“Grouchy, dear, am I so very bad? Tell me, honestly.”
Why this girl takes me for a sort of wooden Saint Nitouche the Lord only knows!
“Yes,” I replied irritably. “You are very bad! You have no business to come up here at this hour of the night. Suppose Jeffreys”—for I confess I was thinking very hard of him—“suppose Jeffreys should come up, what would he think?”
“I don’t care what he thinks about anything. I hate him! But you needn’t worry. He’s gone to that nasty cabaret with his flashy friends from Baltimore. He wanted me to go. I told him I had to draw the line somewhere. Then he got angry, and—I never thought—”
Here Caroline, after twisting her face into the most dreadful contortions, commenced to cry, and real tears dropped steadily down my immaculate shirtfront, and glistened on the satin facing of my dinner jacket. I was decidedly more annoyed than moved, and, as this cloudburst showed no immediate signs of abating, apprehension got the upper hand of annoyance. Suppose Genevieve should hear? I thought of her coolness after the night of the cabaret experience, and I confess that I felt wretchedly uncomfortable. The little clock on my table showed a quarter of two! Shades of my puritanical Presbyterian grandfather! I said some more or less meaningless things meant to be comforting, and tried at the same time to disengage myself from the confining arms, but she only held me tighter, shifting her grasp from my shoulders to my neck, and buried her face against my shirt bosom, and sobbed unconstrainedly. I assure you that under the existing circumstances, I did not enjoy it a bit. But I patted her on the back, and wiped her eyes with my handkerchief.
Finally, she calmed down and smiled rather wanly at me.
“Go to bed, Caroline, you’re all tired out!” I said in the most fatherly tone I could assume.
“All right, Old Grouchy.” Then she looked ruefully at the “havoc that was my shirtfront,” and tried most ineffectually to rub the stains of combined powder and tears from my coat.
“Poor fellow,” she murmured, “it’s a terrible thing to be a godfather, is it not? Good night, I feel better, thank you.” So I led her to the door, and with one last paternal pat on the shoulder, bade her good night.
In my brief but checkered career, and in an experience extending from the levees of the Mississippi to the rice swamps of South Carolina, and from Jacksonville in Florida to Idlewild in the heart of Michigan, not to mention New York, Philadelphia, Boston, Paris, Metz, Nice, and way stations too numerous to mention, I have had occasion a thousand times to ask this question: Why does a woman like nothing better than to see how far a supposedly decent, gentlemanly fellow will let her go? I have observed it in women of every class and of many races. A certain type of woman just cannot help tempting a man who is supposed to be on his good behavior.
I suppose the lure is, on the one side, somewhat like that which entices one to the very outermost edge of the deepest abysses, and is related on another side to that fascination which draws us irresistibly to touch any painted surface marked “wet.” If a man is labeled “safe,” such women must find out just how safe he is, and they will take any risks to do it. And I am talking now about reasonably nice women and not the other kind. Caroline is an organized bundle of fascination, and having studied me and made a careful estimate of my safeness, she thinks it her duty to test that safeness to the very breaking point. Sometimes I think she realizes how she teases me, and then again I think the opposite, for she has a rare assortment of inconsistencies and contradictions in her makeup.
I have just been looking up Saint Anthony, the famous hermit of the Theban desert. As a fellow sufferer, and one with a record, I thought I might well get a few pointers from the career of this august personage. I note in my encyclopedia that he lived and died in the odor of unusual sanctity at the advanced age of nearly one hundred years. Buddie, I don’t know much of his temptations, but I venture the assertion that if he had had wished on him the job of being the godfather to Caroline Rhodes, he would have never been heard of outside of the bush leagues.
But, enough of my troubles! Tell me more of what you are doing. I had a long letter from Marcia today. She says she had a bat with you the other evening. I envy you, my boy. She’s a smart child, and no mistake, and it is no pain to look at her, and those elegant little frocks! Give her my best, tell her I am working hard and living like a monk, but that I shall leave my cloister long enough to answer her very welcome epistle. Be good to yourself!
Davy
The. game’s the thing! More kisses. Three fair ladies vis-à-vis. On the trail of the villain.
Sunday, November 12, 1922
Dear Bob:
Everyone is talking about the game. There are parties coming from Chicago, Pittsburgh, New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and all intervening points, so it seems. The Rhodeses are going to have their full share of company, surely. Tommie Dawson is to be Caroline’s houseguest over the holiday, Wednesday to Sunday, and there are three girls, friends of Genevieve, coming from New York, and Mrs. Rhodes’s brother and his wife from Brooklyn. Jeffreys has asked permission to have a friend over Thursday and Friday, and Mrs. Rhodes, who wants to make everyone happy, has consented. Everybody who is to be in the house will dine here Thanksgiving Day, except myself, the Hales having invited me to dinner that day. I was glad to have an invitation out, for, though I feel it would be an imposition on Mrs. Rhodes’s good nature to accept her bid, still she would probably be offended should I do otherwise. When I told them I was invited out, they all expressed regret, and I really believe they are sincere. But I think it is better all around that I do not have to be an added burden. It makes me feel a bit more independent, at any rate. After they had been discussing these things in a sort of family council in the parlor, at which I was present, I went up to my room to read awhile, and shortly thereafter, hearing Caroline whistling in her room—a regular practice of hers—I called her. In a few minutes she came in, attired in a very stunning walking suit and the chicest little bonnet you ever saw stuck over one ear. (There looks to be something wrong with that word “chicest,” but if c-h-i-c spells “chic,” you must surely add “est” for the superlative. I note that old man Webster says nothing about it, but we’ll let it go at that. It’s not the first word I’ve coined or you either.)
But to return to Caroline.
“What do you want, Old Bear?” was her characteristic greeting. “I feel so excited at being sent for—summoned, as it were, to the venerable presence of my august godfather. I hope it’s not anything in the nature of that—ah—chastisement you once mentioned.”
She threw the two books she was carrying on the couch, and sat down, wonderful to relate, in a straight chair. Even a hoyden will think of her clothes now and then.
“I have been thinking over what you are planning for Thanksgiving,” I said. “Where are you going to put all these people? Your mother will have to work her head off managing the house, and attending to the meals for so many, and she, certainly, ought not to have to give up her room, for she will be played out at night, or I am much mistaken. Now I suppose if I offered to give up my room, and go elsewhere, you would not want to let me—eh?”
“No, indeed,” said Caroline. “Mamma would not hear of it, I know. Besides, where could you go? Everyone will be overrun with visitors.”
“Well, I have just been thinking that if you and Thomasine Dawson would condescend to use this room, I could bunk in that little storeroom off the hall. It’s a perfectly good room, with enough light, and it’s well enough ventilated for this season of the year. In an hour I could fit it up so that it would be quite habitable. But—though I don’t like to offer anything with a string to it—I should rather hate to give up my room to strangers. My godchildren (I was including you in that plural, old fellow) say I am rather fussy, and maybe I am, but you, or Tommie, or your mother, or Genevieve, would honor me by accepting this, my humble abode.” I made a mock bow, and ended with a flourish of my right arm, in regular elocutionist style.
&nb
sp; If I judge from its reception, my speech was a perfect artistic success. Caroline left her sedate pose on the straight-backed chair, and quicker than you could think it, much less write it, she was on my lap with both arms around my neck.
“You dear old darling, you.”
And she kissed me twice on the mouth!
Then, before I could formulate a thought, she was back in her chair again, looking at me with a quizzical expression which defies description and which has eluded thus far my best efforts at a satisfactory interpretation.
“I have been twice paid,” I said, bowing, and regretted the remark on the instant, for I think it is best to ignore these emotional outbursts as the most effective way to limit them.
“We were rather put to it, for we must give Uncle and his wife a nice room, and then Genevieve’s friends must have reasonably comfortable quarters. Mother was going to ask Jeff (that is Caroline’s regular name for my fellow lodger) if he could not help us out, but before she got a chance, he asked her if he might not put his friend up. Tommie did not want to come, but I told her that there would be a room for one more anywhere, and she would just have to come. But this will fix it all right. Genevieve and three girls can use the two beds in our room, and Uncle and Aunt can have the middle room, for Brother is going to spend the whole holiday at the ‘frat’ house. And that will leave Mother her own room, which she will surely need, as you say. Tomorrow we’ll put our heads together, and fix up that little room. I wouldn’t mind taking it myself, but it would hardly do for Tommie, would it?”
So we settled the matter, and—I am thankful to say—without further osculatory pyrotechnics, and Caroline went off to her classes whistling merrily.
I have been puzzled as to just what to do about the game. Of course I have seen these things often enough to know that men are very desirable as escorts. Jeffreys and his friend will probably take Caroline and Tommie, though I have not heard that definitely stated. However, it is safe to assume it. I have not the least idea who the New York girls are, and until I do, I don’t like to commit myself. I should be glad to take Genevieve, of course, but until I know more about the visitors, I guess I won’t get myself tied up. I’ll find out from Caroline who the New Yorkers may be, and if they are unknown to me, you can look them up at your end.
Some wit, long since dead, had a bright thought which has been hauled down from generation to generation in this town, and quoted to each newcomer in turn. Though a bit hackneyed by now, of course, it was clever in its day, and is still perfectly descriptive. It is this: The District of Columbia has no climate, but only weather. Now, when you have lived here awhile, you realize that the ancient wit who said that was positively inspired. Caroline had not been gone fifteen minutes when what had promised to be a perfect fall evening turned out badly, and it came on to rain in torrents. I had planned to take a walk, and perhaps call on some of my friends, but this did not look promising for anything like a stroll for pleasure. Then I thought of Caroline and the nobly new hat, the trim little suit, and those dainty little French pumps. Really, Old Friend, that is where Caroline shines. You have seen nothing “classy” until you have seen her feet. But that is an irrelevant aside! Of course some admirer might bring her down in a car, but admirers, or at any rate desirable admirers, are not always present when needed. I read awhile longer, and then went down to the ’phone. I called the University, and asked if I could speak to Miss Rhodes. In a few moments I heard her clear, almost boyish, treble. She was surprised when she knew who it was, then quickly asked if her mother was ill. I reassured her, and asked her if she had anyone to bring her home.
“No,” she answered. “I was just wondering what I should do.”
“It would be a crime to spoil that pretty rig of yours. What can I bring you?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t think of having you come out in such a storm.”
“Nonsense. I was coming out anyway. I need the exercise.”
So after a few more perfunctory objections, she told me what to bring, and told me at what time she would be free. I hunted up Mrs. Rhodes, and she got the rain attire together, a pretty mackintosh and a pair of the most ridiculously little overshoes you ever saw—I could put one of them in my vest pocket. I donned my old army storm coat—what memories it conjures up!—and sallied forth into the gale, enjoying the high wind and the pelting rain. When I got to Florida Avenue and Seventh Street it had not slacked a bit, so I went around to the T Street corner, where the waiting taxis stand. In that respect it reminds one of Lenox and 135th in New York. My watch showed 8:25, and Caroline had said she would be ready at half past. I hunted up a chap whom I have employed once or twice since I have been here, and in two minutes we were up the long hill and on the University grounds. Caroline was in the vestibule waiting for me, and in a moment, having been duly invested with overshoes and mackintosh, and protected as to the cute little hat by my perfectly good umbrella, she was comfortably seated in the taxi, and we were on our way home.
“I knew what I was doing when I picked my godfather,” she said, laughing. “But it’s really awfully nice of you.” And she snuggled up close to me, and slipped her hand through my arm. She reminded me of a nice, purry kitten when she is in a good humor.
“It’s such a wild night,” said I. “How would you like to get Tommie, and some eats, and go home and have a spread?”
“Oh, that would be jolly,” she said, and clapped her hands. So we took in Tommie’s house on our way, and, to save taxi hire, I took the girls home first and then had the man drive me back to a delicatessen store, where I paid him off, and sent him on his way.
In a few minutes I was back home again, laden down with good things. What a time we had preparing that stuff and setting the table. When everything was ready, we called Genevieve— Mrs. Rhodes had retired and begged to be excused. That was really a delightful evening. Just as a woman likes nothing better in this wide world than to be the center of attraction for a group of men, so I suppose we men like now and then to have the undivided attention of two or three attractive women. I admit I enjoyed the situation to the full.
We enjoyed the collation in the cozy dining room, with the rain dashing against the windows and the wind rattling the frames. They were interesting faces which looked at me from the three sides of the table, and nowhere else in the wide world but in colored America would you be likely to see such contrasting types in one room. There was Genevieve, who, barring a little tropical warmth in the lines of her mouth, would pass for a descendant of English or American stock; Caroline, whose vivid coloring, dark skin, and flashing eyes would suggest Spain, or Sicily; and Thomasine Dawson, who might have graced the throne of one of the ancient rulers of the Nile!
And as I looked at them I began to wonder at what has been to me one of the insoluble mysteries in the attitude of our race group. Why, why, why, with such a variety of beauty of every type under the blue canopy, must we discard as worthless all but one, and that the one in which we can hope least of all to compete with the other race groups environing us? I do not believe, and never have believed, that women of their own choice make of themselves neither fish, flesh, nor good red herring, but they do so through a sort of moral and social compulsion, because so many colored men of the more prosperous class seem to be attracted only by fair women approximating the white type.
Does it not strike one as a dreadful confession of admitted inferiority? For the life of me I cannot see how else to regard it. Maybe it is more true here than elsewhere. In fact, I feel reasonably sure that it is, local society being somewhat more sophisticated. But again I recur to my thesis, that I feel that the men have imposed this monstrous thing on their women.
When I reflect on this, I can forgive Caroline a lot of her foibles, as, with the usual aids, she could surpass most of the devotees of the Great God Enamel, for she has the features, and a shape and poise of the head hard to surpass. The fact that she is vastly prettier in her exotic way than she would be if whitened to the dull American level wo
uld, of course, make no difference with most of them, and I imagine they actually disapprove of her for not making the change. As for Tommie, she is perfect as she is. Her skin is like brown satin, only there never was satin half so fine, and it would be ridiculous, if it were not a thing to weep over, to reflect that the Anglo-Saxon civilization of America has made such beauty a badge of inferiority, and has made us regard any lying imitation of the white man’s type, however spurious to the most casual glance it may be, as a real achievement. But pardon this aside!
In the midst of our conversation, Tommie started as if she suddenly had recalled something, got her handbag from the side table where she had thrown it on coming in, and produced therefrom a letter, which she tossed across the table to me.
“I thought our sociologist might be interested in it,” she said, laughing.
I opened and read. As I have not the letter by me, I can only reproduce the gist of it, which was somewhat as follows: The undersigned (writing from an address in New York, not two blocks from you, old fellow) announces that he is going to be in Washington on the Tuesday before the game, and will have on hand a remarkably fine assortment of high-grade fur coats, evening gowns, silk lingerie, stockings, and the like at unusually low prices. If responsible persons, having in mind definite wants, will communicate with him, he will try to meet their individual needs. Terms, of course, in consideration of the really nominal prices asked, must be cash down. When I had finished reading, I looked inquiringly at Tommie.
“Those same chaps operated in Philadelphia last year. I saw some of the things they sold,” she said.
“What is the idea?” I asked, just to see what she would say, for I recalled what some of our New York friends told us the past summer.
“What idea would you get if a man had a $500 fur coat for sale for anything above $75 each? And $50 gowns for $10 cash? And $4 silk stockings for 75 cents a pair? And everything new and absolutely up-to-date?”
When Washington Was In Vogue Page 9