasant enough, I must say. Carolyn made me sit next to Miss Dawson, and the ice being so completely broken by the former’s prank, we were soon fast friends. Another item or two, Old Pal —she has a nice voice, a well-furnished mind, and, judging from her countenance, she has character. A paragon, you will exclaim. I am not quite sure as yet, but thus far I have been able to check every requirement. Caroline and I took her home, and we had a lively time. Miss Dawson is quieter than Caroline, and seems to have more control over that rather willful young person than does anyone else. I turned in when I got back, and slept the sleep of good digestion and a clean conscience.

  I had just finished writing the above lines when the folks came in from the theater, and it was not long before I heard Caroline’s little slippers tripping up the stairs. This time she had a handful of macaroons, which she was munching with every sign of enjoyment. She sat calmly on the arm of my chair and fed me macaroons in the most nonchalant way in the world. It is a fact that her “pervasiveness” ofttimes irritates me, and she frequently interrupts me when it is disagreeable to be interrupted. Then, too. I somewhat resent her perfectly assured manner, as of one who either has no doubt of her welcome, or is quite indifferent to what I may think or feel. And yet, I guess I should not be absolutely ingenuous if I tried to make you believe that her presence is always unpleasant or tiresome.

  “I saw Tommie tonight,” she said, among other things. “She likes you, but I warned her against you. In spite of that she sent you her love. I told her that I should not deliver it, but as you see. I have. Take it for what it is worth.”