When Washington Was In Vogue

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When Washington Was In Vogue Page 11

by Edward Christopher Williams


  “What’s the matter?” said Tommie. “That looked like a perfectly good letter.”

  “Oh, I just changed my mind, that’s all,” I said.

  “I am glad you are not a correspondent of mine,” said Caroline. “You are the most abrupt person. Do you get that way very often?”

  “Quite often,” I said, smiling. “Besides, I finished writing that letter just before you came in. Many things have happened since then.”

  The girls looked puzzled and amused, and then laughed. Then Caroline said:

  “By the way, Old Grouchy, Tommie is crazy about your soldier-boy friend. Show us that great big book you’ve got full of pictures. It was on your table the first day you came. I was dying to look at it then, but I didn’t like to ask. You looked so dignified—and—venerable, I was afraid. I love scrapbooks!”

  Caroline thoroughly understands the ultimate psychological bases of human conduct. Her manner of request suggests not even the shadow of the possibility of a refusal. You know I never was crazy about showing my keepsakes to the multitudes, but Caroline is such a coaxing little kitten, and Tommie—well, you have not seen her yet, so you can’t understand. To make a long story short, I fished out the big brown book, Caroline switched on the electrics over the couch, and I sat down between them, and took up the epic of the great war as it crossed the life currents of Bob Fletcher and Davy Carr. It is a mighty interesting book, if I do say it myself, who shouldn’t. I’ll bet you can guess the pictures they stopped longest over. Well, I’ll let you get through your blushes quickly by admitting that several were yours, of course. They asked one million questions about you, which I answered as truthfully as considerations of loyalty and friendship would permit. The other pictures were those of your friend Claire and of Mademoiselle Hortense de Figuieres. I didn’t realize how many pictures of Hortense I had, nor did I ever before see so many of the things those two girls read into the pictures.

  She was looking at someone when that picture was snapped, said Caroline of one of the photos taken that glorious Sunday after the armistice was signed. “Was it you?” And she persisted until I had to answer. So I lied, and said she was looking at you. Since you are not here, the lie will cause you no embarrassment.

  “There’s a whole lot in that expression,” she said, very judicially, as she examined it intently. “Godfather, in spite of your disclaimer, I fear you have been a sad flirt!”

  One does need perspective to see things in their true proportions—is it not a fact? For the first time I really understood how much I saw of Hortense, what good pals we were, and what wonderfully expressive eyes she has. And the worst of it is that in some of these Kodak pictures it is apparent even to a dull person that these friendly looks are meant for the holder of the camera. Trust Caroline and Tommie not to miss a little thing like that. After looking silently and without comment—they had commented volubly on most of the other pictures—at Hortense in Captain Carr’s overseas cap and Sam Brown belt, and Hortense pinning a spring flower on Captain Carr’s manly bosom, and Hortense in that wonderful evening gown with the inscription, “A Davy, m’ami, de son Hortense,” Tommie gave a curious kind of throaty sound impossible to reproduce phonetically, and Caroline said, in her blandest manner:

  “Teacher, what does ‘son’ mean in French?”

  “Hers or its,” I answered, very glibly, and cursed the effusiveness of the Gallic temperament.

  “From his Hortense,” murmured Caroline to herself, as if in deep reflection. “Oh, you soldier boys, making the world safe for democracy!” Then she said quickly, “I suppose she’s the one who writes you those fat letters with the French stamps?”

  I evaded somewhat.

  “She writes now and then,” said I, “but I have several correspondents in France.”

  “And this,” said Caroline with much seriousness, looking across me at Tommie, “is the man who has been trying to preach moral lessons to me.”

  Of course it was a nice bit for them and they made the most of it, and I was glad enough when somebody called them and they had to go downstairs. But since that time Caroline calls me nothing but Lothario, or Don Juan. I am not so sure about the desirability of keeping a memorabilia book, and as for a private, intimate diary, I’d like to see any system which would keep Caroline Rhodes from getting underneath its inmost secrets with those gimlet eyes and boring wits of hers. She’s a saucy minx, and that’s a fact!

  On Tuesday night I was invited to go late to a meeting of one of the numerous social clubs, composed largely of young married women. These ladies usually invite their menfolks to come about ten-thirty, and they have refreshments and dance. By chance I found that Verney was going, so we went together. On the way he said, “You will probably see tonight, if you have not already met her, the woman many folks consider the best-looking in Washington.”

  “That is interesting, indeed,” I said. “What do you think of her? Do you think the popular judgment is good?”

  “She is undeniably good looking,” he said, but without committing himself. “But I should like to know what you think of her.”

  When we reached our destination, the house of one of the very socially minded younger set, and when I say that I mean that the host and hostess average around thirty-five, and they have recently “arrived,” we were ushered into a bright parlor, full of very noisy people. The house was done in white, and the lights, while beautiful, were perhaps too numerous and too brilliant, if one should venture a criticism. I have been in three or four of these houses now, and, while they are all in the latest mode and are quite luxurious, they are more or less of a pattern, and do not evince a great deal of individual taste. This particular group— the women, I mean—seem to strive to make themselves noticed through sheer noise, and they lacked the social restraint visible in other circles I have had the pleasure of knowing. The note of gaiety seemed rather feverish, and with some of them, even forced. One woman, whom I have seen in gatherings of both kinds, has evidently decided that being in Rome, one must copy the Romans, and she was shouting and “carrying on” like the rest, though in other surroundings she exhibits the most perfect poise.

  I was introduced to a few new people, and finally, under Verney’s guidance, was brought face-to-face with one of the prettiest women I have seen in a long while. She was laughing and talking at such a rate that it was a moment before Verney could get her attention, but when he finally succeeded, he said:

  “Mrs. Burt, may I present my friend, Mr. Carr? I have been telling him about you, and I told him he could not possibly afford to leave the ‘zoo’ without seeing the ‘elephant.’ ”

  “You’ve not lost your nerve, Don Verney,” she said with a laugh. “Are you referring to my size, sir?” Then she turned to me, and held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Carr. I hope you like the elephant.”

  “The ‘elephant,’ dear lady, is all that it is advertised to be,” said I, with my best bow.

  Now you will want to know about the belle of this particular set. Well, she is a “peach,” and no doubt. She has a handsome face, a fine color, pretty hair, a striking figure, a trifle voluptuous, let us say, and vivacity plus. I watched her off and on for quite a while. I stood in the same circle and talked with her, and I danced with her. But, somehow, I did not get a thrill. For sheer physical beauty, Tommie Dawson is quite her match, though you could not get many people in that crowd to admit it, for Tommie’s undisguised brownness would disqualify her at once. Later on in the evening I noticed her standing by Caroline, and, to my mind, Caroline outshone her, and two or three older women in the room seemed, taking them all in all, more attractive. Why? It is hard to tell.

  What is beauty, and wherein does it reside? That is a hard question to answer, when we think that the mere shadow of a line makes a difference between beauty and the lack of it. But that greater question: What is personality? How many good men have addled their brains puzzling over it! I looked at Sophie Burt and Caroline Rhodes, and the other attractive wome
n in the room, and as I ate my salad, I wondered. While I thus ate, and between the volleys of small talk, pondered, Don Verney came up, and managed to find a seat beside me.

  “What are you thinking about, young man?” he said cordially. “You looked puzzled.”

  “I have been wondering,” I said, “why your belle, with all her undoubted beauty, leaves me quite cold.”

  “I was awaiting your judgment, but I did not want to prejudice it by the expression of any views of mine. But since you have expressed yourself so plainly, I’ll tell you. The reason is simple. She has the soul of a hummingbird, if, indeed, she has any soul at all! When she’s forty-five, she will be ugly, and when she’s a bit older, she will be a catty, sharp-tongued, grasping, selfish old woman. If I were an artist, I could sit here now, looking at her, and draw her picture fifteen years hence, and it would not be a pretty one. There is only one thing which might, perhaps, save her from her otherwise inescapable fate.”

  “And that is?” I interjected, when he hesitated.

  “An absorbing, honest-to-goodness love for a man of real worth. You see she has one chance in a million.”

  I looked about me, and, spying Caroline seated not far away in a bevy of flappers, I said, “Now there’s Caroline Rhodes opposite us, do you regard her as beautiful?”

  “Caroline—yes, you might say that without stretching the truth too far. She’s undoubtedly very pretty, at any rate, and she has a kind of charm which is felt, if it is difficult to analyze.”

  “Has she a soul?”

  “A flapper a soul! Well, the matter’s still a moot question. The authorities disagree. But this particular flapper has brains and personality and the rudiments of a character. Someday I think she may develop even a soul.”

  We both laughed aloud, and looked at Caroline, who observed us, and called over:

  “Are you two wise owls making fun of me?”

  We laughed still louder, and she left her place and came over to where we were seated. We squeezed out a place for her to sit down.

  “Mr. Verney was just debating the point as to whether you possess a soul or not. We had not settled the question—quite— when you interrupted. Won’t you help us out?” I asked.

  Caroline laughed easily.

  “We modern women,” she said, “never display our souls except to those equipped to see them. Now are you answered? Does one, for example, need a soul for this?” she swept her hand in a semicircle, and looked about her.

  “Out of the mouths of babes—” began Verney.

  Then Caroline, with that caressing intonation which would make a slave of old Bluebeard himself, said, looking at my companion with her sloe-black eyes:

  “Now if only Don Verney would deign to take an interest in me, I might develop a great many attributes until now hidden from a waiting world.”

  Verney bowed.

  “I am too old a bird, little lady, to be caught with chaff.”

  “I have never heard that mere age conferred immunity from folly. Doesn’t the sight rather lose its keenness with the advance of years? My dear Don, the older they are the harder they fall.”

  This time the laugh was on Don, and we all joined in it heartily.

  I had noticed while we were talking that the Hales had come into the next room. It was not long before Verney had excused himself gracefully, and a few minutes later I saw him seated by Mary Hale, looking quite as if he had been there all evening. Caroline caught my roving glance, and looked at me meaningfully. Then she spoke with more feeling than one might expect from a flyaway like her.

  “They were made for each other. It’s a mortal shame there must be barriers between them. Fate plays us curious tricks, eh? The disadvantage of civilization is that he can’t carry her off, as he would have done long ago if we had been living in the Stone Age.”

  “Do you believe in Stone Age methods?”

  “Well—there are advantages and disadvantages in all situations. Unfortunately, we can’t adopt the system suited to each need as it occurs.” She laughed.

  “To change the subject slightly,” I interjected, “I did not know you knew Verney so well.”

  “Oh, Old Don!” said Caroline with an affectionate intonation. “Everybody knows him, and I suspect many of us would meet him more than halfway if he made the least sign that he cared. He is kind and encouraging and tones you up when you are feeling blue. He was the first real grown man to ask me for a dance, and he paid me the first real compliment I can recall. His compliments have point and individuality, so that you believe he’s sincere, and of course you remember them.”

  “What did he say to you that you remember so well?”

  “Can one in cold blood repeat a compliment to one’s self? It sounds silly and vain, and just as if one believed every word of it. But the best part of nice compliments is that you wish they might be deserved, and maybe you try a bit to make them so.”

  “That is true, though I had never thought of it. But what did he say? I shan’t think it silly or vain. I’m just interested.”

  “I believe you,” she said simply. “He said just these very words as we finished dancing, and he seemed awfully big and important, and I was just a high school girl: “‘Caroline, you’re a beautiful dancer, and a lovely girl, and if you don’t let the young fellows turn your head by telling you so, you will someday meet a sure enough man who will appreciate you. But don’t choose your life partner to the sound of a jazz orchestra. Don’t forget that! ’ ”

  “It was a very nice compliment,” said I, “and capital advice.”

  “Yes, so much better than telling a girl that she has pretty hands, or pretty eyes!”

  “But if she has,” said I, laughing, and looked directly at her, “do you object to simple statements of mere obvious fact?”

  “I declare,” said the incorrigible, “if Old Grouchy isn’t paying me another compliment!”

  “What are you two having such a good time over?” said a sweet, laughing voice. We glanced up to see Mary Hale looking down at us, smiling, with Don Verney close behind her. As I jumped up to give Mrs. Hale a seat, Caroline answered without hesitation, but with a hint of mischief in her tone:

  “We were talking about you two—you looked so cozy over there in the corner. What is that English tag—‘We two, and the world well lost!’ We said some other things, but it would be indiscreet to repeat them. And my godfather is very particular that I should be discreet.”

  “Your godfather, you saucy little minx,” said Mary Hale, with flushed cheeks, but plainly not offended by the friendly badinage. “Who is your godfather, the luckless mortal!”

  “Mr. Carr is my godfather,” said she demurely, looking at me.

  Well, it was altogether a ripping evening, with pleasant memories and no regrets, but I don’t know why I should inflict it in such minute detail on you. As I look over what I have written, I think I might have spared you a good deal of it, but it was enjoyable in the living, and though I am afraid I have been unable to set it forth adequately on paper, I have found the attempt pleasant.

  Won’t you tell me more about your new friend in Richmond Hill—or should one say on Richmond Hill? I don’t know much about Long Island. Evidently she has made a hit with you. As Thanksgiving approaches I regret more and more that you’re not coming. The only thing that consoles me is the thought that Christmas is only a short time off, and then I’ll surely see you.

  Write soon, and don’t forget to tell me more about your new acquaintance.

  Davy

  A damsel in danger, with a true knight to the rescue. The passing of Jeffreys.

  Sunday, November 2

  Dear Bob:

  You surely recall, in your wide reading, how many celebrated men have been prouder of their achievements in some side issue of life than they have of the activities which have brought them fame. As, for example, Richelieu, the great statesman, was inordinately proud of his dramas, which the world deemed quite mediocre; Nero was vain of his supposed poet
ic gift; Goethe of his writings on scientific subjects; and so one might go on indefinitely. It is a foible characteristic of the human animal.

  Thus it seems to be with your humble servant and he can only plead in extenuation the example of the world’s great men. I wonder if you recall the achievement of which I have always been most vain, perhaps because it is one of which few people would suspect me to be a master—I mean my prowess as a boxer? It is a curious fact that proficiency in this art seems to be second nature with me, and I cannot recall the day when I was not so adept at it as quite to outclass all my playmates. As I was not oversized as a boy, it has saved me many a licking, I am sure. Although by nature peace loving, and quieter in my tastes than most of my companions, I have never faced a man on equal terms, both of us unarmed, and felt afraid.

  But I know your ears are itching to know what in the world this preamble means. Well, I shan’t commit the fault in dramatic technique of telling you at this point, so you will have to wait.

  Everything in its own time. Let this suffice—that uncanny ability in “l’art de boxe” saved me maybe a term in jail or the hospital, or perhaps even the jail by way of the hospital. But let us take things in order.

  You will recall that in my last letter there was a question of an invitation to a dance in Baltimore, and that I had discovered that Caroline was planning to go to the same dance with Jeffreys, to whom I have taken a violent dislike. I felt so sure that Jeffreys meant Caroline no good that I wrote Scott Green that I hoped to be able to accept his invitation, and should probably bring a lady. Then I called on Tommie Dawson, and told her what was in my mind. As Tommie can be trusted—at least I am willing to risk my judgment on that assertion—I told her everything I knew. She, without even so much definite knowledge as I had, had already come to somewhat the same conclusion, for it seems that Jeffreys has tried repeatedly to get Caroline to go to some function or other in Baltimore, but up to now either her mother, or Genevieve, or Tommie had succeeded in “blocking” these plans. Not to go into much detail, Tommie accepted my invitation to go to the dance, and we agreed on a line of action. We were both to be very friendly with Jeffreys, and see if he would meet us halfway, or whether he would not—as we thought likely—try to shy off from us, and inveigle Caroline into closer intimacy with his Baltimore friends. Of course we were to tell no one anything about our trip.

 

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