Don, dismissing the last two as professional humorists not worthy of serious discussion, held that it is better to be written about in almost any fashion than not to be written about at all, and that in modern writing of the realistic type we must not expect the writer to hold a brief for this or that race or group, but merely to paint the picture as he sees it. But, he went on, the most significant and interesting thing is that we are once more regarded by the literary world as material suited to the uses of the imaginative writer. He recalled the time—not so many years ago—when nothing about colored people was acceptable to practically any American magazine unless it had the unmistakable stamp of Tuskegee upon it. One or two writers of both promise and performance beyond the average were caught in this trough between two waves—and he cited Charles W. Chesnutt as an instance.
But today, with Clement Wood, for example, setting forth in bold terms the ofttimes dramatic relationships existing between the races in the South, it is quite conceivable that in the near future Americans may learn to treat any subject imaginatively which exists actually within the borders of their own country. In their provincial attitudes and in their persistent tabooing of certain subjects, the Anglo-Saxon writers, and especially the American Anglo-Saxons, have shown themselves to be far behind the writers of continental Europe.
I, for one, feel very sure that Stribling, Shands, and Clement Wood are merely the vanguard of a small army of writers who will soon lay hands on the unusually dramatic material which has been lying so long unused within the borders of our Southern civilization. Somehow, I feel, too, that Southern white men may handle it better than the writers of our own group. We are too near to it, and feel it too keenly, to achieve the detachment necessary for work of the highest artistry. That is the reason why, in my own work, I have chosen a period so remote from the present that I can get the necessary detachment and the proper perspective.
But perhaps the thing in this letter which will interest you most is not this literary discussion, for the ideas set forth are surely not new to you, but the conduct of your flirtatious friend, whom perhaps it were wise to designate as “Madame X,” in the event that this letter shall fall into strange hands. Recalling what you said about the lady and her actions at two of the holiday dances, I was probably somewhat more interested in her than I should have been under ordinary circumstances.
She was most becomingly attired. I wish I might describe her, but once more this yawning hiatus in my descriptive powers shows itself. Really, if I have any faint hope of devoting myself to writing, and especially to imaginative writing, I must train myself in this particular branch of the descriptive art. It is curious how I stutter and stammer and hesitate when I attempt to describe personal attire or adornment, though I am ready enough in other phases of writing. Sometimes I think it is due, in part at least, to my ignorance of materials and colors and shades, and of the terminology of dress. Whatever the real reason, I must make a studied effort to supply this lack.
To return to your little friend—she was becomingly attired as usual and, if I am any judge, she leans a little toward the striking and bizarre. I think her complexion, unassisted, is not very good, but she was a perfect specimen of the modern art of beauty culture, flawless in every detail. She must spend a small fortune keeping herself white. Aside from this artificiality, which to me is exceedingly repellent, she is too thin to suit my special taste. But let that pass, for it has nothing to do with the incidents of the evening. At the beginning of the talk about the Negro and literature, in which Don and Wallace figured as the principals, she paid some attention, but it was quite apparent that her interest soon flagged, and she was plainly bored and yawned repeatedly, though surreptitiously, behind her pretty hand. Once, catching my eye, she winked and smiled, and, as you will in all likelihood recall, her smile and her dimples are not entirely without attractiveness.
Then the little game of the evening began. As she sat beside Mary Hale, with one arm resting easily on the back of the divan, one of those pretty plump hands—so unlike the rest of her—was right under my eyes, for I sat immediately in back of Mrs. Hale. Somehow, reflecting on some of the things you had said, the notion seized me suddenly to try an experiment, so I rested my hand near hers, and allowed my fingers to stray. When our hands touched, she first started as if surprised, but the surprise was evidently of short duration, for she promptly squeezed my fingers! So you were right in your estimate of her.
Such a game, as you can readily imagine, was too easy to be even mildly interesting. However, it often happens that a personality once evoked is not so easily revoked. (Who said that? I seem to be quoting, but for the life of me I cannot recall from whom.) So for the rest of the tea hour at Barton’s I was conscious of her interest. When tea was served she sat beside me, and gave me a most cordial invitation to come to her house any Sunday evening after ten.
“We have some good times,” she said, and she named two or three of her very gay friends who, it seems, would be sure to be present. To judge from the little I have seen of them, and the much I have heard, it would indeed be lively.
“Bob Fletcher says,” she added, “that you are a better dancer than he is. If this is so, you would enjoy our little Wednesday night parties. Just a select few,” she added, flashing that dimpling smile at me.
By the way, what did you not say to her during those few dances you had together?
Well, to make a long story short, she suggested that I might take her to the Rhodeses’ from the Bartons’, for she had a committee meeting of the Merry Coterie to attend, and from there I might go to her house for a late supper. As I had heard of these late suppers, I decided to fall in with her suggestion. So we went to Caroline’s accompanied by Sophie Burt, who also had to attend the meeting.
When we arrived we found Tommie and Dr. King present and these two entertained me in the parlor while Caroline, Sophie, and “Madame X” held their committee meeting in the library. Dr. King and I sang to Tommie’s accompaniment, and “Madame X” twice or thrice left the committee meeting and joined us, much to the irritation of Sophie and Caroline, and especially Caroline. When the committee had finally finished its work, and we were all assembled around the piano, while I, at Tommie’s request, sang “O Sole Mio” to my own accompaniment, the lady with the dimples stood close behind me and rested both arms on my shoulders. I could not help wondering what the others thought of this, but as my back was turned to the rest of the company, I had no means of guessing. But when I had finished, Caroline insisted that Dr. King sing a new “blues” song which is now the rage, and, as soon as he had seated himself at the piano, she beckoned me into the library. I went, wondering.
“Dr. King is going to take Tommie and me driving after a while, and then we are going to Marston’s for supper. Don’t you want to go, to complete the quartet?”
“I surely should like to go,” I said, “but I have an engagement for supper.”
“Can’t you break it?” teased the lady, in her most purring, kittenish manner, playing with the lapel of my coat, and looking up at me with those sparkling black eyes.
No, I m afraid I can’t,” I said, though I heartily wished I could.
“It’s the first time I ever asked you to do anything,” she went on. “I think you might be nice for once.”
“The loss is mine, I assure you. I wish, indeed, that I could.”
“You are like all the rest of the men,” she retorted, rather tartly, it seemed to me. “You do everything that you want to do, and when you don’t want to do anything, you never lack an excuse! “
Finally “Madame X” said she must get home, and I helped her on with her coat, and slipped into my own. We were all standing about the door, and Caroline had her arms around “Madame X,” and the ladies were, as is usual, all talking at once. Suddenly, “Madame X” gave a start and a little suppressed scream. We all turned to look at her.
“What’s the matter?” asked Caroline.
“You pinched me,” said “Madame X.”
What do you think of that, Buddie? Women are queer creatures. Don’t you think so?
So I went to “Madame X’s,” and it was lively, take my word for it!
Perhaps I should not, once more, call names. There was “Madame X’s” particular crony, the little lady who wore such a sketchy costume at one of the parties you attended, and the handsome Baltimore matron who seems to have fascinated one of our Washington friends, and last, but by no means least, that slender vamp who raised such a fog last summer trying to take a well-known politician away from his own wife at a certain party in Newark. Do you remember her? Who, once seeing her, could forget her?
In addition to the ladies, and to “Monsieur X,” our host, there were present the husband of the lady from Baltimore, and my good Washington friend, who shall be nameless. The vamp lady very purposely kept the Baltimore man busy, while my friend entertained the Baltimore lady. The liquor was good, and was plentiful. The Baltimore lady drank more than any of the men, though “Madame X” ran her a close second! The vamp lady is a bad one, there is little doubt of that, but she is not outwardly coarse, but the other two are unspeakable, when one thinks that they pose before the outside world as social leaders.
As none of the persons present was anything to me, I enjoyed the opportunity which the occasion afforded for an intimate study of another side of this complex social organism. It was hard for me to realize that just a few minutes before, so to speak, our hostess had been a guest at Lillian Barton’s table.
There was no light in the parlor, and the Baltimore lady and my Washington friend spent most of the evening sitting very close together in the darkest corner, engaged in a whispered conversation punctuated by long silences, though perhaps it would be more accurate to characterize it as long silences punctuated at intervals by whispered conversation. The Baltimore gentleman and the clever coquette from Washington had a very lively time in the dining room. To judge from the sounds, they spent most of their time shooting craps on the dining room table and mixing highballs at the sideboard. He was feeling very “rosy” long before the evening was over, though he was to drive his own car back to Baltimore that night. How he managed it, I can’t for the life of me imagine. I know I should not have trusted myself behind him. However, he must have made it all right, for I have heard nothing to the contrary.
While “Monsieur X” entertained “Madame X’s” pal with some very lively gossip, in the course of which I heard one or two well-known New Yorkers’ names called quite frequently, “Madame X” amused me with her very spicy conversation. She told me more about the dancing club which she had mentioned at Barton’s, and again insisted that I come to the next meeting. Meanwhile, she asked me if I did not want to help her and the vamp prepare the supper, or rather, look on while they prepared it. So we three retired to the kitchen, and made salad and sandwiches amid a running fire of very racy gossip. Since the vamp is witty to a degree, it was not entirely without interest. But I shall not weary you with a detailed account of the evening. One incident, which I think I shall relate, is typical. For a person of your imagination and training, it will not be difficult to reconstruct the rest.
During the process of preparing the supper, the vamp had to go into the dining room for some salad dishes. When she returned I happened to be standing at the entrance to the kitchen. Having nothing better to do at the moment, I indulged in a bit of foolery, and teasingly barred the way.
“You can’t pass,” said I, laughing, “without paying a toll.”
She smiled that curious fascinating smile. She leaned toward me. I never before noticed what remarkable eyes she has, big and unfathomable; nor what a curious pallor; nor what a red and sensual mouth, in strange contrast to the colorless cheeks. Then I felt her lips against mine, a long, lingering kiss, which was so much more than a mere kiss that—well, if I could describe it, I should do so, and I am willing to wager that the description would be a distinct contribution to emotional psychology. How long this performance would have lasted, I have no means of knowing, but I was brought to my senses by the voice of our hostess.
“You quit that fooling, Pauline, and give me those dishes. First thing you know, you’ll break them.”
So I awoke, but all evening Pauline’s unfathomable eyes and full red lips seemed to hold me bewitched, and I could not shake off their influence. I have never before cared for her and, indeed, I have always felt that her type of woman had absolutely no attraction for me, but I am not so sure. Of course, I am not going to put myself in a position to be made ridiculous, so, under the circumstances, I shall avoid that lady now for a reason, whereas before I avoided her for no reason. However, I can, at least, sympathize with those who fall under the spell of such an enchantress. But enough of this!
This evening I met Caroline in the hall, and she was very saucy. I asked her if she and Tommie would not like to go to a show during the early part of the evening, and have Dr. King come after his office hours.
“You’re too frivolous,” said the pert young miss. “I have to go to my classes, and then I have to study. You had better hunt up some of your gay friends.”
So I have spent the evening writing to you. However, Caroline herself, for all her pretended industry, came home early from class, and a little later went out arrayed like the lilies of the field, with her swain. So that’s that!
Tommie sends her “cordial good wishes”—I quote her very words! I leave you to interpret them. Don says, “Hello!”
Davy
TEN
The story of Genevieve. The rivals.
All’s fair in love and war. The return of the wanderer.
And they lived happily ever after.
Sunday, January 14
Dear Bob:
During the past few days our household had been the scene of a very romantic little episode. It is so very conventional that if you were to put it into a story or play the critics would hammer you for using a too-hackneyed theme. There is a hero, misunderstood, a very conventional villain, and a heroine, deserted, suffering in silence and waiting in vain for the hero’s return. It is the age-old story of the rivals and reminds me of a play I saw when a very small boy from the gallery of the one-horse, one-night theater of my old hometown. Did you ever see Jim, the Penman? Well, the story I have to tell you is the story of Jim, the Penman, minus the forged letters.
All of which reminds me that, by one of those curious coincidences which are not at all uncommon, we were talking at Lillian Barton’s only Sunday night about the element of romance in everyday life, and Reese, who is a rather modern product of American business life, contended that there was no such thing, outside of books, or movies—or words to that effect; and Mrs.
Morrow said, “What romantic elements could one find in life in a town like this?”
Three of us took the other side of the question, and we had a very lively debate. I am looking forward to the pleasure I am going to have tonight at the expense of Mrs. Morrow and Reese. But let me get on with my story.
You may recall how, on more than one occasion during your stay here at Christmas, you voiced the thought that Genevieve Rhodes looked like a woman who had had a most unhappy love affair. I myself talked with Tommie the evening after you went back to New York, and she confirmed your diagnosis. She gave few details, but her version was about as follows:
When Genevieve was at Wellesley, she met a chap who had graduated from one of the smaller colleges in the pie belt, and was at that time at Massachusetts Tech taking an engineering course. He was a very clever fellow, and his name was Paul Thomas. I myself recall hearing years ago some of the New England boys talking about him as a youngster who was going to make a big name someday. One of his old college mates said that if he would only consent to give up his family and boyhood friends and cross over the line, that there would be nothing to which he might not aspire. He seems to have been a “bear” among
the ladies, but for all they were so crazy about him, he never lost his head, but remained a steady, hardworking, serious fellow.
Now, Paul Thomas had a chum, an alter ego, a sort of shadow, in the person of one Oliver Drew. Thomas and he had met in their freshman year in college, and in the natural isolation of two colored lads in a big Northern school, their intimacy had grown and deepened until they had become such inseparable friends that they were known in Boston and Cambridge as Damon and Pythias. They shared their books, their clothes, their money, and even their joys and sorrows. When Thomas entered Massachusetts Tech, Drew matriculated in law at Boston University and thus they were separated only by the Charles River for the length of each day.
It seems that it was Drew who first met Genevieve, and it was through him that Paul Thomas first saw her. To make a long story short, it appears to have been a case of love at first sight, or something very like it, for both Genevieve and Paul, and with the arrival of Pythias on the scene, Damon seems to have been relegated to the rear.
Thomas was assiduous in his attentions. They spent their winter vacations in the same city, they corresponded when apart, and, with the exception of an occasional flare-up, for both were quick-tempered to a degree, the course of their love ran as smoothly as one could reasonably wish. Then Genevieve graduated, and commenced teaching in the high school here. She had been teaching a year when he finished Tech, and got a pretty nice position with an engineering corporation in New York. Meanwhile, the war had broken out, and the plight of the French had excited his interest and sympathy, as it had that of so many millions of Americans. He seemed, however, from all the accounts, to have been a bit more deeply stirred than most folks and more than once had talked, rather carelessly, of course, of going over and helping. This was before we went into the war, you will understand. At Easter 1917, he came to Washington on a visit, and renewed his wooing of Genevieve with the utmost vigor.
When Washington Was In Vogue Page 19