Davy
FOUR
Davy’s third-floor back. The subjection of women. A social philosopher. Some more jazz. A modern Saint Anthony.
Monday, November 6, 1922
Dear Bob:
I promised to tell you about my room, and this is just the night to do it, for it seems infinitely cozy and desirable, with the cold rain driving against my windows and the wind rattling the sash. It is indeed a night to stay indoors and read or write. Imagine me in smoking jacket and slippers, with a package of Pall Malls within easy reach, and my trusty fountain pen in hand! Here goes!
My apartment is a reasonably good-sized square room with a long and most comfortable bed couch along one wall. The couch is quite luxuriously furnished with pillows of all kinds—for Harvard, Fisk, Shaw, Tuskegee, Wellesley, and the U. of P. are all present. The last two were contributed by Caroline, who says that since she uses my room so much, she feels she ought to donate something to its furnishings. Genevieve is a Wellesley graduate, and the U. of P. pillow is all that is left of a former attachment of Caroline’s. The result of this conglomeration is a perfect riot of color, and suggests thoughts of a conference of the League of Nations. Over the couch, and well placed for reading, are two very satisfactory electric lights with rather attractive shades.
Between the corner of the foot of the couch and the back windows is a wall bookcase, which holds over three hundred volumes. A revolving case nearby holds my dictionaries, atlas, and similar much-used books in addition to a tobacco jar, and such conveniences. Then there is a small, but quite serviceable, library table with one long drawer, and two smaller drawers very cleverly contrived at one end. Two small stout chairs, my beloved armchair, and my trunk, with a heavy linen cover, complete the visible furniture equipment. Behind a screen, in a sort of recess between my clothes closet and the closet of the room adjoining, is my dresser. In the clothes closet, which is equipped so as to get the limit of capacity, I keep another chair, in the very unusual event of a multitude of callers. There is a mantel on one side of the room on which are kept books of the moment, library books and the like, and these I maintain in neat array by means of two Florentine bookends. There are only three pictures—the Salome you used to like so much, my mother’s picture, and a photograph of you, which usually adorns one end of the mantel. You should feel honored, Old Pal! Your picture is one you had taken that wonderful day in April 1918, at Dijon! Will you ever forget it? You always did look like “somebody” in your regimentals—as all the French lassies seemed willing to testify—and it was this portrait which took Tommie Dawson’s eye.
That reminds me that I saw that same lady this very day. When I came in from dinner, she and Caroline were in the parlor, and as I stopped at the hall table to get my letter they hailed me. I don’t wonder they run together. They are both good looking, but such entirely different types that each sets the other off by contrast. There is a curiously vital something about a handsome brown woman which seems not to be possessed in the same degree by her fairer sister. What is it? Is it the greater physical vigor of the darker race which shows through?
We say—we men of the so-called better class—that there are more beauties among the fair women of our group, but are we good judges? Are we not so prejudiced against mere color that we cannot really judge fairly in such cases, thus, on the one hand, exhibiting our slavish adherence to the ideals set up by the Western European, and, on the other hand, through our enforced segregation within our own group, lacking the perspective which enables even some white men to see the beauty in our diverse and to him exotic types. I cannot forget one or two passages in Batouala, that unlovely thing, which show the reaction of the unspoiled native African toward the physical appearance of the white man. I suppose it would be pretty difficult for us to realize how far we have imbibed the white man’s ideals through education and environment, and I should certainly be willing to admit without argument that this was perfectly right and proper, and as it should be, if it were not for the fact that it is just our darker brothers who seem to lack utterly the capacity to appreciate the beauty of the darker types of women.
I heard someone say the other day that even the darker women themselves acknowledge the inferiority of their type by trying so hard to approximate the other. That is hardly a fair rejoinder, I think. Women the world over, and since the world began, have been slaves to the conventions of their own milieu, and to achieve social success (which means still, in most cases, to get husbands) they must conform. If that means slitting their cheeks, wearing rings in their noses, binding their feet until they become miniature monstrosities, twisting their internal organs all out of shape by confining their bodies in a steel-and-canvas cuirass called a corset, they will do these things, any one of them or all of them, not only uncomplainingly, but eagerly. All civilized and cultivated races ridicule such practices, and very rightly, indeed, but—mark you, my friend!—each group ridicules the conventions of the other groups and not its own.
We read about the hideous foot-binding process of the aristocratic Chinese and shudder, but how many women of your acquaintance have the feet with which they were born? If Dame Nature had intended women to walk with their heels elevated two inches above the ball of the foot, don’t you imagine the old lady would have made the proper adjustments herself? Don’t misunderstand me! Heaven knows the result, as seen by the masculine eye, is all that one could wish, and personally I have no objection. But for that matter, neither have I any active objection to a man slaving in the mines of West Virginia to furnish the coal to keep me warm! If the result pleases me, why worry about the process?
But to return to my muttons! All this tirade apropos of Miss Thomasine Dawson! Caroline gave me an opening by referring to Miss Dawson’s comments on your picture, and I said I hoped you might be here for the game on Thanksgiving. Then I asked the ladies’ permission to read your letter, which I had just taken off the hall table.
When I opened it, such exclamations there were at the number of closely written pages.
“What, in Heaven’s name, do you men find to say to each other?” Caroline cried. “It is useless for me to pretend I never noticed them—such fat letters they are. And of course, I thought they were from your best girl.”
Then she laughed, and Miss Dawson laughed, quite boisterously. There was evidently some joke between them which they did not see fit to explain to me. When, after glancing hastily over the letter, I told them you had decided not to come for the game, they were voluble with regrets. I need not say that I, myself, was very much disappointed. However, let us hope that Christmas will bring a different story.
Have I ever written about Verney’s diary—I suppose that’s what you might call it. He says it is a sort of spiritual and intellectual diary, and that he keeps another and separate record of his social life. This intellectual diary is an unsystematic record of the books he reads with the thoughts suggested by them. As I looked it over, it reminded me of the big book kept by the Philosopher in the movie of Blood and Sand. Do you recall it? There are some interesting things in it. I wonder what has given Verney his point of view. He’s a curious mixture of idealism and cynicism. Here are a few extracts, which I copied the other day, with his permission:
During the heyday of the Victorian era we were afraid to call a spade a spade. Somewhat later on we commenced to poke fun at all verbal prudery which was too pronounced, and began to insist upon calling a spade a spade, whenever it was absolutely necessary to mention it at all. Some twenty years ago we seemed to discover that young folks were getting worse in some respects, and it was generally agreed that our reticences were at the bottom of all their shortcomings. So we began giving them the plain truth as to the physiological and biological facts of life. Today we discuss, openly and publicly and before any type of audience, subjects which, a generation ago, would have been out of place before any but a most carefully selected group. The “flappers” of this age seem to know far more than their mothers do, and they read book
s which their grandmothers would have burned, and go to plays which—thirty years ago— would have been debarred from any stage. But in this case, if the truth has made them free, it has not made them clean. There is only this difference noticeable to me—they are far coarser than the generations which have gone before. Personally, I cannot see that this is a gain. Is it a gain for purity to get used to filth?
Whenever I read after Dr. Freud, or his follower Dr. Jung, I hold my head and ponder: “Am I crazy, or is he crazy? We cannot, both of us, be sane. ”
Race hatred in this town is worse than in mid-Georgia. Down there a white man can kill a colored man for any cause or no cause, and with absolute impunity, and he can with the same impunity abuse, beat, cheat, humiliate, and degrade him at will. Knowing this, he does not hate him, unless the colored man shows too great skill or resolution in thwarting his white neighbor in carrying out his most amiable intentions. Up here no white man will try to beat or abuse a colored man unless the odds on his side (the white mans) are at least five or ten to one. If they are less than five to one, the scion of the superior race is liable to get the most of it. Being thus thwarted in his God-given right to beat, cheat, abuse, mutilate, or kill his inferior, his hatred, lacking a vent, eats in. This was the reason why the riots of 1919 were so popular, until the colored people awoke.
These are just a few bits chosen at random from hundreds of closely written pages.
“With so many ideas,” said I to Don, “you ought to write for publication.”
He smiled indulgently and shook his head.
“I am afraid I have no great desire to do creative work,” said he. “If I have any ‘itch for writing,’ as Horace so aptly calls it, I seem to get rid of it in this harmless fashion.”
As for me, I only wish I had one half of Don’s wealth of ideas. After noting his equipment and his diffidence, it makes any ambitious literary plans seem rather presumptuous.
The other evening while I was very busy composing the first draft of an important letter, Caroline came in, looking a little bored or tired, or something of the kind, and taking my French dictionary from the revolving bookcase, disposed herself comfortably on the couch, and began picking out the stories in Maupassant’s La Maison Tellier. This has been her favorite amusement during the past two or three days. What it will be next, Heaven only knows!
“Are you cutting classes tonight?” I stopped long enough to ask.
“Partly. One of my teachers is ill, and I am not prepared anyway, so I am going to cut the other class. I feel dopey. I’ll have to cut out these midweek frolics, or I’ll be old before my time. I ought to sleep, but I prefer to read and give you the pleasure of my presence, Old Grouchy.”
I grunted, as is befitting an “old grouchy.”
“Oh, you’re very welcome,” said Caroline sweetly, with her head buried in her book. I looked around, started to speak, then thought better of it, and went on writing. I finished my letter, and began to read in the first volume of that frivolous work by Westermarck entitled The Origin and Development of the Moral Ideas.
By and by, Caroline yawned portentously, stretched herself luxuriously, and came over and consulted the big dictionary, at the same time scribbling some words on a bit of paper. Then she resumed her comfortable place on the couch.
“Old Grouchy, I have finally found a name for you,” she said, after a few moments.
“Yes?”
“Yes—it’s been troubling me for some time. You see, the name Old Grouchy, though in this case accurately expressive, as a name should be, is inelegant, exceedingly unaesthetic, in fact. Then, too, it is not comprehensive enough, it does not include all the factors. Now ‘godfather’ seems to be the word I want. The dictionary says”—here she consulted the bit of paper—“ ‘godfather, a man who becomes a sponsor for a child at baptism, and makes himself a surety for its Christian training.’ Omitting the trivial matter of presence at baptism, the rest is all right. So please consider yourself, from now on, my official godfather.”
“I agree, at any rate, that it is better than Old Grouchy.”
“I hope you will not fail to perform seriously the duties imposed by your new office.”
“You have not given me an easy job.”
“No. Godfather, dear, there is all the more reward for difficult duties well done.”
“No doubt there should be, in all fairness.”
And thus did “Old Grouchy” pass away and “Godfather” take the place thus vacated. The minx introduced me last evening to the famous Dr. Weld, her pastor, as “my godfather, Mr. Carr.” The reverend gentleman stared at us both in apparent perplexity, but Caroline never once blinked. So he received the introduction without more ado. I saw Mrs. Rhodes, who was present, open her mouth as if to speak, but she evidently thought better of it. Everyone who lives in this house has discovered that the easiest way is the best where Caroline’s pranks are concerned.
I have been to three dances within the past two weeks, two of them small, private affairs, and the other semipublic, given for the benefit of the NAACP. Perhaps one comment which might interest you is the rather general observation that there are a great many good-looking people in this town, and that your folks, Old Fellow, have emerged from the barrel. One other thing might interest you. I danced at two of these affairs with Thomasine Dawson, and, for all the same lady is no abnormally ethereal creature to look at, she is veritable thistledown on a dancing floor. We two seem to be on perfectly easy terms, somehow, and we are becoming great pals. Caroline really seems pleased that I have taken such a liking to her friend, though, if such be virtue, me for the straight and narrow henceforth and forever more!
Jeffreys, who has been rather scarce about the house lately, which fact accounts for my not saying much about him in recent letters, was at the two private dances, and to use Tommie Dawson’s phrase, “He’s a regular jazz hound!” To give him credit, he is an unusual dancer, and, if his dancing is now and then objectionable, he gets away with it, and it does not seem to lessen his popularity. At one of these dances, he was rather busy with some strange people, of somewhat unprepossessing appearance, who, in my humble opinion, seemed a trifle out of place. He must have thought so, too, for, at any rate, I did not see him present them to either Caroline, or Tommie, and I know he did not introduce them to me. On that occasion he and Caroline had a tiff. I am not sure what it was about. She did not offer to tell me, and of course I did not ask. What I noticed was that right in the middle of a one-step they stopped, and she went over to one corner and sat down, while he trailed after her, as if reluctantly. As I passed them, dancing with Miss Dawson, Caroline’s face was flushed, and Jeffreys was smiling rather sarcastically, it seemed, and he looked both flustered and angry. When the music stopped, Miss Dawson excused herself, and she and Caroline went into the dressing room together. Jeffreys seemed a bit sulky for the rest of the evening, but Caroline was soon showing her usual high spirits. I noticed also that she and Jeffreys did not dance together again until after supper was served.
Tommie and I ate supper together, and we were separated from Caroline and Jeffreys by the width of the room. I noted Tommie eyeing them speculatively, and I caught her eye and then I, too, looked at them and back again at her inquiringly. She understood my unspoken question at once, but did not respond to it. Naturally, I did not repeat it in words. By one of those sudden feminine twists, which often, to us unseeing men, are unintelligible, but which in women are the result of a perfectly logical, though silent and therefore invisible, process of reasoning, she was especially cordial in her manner, and I was quite charmed by it. When we arose at the sound of the orchestra’s opening bars, she squeezed my arm and whispered, “Godfather, you are a dear, and no mistake!”
To which I replied, without hesitation, “Virtue, my dear child, is indeed sometimes its own reward!”
We both laughed, and were whirled away on the magic wings of a waltz. To you, poor mortal, who have never had that divine experience—a waltz with
Tommie Dawson—these words mean little. Someday my friend, you may know. When the music stopped again, I held her hand for a moment and looked into those wonderful black eyes, with the tiny flashing diamond point of light deep down in the heart of each one. Then I said:
“Tommie, dear, I am just beginning to understand about Heaven!”
“That is no proper speech for a godfather, Mr. Sir!” But she squeezed my arm again, and turned, laughing, to greet her next partner.
Late that night when I came in, Jeffreys and Caroline were standing inside the parlor, which was dark, though there was a light in the hall. Though I hastened upstairs, I could hear that they were indulging in mutual recriminations, for both were speaking in low, but rather tense, tones.
I often read very late, especially after a dance, for I am rarely sleepy then. So on this occasion, I turned on my light, and tackled Westermarck—a good nightcap, I assure you. It was not long before I heard the front door slam. This surprised me, for I was wondering who was going out so late. Then I heard Caroline’s step, and rather dragging it sounded. Then my name was called softly, and I went to the door. Caroline was standing near the foot of the last flight, hesitating as to whether she might come up. When she saw me she continued her ascent. Considering the lateness of the hour, this seemed to me an indiscretion, and I was not a little annoyed by it, knowing that neither Mrs. Rhodes nor Genevieve would approve. My welcome, therefore, was a trifle cool, and I remained standing, hoping that thus I might abbreviate the interview.
But I seemed destined to have my trouble for my pains. Caroline came up to me and putting her arms about me snuggled her head close against my shoulder. She had been crying, it was plain. Her face was flushed, but, in the midst of my annoyance and discomfort, I recall noticing how unusually pretty she was.
When Washington Was In Vogue Page 8