When Washington Was In Vogue

by Edward Christopher Williams

  All this, you will ask, is a preamble to what? “Quien sabe?” as the vaqueros used to say down on the Texas border, and with such an expressive shrug. I am in such a quandary about a lot of things these days that I could use up the supply of shrugs of a whole platoon of “greasers.” The worst feature of the situation seems to be the fact that I don’t know just what it is that I am in a quandary about. My friends, and their name is surely legion, are as good to me as ever, and, when my day’s stint is done, I can look forward with reasonable confidence to a pleasant evening with some of the most interesting people I have ever met. As to the work itself, it goes swimmingly, as you shall see with your own eyes one of these days—and not far in the future, I hope. My health is perfect, as it has always been, thank Heaven, and I eat like a plowboy and sleep like a tree.

  “Then what in the name of all the Nine Worthies are you grouching about?” I hear you query impatiently: That’s just what I should like to know myself, and therein resides the head and front of my dissatisfaction. If I were home, and showed such symptoms, Mother would give some kind of nauseous dose warranted to cure anything short of a bad disposition, but, fortunately or unfortunately, I am not at home, so there you are!

  Your friend Miss Thomasine is my one consolation. Anything I may say or may have said derogatory to women, I withdraw as far as that dear girl is concerned. She is as constant as the pole star, the same yesterday, today, and forever, though, as you well know, there is no monotony in her consistency, but just a fine, splendid dependableness which one knows he can count on to the last breath. I should no more expect an unworthy action from Tommie Dawson that I should from my dear mother. I have never met a young woman who more completely commanded my absolute respect. Not long ago I heard a group of college students singing “Integer Vitae, ” and I thought of the lovely Thomasine. Sometimes, reflecting on her physical and moral beauty, I wonder why I have not fallen in love with her, for we have been close friends from the first minute we met, but strange to say, our friendship seems to be troubled by no undercurrents of more stormy emotions. Since you have become so violently interested in her, I am glad this is so, for it would not be a happy situation if we should be rivals.

  While Tommie, in these last days since Dr. King has been carrying on such a whirlwind campaign of wooing, has not been so much at the house, still I am always seeing her at some function or other, and I never fail to have a chat. She is a most comforting sort of person, though, if one wants information in which any friend of hers is involved, he will waste a lot of time trying to pump Tommie Dawson. I know, for I have tried it. She is patient, and considerate, and courteous, and she lets one down, oh so gently—but down, nevertheless! “True blue” is an accurate characterization of that young lady. Different as they are from each other, she and Caroline would, I verily believe, fight for each other, or, if need be, die for each other. Tommie, though little, if any, older than her friend, is more serious and more mature, and she seems to protect Caroline from the consequences of some of her mad pranks, and to dissuade her from others. Caroline, even in the short time I have been here, has changed perceptibly in one or two ways. Sometimes I feel that, in the case of most girls, this so-called flapperism is only a passing phase, sometimes even merely a pose. Most of them, I am fully persuaded, affect certain petty vices, just as a small boy at a certain age tilts his cap over one ear, swears, swaggers and smokes, and imitates, in his juvenile way, in externals at least, the toughs and rowdies in the neighborhood. How many of us have seen that, and how many of us have done it, and lived to laugh heartily over it? Human nature is a curious conglomerate!

  Well, as I have said, Caroline has changed in certain outward manifestations, if not in anything deeper. Certain of the more notable flapper characteristics and mannerisms have, temporarily at any rate, disappeared. Whether just naturally, as parts of a passing phase, or whether because of some definite cause or reason outside of her own whimsies, who can tell? One might, quite reasonably, attribute some of these changes to a serious interest in the wooing of Dr. King. Constant as he is, and ready as she seems to accept his attentions, I somehow am not convinced that she loves him. Tommie might help me at this point to form a conclusion, but, as I said above, that is just what Tommie will not do where a friend is concerned, though I feel that she likes me very well and trusts me implicitly. But she is true to Caroline first. I have always been taught by worldly-wise people that women are not so true to each other. If so, this is an exception that proves the rule.

  Failing to elicit any information from Tommie, I have studied Caroline and the Doctor for myself. One thing is certain—he is crazy about her! Aside from that, nothing seems to be perfectly clear. Contrasted with his very evident infatuation is her serene calmness. That she likes him very much is patent, but I have never noted anything in her manner which corresponds with his evident adoration. She takes him for granted, so it seems to me. However, I have seen women act that way even with men they loved. So I suppose that proves nothing.

  Caroline has one active and I might even say aggressive rival for the Doctor’s affections, and that is none other than Miss Billie Riddick, whom you met at the Benedict’s ball. As you will probably agree, she is not a bad-looking girl, with a superb figure, and she has style and “pep” to waste. I recall distinctly that, when I was first introduced to her by the late Mr. Jeffreys, I found her a most entertaining young person, and she is the type that makes men turn in the street to look after her, and makes the women take an extra clutch on their male escorts. If she were a movie star, she would be featured in the descriptive literature as a “V-A-M-P” in large capitals. Give her a mantilla and a large black fan, and she would run Nita Naldi a close second for the love of the young matador, or whoever happened at the moment to be the fair Nita’s intended prey. Of course, I don’t mean to say that she’s as handsome as the seductive Italian woman, but she is good looking, and she has that swing to her hips and that “come-hither” look in her green-gray eyes that has changed the course of many an empire since Adam’s descendants ceased to be cavemen and went to dwell in cities. Oh, that side glance from under the long lashes, from those curious light eyes in the dark face! The average man seems no more able to resist it than a bird can resist the charming of the snake. I guess I have not told you, I have heard more than once that Miss Billie has fascinated a well-known benedict of my acquaintance. I won’t call his name, for one hears so much idle gossip about here that has absolutely no foundation in fact.

  Well, Miss Riddick is terribly in love—so everyone says— with the handsome Dr. King, and they say further she has tried to take him away from Caroline. Billie’s weakness in that contest is that, if she is in love, it does not show on the surface. Knowing your own sex, Bob, you will realize that Billie has not a look-in, as they say. I don’t know any more pitiful sight than that of a woman who is so much in love with a man who does not reciprocate that she does not care who sees it. Somehow one feels that there is something sacred about a woman’s dignity, and that in such a case it is being dragged in the dust, so to speak. I really feel sorry for Miss Billie, though, with her record as a “vamp,” I suppose she might not naturally call forth much sympathy.

  At the fraternity dance I attended Monday night, many of the gay younger set were present. Numbers of the fellows asked for you, and said they were sorry you had not stayed over. I took Tommie, and Caroline and the inevitable Doctor were on hand, of course. Billie Riddick came in with the Baltimore man Lacy, whom I mentioned in connection with the passing of Jeffreys. Miss Billie had on a ball dress, which for elegance, beauty, and stylishness, I have never seen surpassed anywhere. Every woman in the room watched her, many, of course, with covert sneers, but they all watched her just the same. She has a stunning figure, and carries herself like a queen. Indeed, Verney, who was present, dubbed her the “Queen of Jazz,” and the title suited her exactly. It was Billie’s big evening, and she had wit enough to realize it and make the most of it. It was as interesting
as a play. She was very much sought by the men, danced every dance, and it was fascinating to see how cleverly she tried to turn everything to account in her attempted conquest of the Doctor. She exerts some fascination over him, that is plain, and she has evidently left nothing undone to increase her hold.

  Naturally, I watched Caroline, too, thinking I might see something to give me a line on her real feeling toward Dr. King, but, when the evening was over, I had had my trouble for my pains, for I saw nothing to help me decide either way. Indeed, she seemed not to notice Miss Riddick’s efforts. In the course of the evening, a little thing happened which puzzled me somewhat. I had danced with Miss Billie, complimented her on her looks, and as I escorted her to a seat when the music stopped, she said:

  “We have not seen much of each other, Mr. Carr, have we? But we ought to do so. We might help each other. What do you say?”

  I am afraid I looked blank.

  Then she said, as Verney came up to claim the next dance:

  “Oh, Mr. Carr, and you have a reputation for wit!”

  As the music started rather suddenly, I had to move quickly out of the way of the dancers. But, as I passed her and Don on the floor a few minutes later, she looked at me mischievously, said something to Verney, and they both laughed. I have not gotten it yet for, somehow, I had not the nerve to ask her what she meant!

  I danced mostly with Tommie and Lillian Barton. For the first time since I have been here, I failed to get a dance with Caroline. As there were no dance cards, it was hard to keep the dances straight. I asked for one, but in some way got mixed up about it, and lost it so I did not try again. When we were in the crowd coming out of the hall, the Doctor and Caroline happened to be side by side with Tommie and me. Caroline was so close to me that our elbows touched. I started to say something to her, but she seemed not to notice me, so we walked all the way to the entrance without a word. I never had such an experience with Caroline before. Could she be offended because I did not dance with her? Hardly. As I said above, I tried to get a dance, and it was by no means all my fault that I did not succeed. But, as I have said before, women’s reactions are peculiar, and not to be forecasted accurately. Such is life.

  Tommie was very silent as we rode home in the taxi. When we alighted in front of her door, I tried to break the spell.

  “Whatever in the world are you thinking, my dear friend,” I said.

  She fitted her key in the lock without a word, and then, when she had unlocked the door and pushed it open, she turned and looked down at me from the vantage point of the top step.

  “I was thinking, Davy, that for all their supposed natural endowments and for all their training, men are such simpletons!” And Tommie beamed at me in the most friendly fashion.

  “And apropos of what, dear lady, do you so scandalously slander the sex to which I have the honor to belong?”

  She looked at me again and smiled, and tapped me roguishly under the chin with her white-gloved fingertips.

  “Apropos, dear Davy, of nothing at all!”

  And she turned and went into the house without another word. Bob, she’s a sweet, beautiful, wholesome girl, if there ever was one! I don’t blame you for being so fond of her.

  The work is going well again, after the interruption of the holidays. I expected to have a harder time getting back into the swing of it, but I have been most pleasantly disappointed. In my description of the “big house” on the shell road, I have used almost to a dot my recollections of one of those striking old places near Mobile that we both admired so much. But I must study Charleston and its environs at firsthand, for the books do not give me all the help I want, and I lack a certain confidence, which is an absolutely indispensable prerequisite to precision of touch. I can do Charleston and Columbia in one trip, and then run down home to see Mother.

  Thomasine is looking fine. Indeed, she is so blooming these days that I am beginning to suspect that you are continuing by letter the campaign which you waged so vigorously during the few days you were here. When I tease her, I get nothing but a laugh and a blush. In fact, the most suspicious circumstance is that she seems rather to enjoy being teased. What about it?

  Davy

  The coast of Bohemia. Even as you and I.

  January 8, 1923

  Dear Bob:

  We surely missed you at Lillian’s last night. Everyone spoke of you, and most pleasantly, too, young man; I should think that your right ear must have burned quite perceptibly. You let no grass grow under your feet for the few hectic days you spent in the Capital City, to judge from the impression you left behind you. Almost everyone present sent you a special personal message, beginning with our charming hostess. Somehow, I feel that the one you will value most is the one from the stately lady with the interesting gray eyes—yes, you have guessed it—Mary Hale.

  She was looking especially stunning. Of course, I cannot describe her costume except to say that she wore a very handsome black gown, with the most beautiful embroidered silk stockings I ever saw, and slippers to match. However, as you well know, though she has exquisite taste in dress, and the style and dash of a Parisienne, there never was a time when Mrs. Hale’s fascinating self was not far more attractive and interesting than her clothes. But last night her attire seemed especially suited to set off her physical beauty, and I confess that as I looked at her it was not difficult to understand why our friend Don is subjugated so completely. As for that gentleman himself, on the occasion in question, he sat like one enthralled, and was unable to take his eyes from her.

  With those he regards as his friends, Don acts with absolute naturalness, and so when Mrs. Hale, during an interval when we three were rather apart from the others, took note of his admiring glance, and asked him how he liked her new dress, he made one of his characteristically frank answers.

  “I think, Mary Hale, that you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen!”

  And Don’s look and tone gave one no opportunity to doubt his sincerity.

  So Mary blushed most vividly, whether more from embarrassment or pleasure I shall leave you to guess, and thereby heightened her beauty by several points.

  “You bold man,” she said, “don’t you know you must not say such things? In the first place, they are flattery of the most brazen sort, and then, suppose someone else should hear you!”

  Don shrugged his shoulders lazily.

  “Suppose they should hear? Would it be anything new? Would it not be a good thing for seasoned Washingtonians once in a blue moon to hear the simple truth spoken without varnish or evasion?”

  Under ordinary circumstances this should have been the signal for me to withdraw, but I realized that in this instance my presence saved the situation for them, so I showed my friendly spirit by acting the part of heavy chaperone. That Don worships Mary Hale is apparent even to a dull observer, and she blooms under his evident admiration like a flower in the morning sun. It is lucky for them both that she is a woman of character, for I verily believe that if she expressed a desire for the moon, Don would try to get it for her.

  When we were having tea, somewhat later on, Mrs. Morrow and Lillian Barton had a mild argument over the use of the words “love” and “adore,” Lillian insisting that they were not in any sense synonyms. One of them appealed to Don.

  “No,” he said, “they are not synonyms. Adoration is infinite love plus infinite respect,” and as he spoke he looked at Mary Hale as if in exemplification of his definition.

  The statement was so matter-of-fact, and the look so candid, that Sophie Burt strangled over her tea, and almost had hysterics as the result. I confess that if Don and Mary were not, both of them, high-minded people, and both possessed of more than average good sense, I should fear the possible outcome of the so-evident affection. But both are so calm that most folks seem to accept the situation as perfectly natural.

  Yes, the soulless Sophie was there, with her eternal Russian cigarettes, and that affected air of blase sophistication which would make one di
slike her if she were not so good natured with it all. And Wallace was there, and—you would never guess it in a hundred years—that very lively little matron who flirted with you so boldly at the Merry Coterie’s party. Of course, you have not forgotten her. I shan’t call her name in this letter, for reasons which will appear later. She just “happened in,” as they say, and Miss Barton insisted on her remaining for tea.

  In the course of a rather stimulating conversation, Wallace brought up the subject of the recent revival of interest in the Negro as a subject for writers of fiction. I say “revival,” for he was a legitimate subject for such treatment in the generation preceding the Civil War, not only in works like Uncle Tom’s Cabin, but in many other works long since forgotten. There were conflicting views as to the sentiments expressed or implied in Stribling’s Birthright, Shands’s White and Black, and Clement Woods’s Nigger; and of course, most of those present read Octavus Roy Cohen and Hugh Wiley out of the human race altogether.