by Unknown
ARRIVING ELEVEN TOMORROW MORNING TO STOP ALL THIS NONSENSE
Henry
* * *
New York 8 February
Mr John Knecker
816 Park Avenue New York
DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOUR SON CHARLEY IS
Henry Dumm
* * *
New York 8 February
Henry Dumm
51 East 51 Street New York
YES HE IS WITH THE WRISKS AT PALM BEACH
John Knecker
* * *
New York 9 February
Arthur Wrisk
Champagne Villa Palm Beach
IS ANNE STAYING WITH YOU
Henry Dumm
* * *
Palm Beach 9 February
Henry Dumm
51 East 51 Street New York
I THOUGHT WE WERENT SPEAKING
Arthur Wrisk
* * *
New York 10 February
Arthur Wrisk
Champagne Villa Palm Beach
I DID NOT SPEAK I WIRED KINDLY ANSWER
Henry Dumm
* * *
Palm Beach 10 February
Henry Dumm
51 East 51 Street New York
THAT IS A PURE TECHNICALITY I REFUSE TO ANSWER
Arthur Wrisk
* * *
New York 11 February
Mrs Henry Dumm
Care Arthur Wrisk Champagne Villa
Palm Beach
ARE YOU THERE
Henry
* * *
PaIm Beach 12 February
Henry Dumm
51 East 51 Street New York
NO
Anne
* * *
New York 14 February
George Young
Everglades Club Palm Beach
IS ANNE STAYING WITH THE WRISKS
Henry Dumm
* * *
Palm Beach 15 February
Henry Dumm
51 East 51 Street New York
FRANKLY YES STILL MORE FRANKLY SOMEONE ELSE IS TOO
George Young
* * *
New York 15 February
Mrs Henry Dumm
Care Arthur Wrisk Champagne Villa
Palm Beach
I FIND YOU ARE THERE PLEASE DONT STAY THERE
Henry
* * *
New York 17 February
Mrs Henry Dumm
Care Arthur Wrisk Champagne Villa
Palm Beach
DID YOU GET MY WIRE
Henry
* * *
Palm Beach 17 February
Henry Dumm
51 East 51 Street New York
YES
Anne
* * *
New York 17 February
Mrs Henry Dumm
Care Arthur Wrisk Champagne Villa
Palm Beach
ARE YOU COMING HOME
Henry
* * *
Palm Beach 18 February
Henry Dumm
51 East 51 Street New York
NO
Anne
* * *
New York 18 February
Mrs Henry Dumm
Care Arthur Wrisk Champagne Villa
Palm Beach
DISAPPROVE STRONGLY OF YOUR PRESENT VISIT PLEASE TERMINATE IT IMMEDIATELY
Henry
* * *
New York 20 February
Mrs Henry Dumm
Care Arthur Wrisk Champagne Villa
Palm Beach
DISAPPROVE VERY STRONGLY OF YOUR HOST AT PALM BEACH AND HIS OTHER GUEST WILL YOU PLEASE DO WHAT I ASK AND COME HOME
Henry
* * *
New York 22 February
Mrs Henry Dumm
Care Arthur Wrisk Champagne Villa
Palm Beach
MY DISAPPROVAL IS EXTREME INSIST THAT YOU RETURN AT ONCE
Henry
* * *
New York 24 February
Mrs Henry Dumm
Care Arthur Wrisk Champagne Villa
Palm Beach
VERY WELL THEN
Henry
* * *
New York 26 February
Arthur Freeman
Knickerbocker Club New York
WILL YOU DO ME A FAVOUR
Henry Dumm
* * *
New York 26 February
Henry Dumm
5l East 51 Street New York
PROBABLY NOT WHAT IS IT
Arthur Freeman
* * *
New York 27 February
Arthur Freeman
Knickerbocker Club New York
WILL YOU PLEASE WIRE ANNE AT THE WRISKS AT PALM BEACH AND TELL HER I AM MISBEHAVING
Henry Dumm
* * *
New York 27 February
Henry Dumm
51 East 51 Street New York
WHY NOT TELL HER YOURSELF
Arthur Freeman
* * *
New York 28 February
Arthur Freeman
Knickerbocker Club New York
SHE WOULDNT BELIEVE ME
Henry Dumm
* * *
New York 28 February
Henry Dumm
51 East 51 Street New York
ALL RIGHT
Arthur Freeman
* * *
New York 28 February
Mrs Henry Dumm
Care Arthur Wrisk Champagne Villa
Palm Beach
SAW HENRY AT COLONY LAST NIGHT DINING WITH PETITE BLONDE
Arthur Freeman
* * *
Palm Beach 1 March
Henry Dumm
51 East 51 Street New York
BEST WISHES
Anne
* * *
New York 1 March
Arthur Freeman
Knickerbocker Club New York
PLEASE MAKE IT STRONGER
Henry Dumm
* * *
New York 2 March
Mrs Henry Dumm
Care Arthur Wrisk Champagne Villa
Palm Beach
HENRY INVARIABLY AT COLONY WITH PETITE BLONDE
Arthur Freeman
* * *
Palm Beach 2 March
Henry Dumm
51 East 51 Street New York
CONGRATULATIONS
Anne
* * *
New York 3 March
Arthur Freeman
Knickerbocker Club New York
STRONGER
Henry Dumm
* * *
New York 3 March
Mrs Henry Dumm
Care Arthur Wrisk Champagne Villa Palm Beach
BLONDE REPORTED TO BE IN RESIDENCE
Arthur Freeman
* * *
New York 3 March
Henry Dumm
51 East 51 Street New York
IVE DONE MY STRONGEST
Arthur Freeman
* * *
New York 7 March
Arthur Freeman
Knickerbocker Club New York
THANK YOU ANNE IS BACK
Henry Dumm
LIBERTY, EQUALITY, FRATERNITY:
Why Rights for Women Have Brought About the Decline of Some Notable Institutions
CLARENCE DARROW
FROM DECEMBER 1926
I am not one who objects to change, but there are some innovations that I resent. For instance, prohibition annoys me
; not because I ever cared much for alcohol, but because prohibition has taken so much good feeling and colour out of life. Then there are the barber shops. I have always liked barber shops; true, in common with many others, I got the safety-razor habit years ago, and this kept me out of barber shops except on those rare occasions when I visited them to get my hair cut. I liked the red, white and blue stripes winding down the barber pole. Somehow they seemed to be a symbol of liberty, even after the reformers began to discredit and curtail freedom, and women began to be emancipated.
The barber and his shop have a history. And because the degeneration of the barber shop proves an important point, I shall tell what I know of their history. In the olden days the barber was the surgeon, and some of them to this day continue to let blood. The barber shop was not only the place to get a shave and haircut but it was likewise the social centre. In fact, historians tell us that in the Eighteenth Century in England the barber shop was the favourite resort for “idle persons”, and in addition to its attraction as a focus for news, a lute, a viol, or some such musical instrument, was always kept for the entertainment of waiting customers.
The musical instruments had disappeared before I began to frequent the places, but the “idle fellows” were still there. These always seemed to have leisure and were found sprawling comfortably over the big chairs—never too busy to wait for a shave. They were good conversationalists and spoke without restraint, discussing in an easy and colourful way the topics of the times. They were well posted on race horses, chorus girls, prize fighters, elections and other interesting and manly topics. Their language was not always grammatical nor their stories chaste. The barber shop frequenter had a rich “lingo” of his own that seemed to fit the place. It vied with the Pullman smoker as a centre for the distribution of droll stories.
• • •
I was raised in a small town in the middle West where democracy was real and social intercourse was easy. On Saturday nights when the “hired men” came in from the country they gravitated to the barber shop. In those days conversation was still an art; the barber shop promoted and cultivated this art in its own way. Altogether it was an important social centre and was, in effect, a community club where neither initiation fees nor dues were demanded, and, best of all, it was for men only. Its precincts were never invaded by women, and so its votaries knew but few inhibitions.
Of course, in the early days the barber shop was not the only man’s club. The automobile had not then driven out the horse, and the livery stable was a common rendez-vous for men on Saturday afternoon. Here, too, would foregather the good fellows of the town and country round. It was especially the headquarters for local statesmen. Amid flies and pungent odours political fortunes were made and lost, and the Constitution was defended against its foes.
And then there was the saloon of grateful memory. This, too, was an institution where men could gather by themselves. Under the influence of stimulants they grew sociable and even loquacious. Leaning over the bar with one foot resting on the brass rail, they discussed politics and religion, horses, and men and women, and argued and conversed and loved each other to their hearts’ content.
On rare occasions the polls had much the same atmosphere. But after the advent of “Woman’s Suffrage”, with “lady” clerks and “lady” judges, the lounger disappeared from the precincts on election day and conversation grew restrained. The men stopped telling stories, they took off their hats to vote, and left their cigars and pipes outside the door. Voting became almost as solemn and silent as a religious rite. Men no longer went to the polls for social intercourse, to tell stories, to discuss their neighbours, the women and the candidates. The place was clean and shiny and uncomfortable and no man cared to linger. They came in solemnly, deposited their votes and went back to work.
Alas—the livery stable, the saloon and the polls lost their pristine charm. Men were driven from pillar to post and the barber shops alone remained as the last fortress for their vanishing fellowship and freedom. Women still wore long hair and long skirts, and there was no excuse for them to intrude themselves into this last sanctuary. For a time men made the best of what was left. The barber himself was an institution. He had long since forgotten that his ancestor was a surgeon and he never “put on airs”. He was a master of conversation. He was always loquacious; he could discuss religion and politics and all the other questions of the day. His observations were not only enlightening and interesting but were likewise discreet. He always had views about debatable subjects but he never intruded them. While he slowly stropped his razor, made his lather, and soaped your face, he skillfully drew you out on these important subjects. He never expressed his opinion until he heard from you and he then, invariably, agreed with what you said. The barber never gave the impression that he was greedy for your money. He did everything with the leisure which marked the true gentleman. While you reclined restfully in his beautiful plush chair he generously lathered your face, then carefully washed it off, and covered it with hot and cold towels in turn. After the second or third shaving there were no end of lotions for your skin. He wound up his gentle ministrations by combing your hair in the most meticulous way, and let you go out happy and looking better than you had since the last visit, or would again until you came back for another shave.
• • •
During this performance he regaled you with stories of race horses, giving you fresh and private tips from “God knows where”. Often, too, he led up discreetly to the information that he could place a bet on the races if you wished him to. No objectionable people ever came to the place. One never met a clergyman or a deacon there, or any person whom you had to “look out for”, or who took away your comfort or your ease. For a brief hour the place was yours and you felt perfectly at home. Somehow the barber shop was the only place you visited where you never seemed in a hurry to get away. If you were not “next” it did not matter. There was literature, and colourful pictures on the wall. These pictures generally portrayed chorus girls, horses, dogs and sporting men, wearing red coats and riding on horse-back following the hounds. In the way of literature there was always the Police Gazette with its pictures of lovely actresses wearing tights, a novelty in those simple days. There were pictures, too, of thoroughbred dogs and race horses, together with stories telling their ages and pedigrees and their marvellous exploits. If literature and art failed to interest you, there were sociable and congenial fellows lounging in the chairs, and the formality of an introduction was never needed to make you friends. The barber shop made all men kin. In the middle of the floor was a battered brass cuspidor, shiny in spots, or a square box filled with sand or sawdust. In front of the barber chairs was a large mirror covered with fly-netting in the summer time. You could loll back and see the barber “come at” you with his sharp knife. You could watch your changing face and head slowly emerging under his magic touch until it became a thing of beauty, and almost made you a stranger to yourself. By the side of the mirror was a rack filled with shiny mugs. On these were blazoned the names of the wealthiest citizens of the place. The mugs were the special property of the men whose names they bore. They were supposed to be kept private for sanitary purposes. Still, since there were no special razors nor individual brushes, one gathered the impression that the private mugs were there because the leading citizens wanted to show off, or because the grocer, merchant or hardware man wished to keep in the public eye.
On account of my safety razor, and because I generally had my hair cut at one of the big hotels, I had quite forgotten the old time barber shop. I had, of course, realized that in many ways the world was changing; that new machinery and a modified social life were making their inroads everywhere. With all the rest I knew that the Nineteenth Amendment, bobbed hair and women’s clubs were “ladyizing” the world. I had never realized that the barber shops, too, were suffering from the blighting touch of new ideas and social customs. I had never seen a woman in a barber shop, except now and th
en a “manicurist” who was sophisticated and unobtrusive, and not much in the way. These I had seen only in the big cities in the large hotels.
A visit to my old home town brought to me the revelation that nowhere was man any longer safe from the inroads of “refinement” and “civilization”. I needed a shave and I went to the barber shop. Alas, it was not the old time barber that I knew and loved. His voice was modulated to a lower key. He was not talking. He was a solemn, quiet and respectful man. He did not even look like a barber. He looked and dressed like the secretary of the Y. M. C. A.—at least he looked as I have always fancied that these secretaries ought to look. He told me that I would have to wait a few minutes,—“would I kindly take a seat.” He did not even tell me that I was “next”. I looked around and lo—in one of the barber chairs was a young lady, and seated in another chair, waiting her turn, was a middle aged, kindly looking woman patiently reading the Christian Science Monitor.
I would have fled in dismay but I needed a shave. As I was obliged to wait, I looked for a Police Gazette—but to my utter amazement there was no Police Gazette. On the table was a Woman’s Home Companion. My eyes sought for the familiar pictures on the wall. But gone were the dogs and horses and the red coated men. In place of the old time decoration was a solitary picture and, to my amazement and horror, where I once would have beheld a highly coloured lithograph, I saw Whistler’s Mother. When I went into the shop I was smoking a cigarette. Automatically I took it from my mouth and prepared to flip it towards the cuspidor which should have been in the middle of the room; but there was no cuspidor, not even a box of sawdust or sand in its wonted place. In fact, there was no cuspidor anywhere in the shop. The floor was covered with a neat mat. It was spotless and antiseptic. Bewildered, I threw my cigarette out of the door and sat down to wait. I did not even try to read. I had no objection to the Woman’s Home Companion—but I felt that its place was in the home and not in the barber shop. I looked for the old time rack of cups bearing the names of the Who’s Who citizens, but it, too, had disappeared like a far-off dream. In its place was a cupboard, and as the barber opened the door I saw, to my dismay, powder lip-sticks, rouge and what not. The cupboard was barren of everything that belonged to a barber shop. Pensively I waited for my turn. The young lady was giving directions to the barber: “Cut the ends just a little bit at a time so we can tell when we strike the outline that I want. Don’t go down too deep at the back of my head, where it’s flat, you know.”