When Washington Was In Vogue

by Edward Christopher Williams

  One characteristic of this town is a sort of social ruthlessness. The girls here do not give visiting girls any edge on them, and the men—well, it’s every man for himself, with a vengeance. If you comment on this seemingly inhospitable attitude, the local people only laugh. Their excuse is that everyone visits Washington sooner or later, and if “home folks” made way for visitors, they would never be able to do anything else. However, I am not worrying about you, Bob, for I know from long experience that you can take care of yourself. At least one “somebody” in Washington is going to lose his girl during this Christmas season. I am wondering idly who that person is to be. Personally, I am glad that I have no girl to lose.

  I almost forgot to tell you that I had a delightful walk last Sunday with Lillian Barton. When I went out to mail my letter to you I called her up to ask some question or other, and we had a nice little chat over the telephone. Incidentally, I mentioned the fact that it was such a bracing day that I thought I should take a walk up Sixteenth Street to Rock Creek Park.

  “It sounds rather nice,” she said. “It surely will be nice, if you have good company.”

  “Unfortunately,” I rejoined, “I have only the very poorest of company—myself. I was just wishing I might persuade some kind young person to go with me.”

  “I am sure you could if you tried,” she said. “You have two or three charming young persons not so very far from you.”

  “They are busy, it seems, with one thing or another. One of them, for example, is motoring with her best fellow.”

  Well, the upshot of it was that Miss Barton said she would be delighted to go with me if I could find no other company. It was a very satisfying afternoon. Sixteenth Street hill is very attractive, with its magnificent residences, the palaces of the foreign embassies, and the endless stream of automobiles. From the park entrance it is a long walk to the buildings which house the “zoo,” and there we sat on a bench on the brow of a long grass-covered hill, and watched the Sunday crowd. Miss Barton was very handsome in a “spiffy” outing costume of gray, with a gray hat faced with deep red. But, great as is her physical beauty, her chief charm, in my opinion, resides in her conversation, which is stimulating in the highest degree. I realize that it is futile to attempt to convey by the written word even an approximately adequate impression of such an afternoon as I spent, for even could I recall and record word by word the dialogue, it would lack the seasoning of Lillian Barton’s vivid personality. So you will have to take my word for it that I had a wonderful time.

  After we had rested for a while on the bench, we strolled over toward the hillside where the bears have their dens. On our way we stopped at the refreshment booth, and bought peanuts and popcorn, with which I stuffed my pockets. We had just tarried for a moment before the first of the long line of cages, and Miss Barton was throwing peanuts to a rather mournful-looking bear, when I heard my name called. On looking around, whom should I see but Caroline Rhodes and Dr. King.

  “What are you two doing here?” asked Miss Barton, after greetings were exchanged.

  “I have been trying to cure the doctor of his nervousness,” said Caroline, “and so I insisted that he come over here to see himself as others see him. Come with me, and let me demonstrate how he acts.”

  We all laughed of course, and trailed after her to the railing behind which the great white bears were walking up and down, up and down, ceaselessly on either side of the pool which occupied the center of their enclosure.

  “There,” said Caroline, pointing, “that is just the way you act when you are waiting for anyone. Don’t you agree that it is a senseless waste of energy?”

  Dr. King grinned with sheepish good nature.

  “Well, I’ll admit, at any rate, that it is not pretty,” he said. “Do you mean to say that I look like that?”

  “Exactly,” answered Caroline. “You know,” she continued, “when I was a high school girl, Genevieve used to bring Tommie and Brother and me out here Sunday afternoons, and Tommie and I discovered that the different animals reminded us of many of our friends. So we spent hours making comparisons. It was very interesting. You can’t imagine, until you have tried it, what fun it is to bring people out here and introduce them to themselves. As a cheap and satisfying outdoor sport, I recommend it to you.”

  And as Caroline talked, she looked from one to the other of us quite as if she might be making mental comparisons. Miss Barton seemed to me to fidget uncomfortably.

  “Of what do I remind you?” I queried.

  The little lady’s black eyes snapped mischievously. She giggled in a disconcerting fashion.

  “I know, but I shan’t tell,” she said.

  “Why?” I insisted.

  “Why? Because it’s too good to tell—yet.” And she giggled again.

  I waited for Miss Barton to ask, in her turn, what might be her animal double, but I waited in vain. For all Lillian’s wit and poise, even she hesitates to measure herself against the clever Caroline when the latter is in one of her irrepressibly mischievous moods. As we fell into step with each other in front of the cages, the two ladies paired off together, and Dr. King and I walked behind them. From time to time, as we stopped for a few moments to feed the bears, I noted Miss Barton’s unusual silence, and caught her looking earnestly at Caroline, who, utterly unconscious of that scrutiny, was busy tossing peanuts between the bars of the cages. Many times during the past week have I recalled that look in Lillian’s eyes, and I have tried hard to analyze it, with this result: I think that I saw in it perplexity and disapproval, mingled with a reluctant admiration.

  When we had finished our round of the cages, and had ascended to the drive where the doctor’s car was parked, the latter gave us a most cordial invitation to drive with them, and Caroline heartily seconded it. As she spoke, she stood on the step of the car, and had it been someone like Helen Clay, for example, and not Caroline Rhodes, I should have wagered that her pose was not entirely an unconscious one, for, from the feather on her velvet tarn, canted rakishly over one ear, to the tips of her dainty beaded kid slippers, her costume was perfect to the minutest detail, and set off in a specially becoming fashion that slim graceful figure, vibrant with life.

  As it was not my place either to accept or decline Dr. King’s offer, I stood quietly and watched the ladies. Somehow I sensed the pressure of a feeling of antagonism whenever these two are together, and yet, except in the most general social sense, they are not rivals. Somehow, too, in these almost unseen silent contests, there is a serene confidence in the attitude of the saucy Caroline, and it is Lillian Barton, the cool, witty, perfectly poised Lillian, who shows signs of—what shall I say—diffidence? Why should she be diffident, or about what, the Lord only knows, but my feeling is a very definite one, and is exactly as I have herein before stated.

  So, as you may have guessed already, the fair Lillian declined the apparently cordial invitation with suitable and gracious words of thanks. Just as the car started, Caroline turned, and with the unspeakably impish smile which precedes or accompanies any especially impudent sally of hers, called back to Miss Barton:

  “Oh, Lillian, be sure and take Mr. Carr to see the owls!”

  The car was, of course, out of reach of our voices before we could answer, if indeed, either of us had an answer ready. Strange to relate, Miss Barton seemed more sensitive than I to the implications of Caroline’s parting words. Whether because she felt that perhaps she was somehow included in my owlishness, it is impossible to say. I laughed heartily, but my fair companion’s merriment did not ring true, somehow, and she flushed perceptibly. I was for going straightaway to see the owls, but it is almost needless, I know, for me to tell you that we did not go. Is there any system of logic by which one may explain women? It surely is a liberal education of one’s powers of observation and deduction to be thrown in with a group of highly developed females of the species, as I can testify.

  As we walked home, the conversation was rather one-sided, for I did most of the
talking, and Miss Barton’s responses were laconic to a degree—in fact, almost monosyllabic—and she acted like one whose voice and thoughts were not working together. However, when we reached her house, her mood seemed to have passed. She served me tea in front of the big fireplace, and we had a very jolly hour together before the regular Sunday evening crowd arrived. Then I had a delightful tête-à-tête with Mary Hale, who was looking unusually handsome. We talked sotto voce, mostly about our friend Don, a subject on which I invariably find the lady most eloquent. As I looked, now and then, into her eyes, I could understand how Verney is so fond of her. Altogether it was a most interesting and eventful day, and, as such, has been recorded at some length in my diary.

  The book is coming on famously, but the study of the slave trade is so fascinating and so infinite in extent that if I am not careful, I shall be in danger of being diverted from my original theme. I have quite enough material now to serve my purpose, but the subject seems to carry me away. In my researches in this field, I have come across much of curious interest that is no longer familiarly known—if, indeed, it ever was! How quickly man forgets his devilries! I heard Dr. Du Bois say once that Western European exploitation—slaves and ivory and red rubber—has cost Africa at least one hundred million souls, in about four hundred years, not to mention the complete destruction of whole civilizations quite equal to most of the European civilizations of the fifteenth century.

  For the past few days I have been reading the life of Captain Canot, as edited from his journals and conversations by Brantz Mayer, and first published in the early fifties. The editor says in his dedicatory preface that “setting aside his career as a slaver,” he was convinced that Canot was a man of unquestionable integrity. There is a delicious irony in those words in quotation marks, for there was no crime in the calendar which a slave trader did not commit against the helpless blacks. And yet some of the very crudest of them were psalm-singing deacons in their New England homes.

  I guess an all-wise Providence knew what he was doing when he evolved the Nordic type, with its watertight, non-communicating compartments in morals and religion, but to me it still remains the greatest of all the riddles of humanity. Accustomed as one is to the presence of inconsistencies in one’s self and one’s friends, one is continually amazed at the appalling and monstrous inconsistencies in human conduct as evidenced in the history of the slave traffic, and of the white man’s exploitation of the hapless African. One could not believe that such things could be, did one not know of them from the testimony of the white man himself. But I did not intend to inflict so much of this on you, who know quite as much about it as I do.

  A bit of human nature which has not such tragic elements came to my notice last Sunday at Barton’s. I shan’t give names, except to say that the usual crowd was present. You must deduce what you please from that. Apropos of something or other, the question of ages came up, and there were the usual jokes passed, of course. One of the ladies seemed a trifle piqued at the implication that she would not dare tell her real age, and in spite of any disclaimers the gentlemen might make that they were not at all interested in that subject, she insisted on telling and actually did tell it. Naturally, everyone smiled, and Don laughed that funny little laugh of his—which must be heard to be appreciated. I think the lady in question noticed the laugh, and as she and Don are very good friends, she looked at him rather sharply. He immediately grew grave, and very coolly introduced another topic.

  During supper I noted him scribbling something on the back of an old envelope, looking pleasantly reflective all the while. As I appeared curious, he handed me the paper, with the caution to read and return it immediately. This was what I read:

  When an ordinary truthful woman insists on telling you her age, add at least two years to the figure she gives you. If she is ordinarily untruthful, the Seven Wise Men of Greece cannot tell you what to add.

  We looked at each other and exploded into laughter, and I handed the paper back to him.

  “What are you two discussing that is so funny?” asked our hostess.

  “Suffragette arithmetic,” I answered, whereat Don laughed again.

  I intended to finish this yesterday, but a number of things intervened to prevent it. Caroline’s brother, Philip, who, as I think I have told you already, is a medical student, made the house one of his rare visits Saturday and invited me to give a little Sunday morning talk at his fraternity house. As I like him very much, I allowed myself to be persuaded, though perhaps a curiosity to see the local college boys in their natural “habitat” had something to do with my acceptance. So I spent an hour or two very pleasantly with a group of rather wholesome chaps. If I judge them aright, they have a thoroughly twentieth-century American view of life, and such as one might expect to find in a typical group of Amherst, or Dartmouth, or Ohio State students. In other words, “none genuine without our trademark,” which is, as you well know, the dollar sign. As I listened to one or two of the leaders talk, I murmured to myself, “One hundred percent American!”

  In my little talk I tried to suggest other visions of life and other incentives for work besides the usual financial one, but I was conscious that it was time wasted. What are the feeble words of one man against the steady roar of the waves of a civilisation? Of all the useless things I have done in my life, I feel that talk I gave the boys was the most futile. But I enjoyed them, and their “joie de vivre,” and their eagerness to get out into the world and subdue it—immensely.

  I sat in Lillian Barton’s parlor last night, and enjoyed the open fire and one or two of Don’s good stories. It was pleasant to reflect that you have a special invitation to be present next Sunday. The fair Lillian gave it to me for you as I was leaving. Tell Marcia that I wish she might come this way during the holiday season, but I suppose that there is little chance of that. Since this will in all likelihood be my last letter until I see you, I may quite properly say—au revoir.

  Davy

  P. S. Write me or wire me your train.

  NINE

  Blood will tell. Is it love, or what? Enter

  the girl with the green-gray eyes.

  January 4, 1923

  Dear Bob:

  The old room seems very empty without you, and in spite of several engagements which are on my calendar for this week, things seem quite quiet after the wild rush of the past ten days. Everyone enjoyed having you, and a dozen people at least have told me to be sure to send regards when next I should write. Among the latter I might mention Thomasine, Caroline, Mary Hale, Lillian Barton, Don Verney, Mrs. Morrow, Helen Clay, and—you would never guess this one—Genevieve! As I predicted, you made your customary impression, and, if I mistake not, this time you got a pretty hard jolt in exchange.

  Serves you right! When I asked Tommie yesterday evening if she had heard from you, she laughed and blushed. When I offered to bet her a box of candy against a German paper mark, and decide the bet on her word, that you had written every day, she only laughed again. As Tommie either can’t or won’t lie, I knew I had made a good guess and a safe bet.

  I walked home with her two nights after you had left, and the exclusive topic of conversations was—you! I spent a very pleasant hour in that very charming old-fashioned parlor. While Tommie was in the kitchen fixing up what proved to be a most appetizing collation, I strolled into the library, turned on the Victrola, and while listening to “O Sole Mio,” as sung by the one and only Caruso, I looked at the family portraits. There were, as you may remember, Tommie’s grandfather, who received a Congressional Medal of Honor for distinguished service in the Civil War; her great uncle, who was a member of Congress in the exciting days of Reconstruction; and an uncle who was the first man of color to receive a diplomatic appointment from the United States government. As I looked at the portraits, and the books, and the various memorials of two generations past, I could easily understand why the beautiful brown girl gives one such a well-defined impression of “class.”

  I don’t want to
make you envious, Bob, but I had one of the nicest evenings in all my Washington sojourn. We talked, and we listened to the Victrola, and we had one of the loveliest waltzes in my experience, and we sang to her piano accompaniment. As a last touch, I told her to imagine that I was Bob Fletcher, and I sang my whole repertory of Italian love songs, ending with “O Sole Mio.” Since I know you will want to ask questions, I shall forestall them by saying that when I told her to imagine that I was you, she laughed and said, “Don’t be silly, Davy!” But she sat down in the big chair by the piano, closed her eyes, and did not move for whole long minutes, and she made me sing “O Sole Mio” three times! This much I will say, that if this one time in your checkered career of amourettes you should find that you have fallen a victim to a real, honest-to-goodness love, I should compliment you on your taste, and, as your closest friend, be more than delighted. I say this because I really believe that you have been very hard hit. Come on, confess!

  Sunday morning

  In spite of the suffragettes, and the whole great world movement aiming to show the absolute equality of men and women, I, for one, am not convinced. Lillian Barton would say that the great differences we seem to note are due to the influence of past ages upon the two sexes, and not to inherent qualities. Perhaps she is right, but for all practical purposes the results are the same. The reactions of woman to ordinary stimuli seem to be different from those of the average man. Man, so I think, reacts largely to the act, while woman reacts to the motives she sees, or thinks she sees, behind the action. Most men are not audacious enough to feel that they can evaluate motives, but women are not so faint-hearted. So it happens that often the reaction of one is exactly the opposite of the reaction of the other. Further, women are less consistent than men, and it is futile to judge from today’s attitude what tomorrow’s may be. The movie writer speaks of a process in the construction of a picture play which they call “putting in the punch.” The plot in general may be all right, and the best dramatic sequence thought out, but still that little ingredient is lacking which so grips the waiting audience—and that is the “punch.” Well, so I suppose it was with the creating of the world. First land and water, then the animate creation, fauna and flora, then man. So far, so good, but still something is lacking, and the world’s a well-ordered but dull place. Then comes the crowning inspiration— woman, lovely woman! And, as we all well know, and some of us to our sorrow, the big world play has not lacked punch since that moment.