When Washington Was In Vogue

by Edward Christopher Williams

  “I certainly do—and most heartily,” I said.

  Genevieve looked from one to the other of us. Finally she said: “All right, if Davy thinks it is the proper thing to do, I agree.” “I am glad,” said Don simply. “We shall go back to the Hales’, and send Paul over.”

  So I asked them to wait while I ran up to my room to get a cap, and we all three set out together, with Don carrying Mary Hale’s fur coat. Caroline clung to Don’s arm and said not a word during our short trip. When we reached the Hales’ we slipped in the back way, and Caroline and I mingled with the dancers, leaving to Don the delicate task of telling Paul Thomas that his mission had been successful, and getting him out of the house unobtrusively. This, with Mary Hale’s efficient aid, he managed to do, for Paul had been gone some time before anyone noticed his absence.

  I was conscious during the rest of the evening that Caroline was irritable, and that she seemed to be trying to “start something.” During the moment’s interval between a dance and its encore she said, as if she wished to provoke an argument:

  “I fear, Davy Carr, that you are in the way of being badly spoiled.”

  I smiled serenely.

  “Certainly not by Miss Caroline Rhodes,” I countered.

  “No, I was like all the rest of them for a while, but I stopped in time.”

  “What has suggested these remarks?” I asked, still smiling.

  “Genevieve! She’s the last person in the world of whom one would expect it, but she is just like all the rest, evidently. I am disappointed in her! Indeed, I am! I thought she had saner judgment.”

  “And now you’re sure she has not?”

  “Quite sure! There is only one person in the world who is more spoiled than you, and that’s your friend Bob Fletcher. It’s a positive crime the way the girls spoil him!”

  There’s one for your account, my friend!

  “Well, you had no hand in spoiling him, and surely no one can accuse you of any share in the impairment of my disposition, or character, or whatever it is that suffers from spoiling. From your superior heights, then, you can well afford to look down in a spirit of charity and forbearance upon those weaker and more susceptible than you.”

  This in my best manner—imperturbably.

  But Caroline only turned up her pretty little nose in the most ladylike manner possible, and moved away abruptly. What has gotten into the girl lately, I really can’t fathom. She is a regular little vixen on occasion, and seems to take special delight in baiting me. Nor am I able to please her in any wise.

  Just before “Home-Sweet-Home,” Mary Hale sought me out to say that Genevieve had telephoned that she wanted me to ask Tommie Dawson and Don to come over for a few minutes after the dance was over. They did not have to be asked twice, I assure you, for both were wild to know what had happened.

  No words of Genevieve’s were needed to make us aware that she and her long-lost lover had been reconciled. Never before have I witnessed such a transformation. Happiness to the point of exaltation is surely a stimulant, and it would be difficult to realize that the radiant woman before us was the sober, serious, unbending Genevieve whom I had known for the past few months. Nothing can show more clearly how great a change had taken place in her than the fact that she had sent for us that she might tell us the result of the interview. I suppose she felt she had to tell someone. The story was simple enough. The message she had confided to Oliver Drew—as Paul’s best friend—Paul never received, and the messages Paul sent to her through the same channel she never received. It may seem incredible to some, and a curious coincidence to others, that both confided in Drew, instead of writing directly, but I suppose that can be explained by the tendency of two proud, high-spirited people who have quarreled to avoid direct communication with each other, and to send messages indirectly through an intermediary. At any rate, they did so act, with the sad result we have noted. When Genevieve had finished her story, she cried for sheer happiness and relief, and Caroline and Tommie cried, too. Then, in that perfect manner peculiar to Genevieve, and in the happy phrase characteristic of the Rhodeses, she thanked us all for our interest and sympathy, and for what we had done, or tried to do, in her behalf. She kissed the girls, and gave her hand to Don and to me.

  “As for Davy,” she said, “I have a dreadful desire to embrace him for what he did tonight. I am sure Paul would not mind, if he knew all the circumstances.”

  At this moment as I write I cannot recall my answer, but it was, naturally, something more or less jocular. I was embarrassed beyond all reason, for I was most conscious of a smile of sarcasm on Caroline’s face.

  “Well,” said that saucy young person, “before this meeting degenerates into a kind of sentimental debauch, I think I shall withdraw. Excuse the expression, Genevieve dear, but really, Davy is quite insufferable now, and I don’t believe I could stand seeing him much worse. I didn’t mean to rebuke you, but I don’t believe you realize just how bad he is.”

  Don looked from Caroline to me, from me to Caroline with a puzzled air, and then burst into a perfect gale of laughter. Genevieve, who was too happy to be oversensitive, laughed, too.

  “Do you know,” said the latter suddenly, “I have just discovered I am dying of hunger. I have had nothing to eat or drink since my early dinner, and it must be one o’clock. Who wants a cup of cocoa?”

  Her newfound happiness was so evident and so unaffected that, though none of us was in need of cocoa, or anything else to eat or drink after having partaken of the very generous cheer offered by Mary Hale, we all fell in with her suggestion eagerly, and trooped down to the dining room. While we were sipping our cocoa, Don was taken, rather suddenly, with a fit of laughing. Genevieve, Tommie and I were mystified completely, but, for some strange reason, Caroline seemed to understand him.

  “I don’t know whether it is the water we drink, or something in the air, which seems to be turning everyone silly,” she said, rather tartly, I thought.

  But Don only laughed the more, and our party broke up when he arose to go, with his merriment in no wise abated. It was a very jolly ending to a most exciting evening.

  4 P.M.

  As I write these closing lines, from the parlor two floors below I hear a rich, beautiful voice singing love songs. It is Genevieve entertaining her lover. I, for one, had no notion she had a singing voice at all.

  I have met Paul Thomas, and he is an unusually attractive man. It is not difficult to see how a woman might lose her head over him. He spent part of an evening in my room, and we fought the war all over again. He was in long before we were, and was one of the last to leave France, since he was with the regulars. Realizing, of course, that no record, however fine, can make an American of known colored ancestry welcome in the Engineer Corps of the U.S.A., he has forestalled the inevitable unpleasantness by resigning his commission. This he did two days after the meeting, which resulted in a reconciliation between the lovers.

  As for Genevieve, she is radiant. That is indeed the only word which describes her. I can think of nothing more beautiful than the sight of the supreme happiness of a fellow mortal. I have seen nothing more charming or more moving in my life. Since the Baltimore incident of ill-starred memory, Genevieve has always treated me with consideration, but since last Monday her manner has an added element of friendliness—indeed, I might even say affection. I feel sure that I have one loyal friend in this house. Thus richly, sometimes, are our very mediocre deeds rewarded!

  But if I don’t stop writing, I shall have to send this letter to you in two sections.

  I wish you could be at Lillian Barton’s tonight, to hear me annihilate, with my best irony and sarcasm, my good friends Mrs. Morrow and Reese! No romance in modern life indeed!

  Davy

  ELEVEN

  Davy reflects. What price happiness? Rouge

  and lipstick. Cultivating Billie.

  Sunday, January 21

  I think it is old Juvenal who says, “He who begets children gives pledges to fo
rtune,” or words to that effect. From all I have observed, that is indeed a true saying, but, when you think it over, the establishment of every kind of human relationship is fraught with responsibilities which cannot be eluded. Very often we can decide as to whether or not we shall make this or that tie, but once it is made, the matter is largely out of our hands. Once we have set up our gods, though with our own brain and hands we may have fashioned them out of the clay of the roadside, and by taking, though, have invested them with life, the creature becomes master, and we can no more control what it shall do. It is the age-old experience of Frankenstein all over again!

  Life is indeed a curious and an interesting thing. Our so-called freedom of the will seems confined, at least so it appears to me, to initiating things. Once they are initiated, they slip from our hands, and withdraw from the circle of our domination. We are continually setting up these little spheres of influence, only to have them pass from under our control. It is no wonder that certain men have tried, by resolutely avoiding the making of ties and the persistent refusal to take on responsibilities, to find a sort of negative happiness, only to discover, in their turn, that there is no such thing. Do you remember the story of Dechelette in Daudet’s Sapho? That illustrates in part at least the point I am trying to make.

  Another angle of the same question is expressed by a character in Mason’s The Witness for the Defence, who says—I cite from memory—that we can have anything in this world we want, if only we want it hard enough, but we cannot control the price we shall have to pay for it. And he might have added that we cannot, indeed, know beforehand what the price is to be, nor the time when payment will be exacted.

  “Step up, gentlemen,” says life, “help yourselves with both hands. Don’t be stingy with yourselves. The price? Oh, let’s not talk about that now. It’s a small matter between friends. Only satisfy yourselves. We can talk about the rest later.” And, being human, we poor fools, in our greediness, often dip in to our very elbows, and carry off what we will, without a thought of the day of reckoning. All the tenets of the gospel of thrift deprecate buying on time, but did you ever think that in the great scheme of life, we are compelled to take everything by that process, and must enjoy first and pay afterward? Not only that, we must, as it were, give a signed note of hand, undated, and with the amount blank. No wonder so many human lives go bankrupt.

  These thoughts went through my mind the other night as I sat in the Rhodeses’ back parlor and waited for Thomasine to come down. We four, Caroline, Dr. King, Tommie, and I were going to the Zeta Lambda dance, and Caroline had a new rig in connection with which she had called for Tommie’s assistance. A professional call had delayed the doctor, so I sat in the back parlor, and amused myself with the books of the late Mr. Rhodes. I don’t suppose, in your hectic hours here, you had a chance to notice them.

  I noted, among other things, standard editions of Balzac, Daudet, and Dumas, a large paper French edition of Victor Hugo, Daudet’s work in French with the Leloir illustrations, the original French edition of De Maupassant, the Prothereo set of Byron, one of the most satisfying editions I have ever handled, practically all of Edith Wharton’s works, and the definitive English editions of Thackeray, Defoe, and Dryden. I figured casually that there were at least seven or eight hundred dollars’ worth of books in sets like those I have named, not to mention the hundreds of single volumes. The fact which struck me was that every set present represented the very best scholarship and was what one would call the standard or definite edition, and in the separate volumes I noted practically every one of the best English and American works of imaginative literature, both prose and verse, for the period between about 1890 and 1910. All of the books showed signs of use, the dates in those I happened to open showed that they were bought at the time of their first appearance, and the selection was an eloquent tribute to the owner’s taste. No wonder Caroline, for all her occasional “jazzy” manners, has such an unusual speaking vocabulary. It must have been a liberal education to live with her father.

  The whole room, in my opinion, is very satisfying to the eye. The pictures, though too many suit the modern taste, which insists on light woodwork, expensive wall coverings and a paucity of detached ornament, were very good, the bookcases simple and unobtrusive, and the rest of the furniture of the most comfortable description—the last touch in “hominess” being produced by the open fireplace, the big davenport conveniently near, and the long Italian table with its two reading lamps just behind it. I have always liked this room.

  It was the pitiful story of Dechelette and poor little Alice Doré, which I leafed over idly as I sat there, that started me on the train of thought set forth at the beginning of this letter. Here I am in a house whose inmates were utterly unknown to me a few weeks ago, and now my life seems in some curious fashion inextricably bound with theirs. It’s that same old story over again. We initiate actions or relations, and in so doing may exercise to the full our free will, of which we are so inordinately proud, but, once the action is started or the relation entered upon, Fate steps in and takes it out of our hands. Maybe you don’t agree with me in this thought, but at any rate you will have to acknowledge that there is something in it.

  Here am I, having of my own free will made new relationships in this house, now suffering more or less discomfort because of them—disturbed—yes, I shall have to acknowledge it—disturbed because of the actions of an irresponsible girl whose very existence was, only a few weeks ago, a matter of the utmost indifference and unconcern to me. And such an atmosphere of unconcern I might have maintained throughout my life if I had not allowed any new relationship to be set up between us, but I did, and now I am troubled, forsooth, because she no longer continues to do the things which at first were a source of annoyance to me. Why I should care what she does or does not do is a mystery to me, but I do.

  While I sat reflecting on the uncertainties and whimsicalities of life, Caroline came in looking like a dream of almost unearthly loveliness. I really believe she grows more beautiful day by day, and surely she must be bankrupting herself buying new clothes, for she seems to have a new gown for every party. This last one was dainty beyond words, and she emerged from it—her shoulders are the superbest I ever saw—like some wonderful tropical flower. Sometimes I am almost overpowered by her beauty, and this time I was speechless.

  How do you like my new dress, Godfather? I made it myself—every little bit of it. Don’t you think it’s pretty?”

  I murmured some banality or other. Then I noticed what I had not seen before, that the rouge which in her case has been rather conspicuous by its absence, was quite noticeable. I do not know whether or not I should have said anything, but I did not have to decide, for her uncanny power of perception made it unnecessary for me to break the ice. She caught my glance almost before I was conscious myself that I had directed it at her.

  “It’s impossible to please you, Godfather. You’re a perfectly merciless critic, and your eyebrows have the worst manners imaginable. Of course, I’ve got rouge on tonight. I should look a fright if I did not. I’ve been out six or seven nights running, and I don’t sleep any too well when I do get to bed, so what is a poor girl to do? You must realize that most folks are not as hypercritical as you are. Some of your very-much-esteemed friends use enough, Heaven knows! I should think you would be used to it by now.”

  The acerbity in the last words was apparent. As she talked, she stood in front of the big mirror over the mantel and looked at herself, and then looked at me from the mirror with a smile unmistakably defiant.

  “I said nothing about any of my much-esteemed friends, and I do not recall saying anything about you,” I rejoined very coolly, though her manner was most irritating.

  “Of course you didn’t—in words. You never do. In fact, I think I should like it better if you did say right out what you think. You certainly get it over. And I repeat, why should I be criticized for doing occasionally what your wonderful friends do all the time? That’s a que
stion I should like you to answer if you can.”

  She had turned, and stood looking down at me with a manner almost belligerent. There was a bright spot on either cheek which showed red even beneath the rouge, and the black eyes snapped dangerously.

  My first impulse was to meet her halfway, and in the same spirit. But I stopped long enough for a second thought, and so said nothing. Just at that moment the doorbell rang, and I took advantage of this diversion, and answered it, letting in Dr. King, for whom we were waiting. Tommie, who had been delayed through helping Caroline with her dress, was not quite ready, so I insisted that Caroline and the doctor go on ahead. He hesitated, and looked at Caroline.

  “Yes,” said that saucy young lady in a tone which made her escort look at me inquiringly, “we might as well go on. I think it will be pleasanter.”

  And, gathering her fur coat about her, she swept royally out of the room, while Dr. King followed, looking puzzled.

  The Zeta Lambda dance was very pretty, and, as most of the girls present were college students, with all the bloom and zest of youth, we had a lively time. Caroline was quite cool at first, so pointedly so as to make Tommie stare at me inquiringly. But I ignored her manner, and started in with a will to have a good time. As at the party of which I wrote you in a previous letter, Miss Billie Riddick and Caroline were the acknowledged belles, but this time Lillian Barton pressed them hard for the honors. I have to take off my hat to Miss Billie, for she’s a game loser. If persistence and a “never-say-die” spirit will win for her, the doctor is going to be a sure victim. It’s a curious fact that since the doctor’s arrival in town, Billie has suddenly sprung into prominence as a favorite at all social affairs, a fact due entirely, as I see it, to the efforts she has made to please. The girl has something besides mere physical attractiveness—she has brains and resourcefulness. For some reason or other she seemed to have worked me into her plan of campaign, for this particular occasion at any rate. In some way, difficult for me to see, I was drawn into her circle, and in my first dance with her I was conscious that she was making an unusual effort to be pleasing. She is better at repartee than any girl around here except Lillian Barton or Caroline, and, even when she is making no special effort, she is interesting and entertaining. But on this occasion she outdid herself. She complimented me, and flattered me, quite shamelessly, and laughed when I tried to call her hand. As she is clever, her compliments, if broad, were so cunningly conceived as to hit hard. They were just the kinds of things, which of all others, I might wish were true. She’s a clever one, there is no doubt of that, and she has me sized up perfectly.