Though the U.S. had not required passports for its citizens since
1921, France required expatriates to have one. Charlotte had
carefully filled out applications for her daughter and grandson
and sent the hotel courier to expedite their new identification.
On the paperwork, she made a change that she had wanted
since the day her daughter eloped with Hank Whitaker.
The passports with their bright red covers arrived the next
morning, giving worldwide access to Mrs. Margaret Bennett
Withers and Mr. Lance Henry Withers. When the three of
them boarded the French ocean liner, Île de ‘France, for Le Havre in July of 1931, even if Maggie or Lance had wanted to correct
Charlotte’s final insult to Hank Whitaker, it was too late. By
changing just a few letters in their surname, and burying the
man in an unmarked grave, Charlotte had finally managed to
erase al evidence of Hank Whitaker from the face of the earth.
144
• 12 •
Atlantic Crossing—Summer 1931
(I)
The French Line’s SS Île de ’France was the
trans-Atlantic ocean liner of choice for first-class
passengers who preferred the intimacy of a smaller
ship. Charlotte was convinced that with fewer passengers in
closer quarters, she would disembark with important and valu-
able acquaintances after their six days at sea.
Hoping to meet some of the famous passengers she had
heard were onboard, Charlotte convinced Lance to join her on
an exploratory tour of the ship. Maggie, claiming exhaustion,
stayed in their two-stateroom apartment.
“I’ve heard people say that this is the most beautiful ship
ever built by the French Line,” Charlotte said, admiring the
grand foyer that rose four decks high. Lance picked up one of
the brochures that described the features of the ship.
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“It says here that all the furniture and art are Art Deco style.”
“I read about that new style of décor in House Beautiful.”
“Introduced in France after The Great War,” Lance read.
“Just like we will be,” Charlotte laughed.
“Funny,” Lance said then continued his narration of their
tour from the brochure, “The first-class dining room is the
largest of any transatlantic ship—three decks high with a grand
staircase.” Charlotte imagined herself making a grand entrance.
When they toured the first-class library and salon, Charlotte
also imagined having intimate conversations there with her
new, well-connected friends.
“They have a state-of-the art gymnasium, a bowling alley
and a shooting gallery. They even have a merry-go-round,”
Lance marveled.
“Aren’t you a bit old for that?” Charlotte asked.
“Maybe not,” Lance said, feeling more playful than he
had in months.
“Let’s go up to the sun deck,” Charlotte said, hoping there
would people she’d want to meet there.
The sun deck offered a spectacular view of the ship’s dis-
tinctive red smoke stacks and they arrived just in time to bid
Lady Liberty goodbye as the ship sailed out of New York har-
bor. Lance felt excitement displace some of his sorrow, and
relief dislodge a bit of the resentment he felt toward his father.
Charlotte is right, he thought, a new identity is just what I needed.
“Goodbye New York, goodbye United States of America,”
he said, realizing the momentous change he was making.
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“Good riddance,” Charlotte said into the wind as she turned
her back on the coastline and looked toward horizon.
(II)
Lance had his father’s lean six-foot frame, sandy hair, and
now the same sadness in his green eyes. In just the past year
his boyish looks had smoothed out into a handsome elegance
that belied the fact that he had just turned eighteen. His polite
manner, a staple of his Richmond upbringing, only enhanced
his good looks. It took less than a day onboard for other pas-
sengers, especial y the women, to wonder about the mysterious,
wel -dressed young man roaming the first class decks and salons.
Even before his life became someone else’s, Lance was mature
beyond his years. He’d spent most of his time in the company
of adults, and never much liked the behavior of his peers. In
Richmond he had been so focused on the entrepreneurial life,
eventually running Colonial Enterprises, that he had never
considered anything else. Now he wasn’t even going to col ege.
His father’s duplicity had taken all of that from him. He now
hoped exposure to new people, places and ideas would help him
find a new purpose in life. Maybe his plan was the same as his
father’s, just let life happen and hope it did not get ahead of him.
On the second day of the voyage, after learning that this
was the young man’s first trip abroad, the steward brought
Lance several European magazines and newspapers to prepare
him for what the continent could offer a young American with
money. The cache included several issues of In Transition, an 147
Donna Drew Sawyer
English-language magazine published in France that reviewed
current art and literature in Paris. The magazines featured the
work of authors and artists Lance had never encountered in
conservative Richmond: James Joyce, Pablo Picasso, Gertrude
Stein, Man Ray, Marcel Duchamp, and others.
As he sat on the sun deck in the early morning, engrossed
in the magazines, a woman took the deck chair next to him.
Looking over at what he was reading, she said,
“Ah, you had better not let anyone see you reading such
salacious material, young man. Magazines like that are incon-
sistent with the quest for ignorance that seems so prevalent at
home these days. Those are the words and pictures of the Lost
Generation, ` la génération du feu, s’il vous plait.”
Lance was not sure if she was providing a warning or a
reprimand, and the last part, what had she said in French? “The
lost generation? The general de fue?” he asked, looking around
to see whom else might be watching him mangle her words.
“Ah yes, the generation of fire,” the woman said, ignoring
Lance’s imperfect French. “May I see who is in this issue?”
She put her hand out, like a teacher collecting contraband
from a guilty student. Lance complied with the mysterious
woman’s request.
While she scanned the magazine, Lance studied her. Her
large slightly hooded green-grey eyes, upturned nose, ful lips
and cleft chin conspired to make her stunningly attractive. The
wind swirling around the deck played with the mound of dark
curls piled high on her head, succeeding only in extracting a halo
of wisps which she periodically brushed away with her small
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gloved hand. She was small in stature like his mother, but there
was a stylish simplicity about her elegant clothes and simple gold<
br />
necklace and earrings. Both Maggie and Charlotte overdressed
to make their wealth obvious and seemed to delight in taking the
term bejeweled to the extreme. Demitasse, Lance thought as he watched the woman. The word he had only recently learned came
to mind as he watched her examine the pages of the magazine
with authority while keeping a running commentary. Strong coffee in a smal , delicately elegant vessel. Years later, when he thought back on their first meeting he would remember how amazingly
intuitive his first assessment of her had been.
“Oh my, James Joyce. His books are banned in the United
States you know. Gertrude Stein, where do I begin with her
and Alice?” she said in mock disapproval. She fanned the pages
of the magazine, “Oooh, Picasso and Kandinsky, the work of
my friends Pablo and Wassily, what do you think?” She held
up a color photo spread.
Lance was not sure how to react. “Ma’am, I find it inter-
esting, but I haven’t had much exposure to art. Maybe you can
tell me what you think.”
“Only after we’ve been formal y introduced,” the woman said
playful y, as she handed the magazine back to Lance. “I am Bel e
da Costa Greene. You’ll find some of my fondest acquaintances in
the pages of that magazine, every one of them a proud member
of the Lost Generation. I love to see someone so young interested
in the arts at any level. Tell me, who are you young man.”
“My name is Lance Whit – ers. . . Withers,” Lance said,
stumbling over his new last name. “Lance Henry Withers. I’m,
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Donna Drew Sawyer
we’re, my family and I, we’re traveling to Europe, my first trip,”
he added, awkwardly. Bel e extended her hand and Lance, not
sure whether to shake it or kiss the back of it, jumped to his feet, took her hand and did both. Bel e was charmed and amused.
“Do I detect the hint of a southern accent?” she asked.
Lance, unsure of how to respond, nodded slightly, “I live
in New York, but my family is from the south,” he lied.
“So, this is your first trip abroad?” Belle asked. “How
exciting. This will be, oh my, I’m afraid I have made too many
crossings to count. Perhaps I can tell you a little of what to
expect. What are your interests? Literature, art, music, archi-
tecture, the food—oh, the food in Paris is fantastic! Tell me
what you’d like to know.”
“I’d like to know everything, Miss da Costa Greene. Tell
me first about this Lost Generation of Fire you mentioned,
and the things this magazine writes about?”
“First, you must call me Belle. Miss da Costa Greene is
so formal,” Belle said, flirting.
“Bel e,” Lance said, liking the name and the woman. “And
I’m Lance.”
“Now, that’s better. I love talking about my bohemian
friends,” Belle said. “It’s a dangerous move to get me started.”
•
For the next two hours, she held Lance’s complete attention
with her tales of expatriate and European artists and writers in
Paris. Lance had read Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald, and
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here he was talking with a woman who actually knew them.
Lance had never seen a Picasso or a Matisse. Richmond’s only
museums were the conservative and narrowly focused Museum
of the Confederacy and the Virginia Historical Society. Bel e da
Costa Greene gave Lance a new perspective on the colors and
the lines that made the images in the magazine richer than his
initial, shal ow understanding. Bel e told stories about the men
and women who painted, drew, sculpted, wrote and collected
art in Paris, enlivened by the city’s politics and patronage as
well as the liberté, egalité, fraternité that living in France offered.
Belle and Lance made plans to meet again the next morning
to continue their conversation.
On their third day at sea, Belle suggested that her young
friend dine at her table that evening. Her interest in Lance now
extended to an education of another kind.
“There are people joining me tonight that I know you will
enjoy. They are friends who also love the arts. I think it will be
nice to have another young gentleman at the table.”
Belle Greene’s written invitation to dinner arrived at the
Withers’ cabin before Lance returned from lunch. Maggie had
once again taken to her bed, so Charlotte received and opened
the envelope even though it was addressed to Lance. When
Lance returned to the cabin, she greeted him with, “Who is
this woman, and why is she inviting you to dinner? Do I know
who this woman is?”
“I know who she is,” Lance said, picking up the invita-
tion from the table where Charlotte had dropped it. “This is
addressed to me, and you opened it?”
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Charlotte ignored Lance.
“Charlotte, why did you open this when it was clearly
addressed to me?”
“It doesn’t matter who opened it, you won’t be accepting an
invitation from a stranger. The wealthy have to be very careful,”
she added, picking up her cup of tea.
”She’s not a stranger to me, Charlotte. I’ve already told
Miss Greene that I will be dining with her and her friends
this evening.”
“Then I will decline on your behalf.”
“Charlotte, you do not decide who I associate with. Please
stay out of my business,” Lance said as he took Belle’s note and
headed to his stateroom.
“Your business is my business,” Charlotte called after him
as he closed the door. She was not used to having her authority
chal enged by her grandson. She always attributed any behavior
that was inconsistent with the way she wanted him to act to
his father’s negative influence. Since his death she had taken
every opportunity to reiterate that point—as well as a great
deal of satisfaction in confirming she had been right about
Hank all along.
Charlotte rang for the steward. Encouraged by a generous
tip, he was happy to share what he knew about Belle da Costa
Greene, the powerful librarian for the Pierpont Morgan Library,
and a bona fide member of New York’s glitterati. The steward
regaled Charlotte with society page accounts of Belle Greene’s
visits to the Opera, parties on the moneyed North Shore of
Long Island, and her access to the wealthy families in New
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York and abroad. Miss Greene was a frequent trans-Atlantic
passenger and her many friendships and affairs with artists,
writers, critics, and patrons in the art capitals of Europe were
well chronicled. Why have I never heard of this woman before?
Charlotte wondered. The steward had provided well known facts
about Belle Greene but Charlotte needed more. An additional
tip and his patron’s eager attention was all it took to further
loosen the steward’s tongue and he shared the salacious gossip
and in
nuendo that people in service always have access to.
Though Miss Greene claimed that she was from a prominent
family in Richmond, Virginia, he’d recently heard rumors, wel
founded, he assured Charlotte, that Belle da Costa Greene
was really a light-skinned Negro passing for a white woman.
Charlotte knew Belle da Costa Greene was not from
Richmond. She knew everyone who was anyone in that city.
The woman was hiding something and that was useful infor-
mation. Despite her questions about the woman, Charlotte
marveled at Belle Greene’s access and independence. Perhaps
Miss Greene could offer them entre into the world of which
Charlotte wanted so desperately to be a part.
Charlotte sent a note regretfully declining Miss Greene’s
kind invitation, she could not possibly let her grandson dine,
unescorted, with strangers. Miss Greene replied with under-
standing and, as Charlotte had hoped, suggested that rather
than decline her invitation, the rest of the family accompany
Lance. She also mentioned that Mr. Walter F. Chrysler of
Detroit and Miss Peggy Guggenheim of New York would be
among the guests at her table that evening.
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Charlotte was ecstatic. Her first invitation of the voyage,
courtesy of her grandson, and he had achieved it without her
assistance. Perhaps there was more than one way to elevate her
family to grace and favor.
(III)
To Lance, the dinner conversation was more intoxicating
than the champagne that flowed throughout the evening. Talk
of European politics, the expatriate community in Europe, art,
music, Belle’s quest for manuscripts for the Morgan Library,
economics, and banking swirled around the table at a dizzying
speed. Lance was in awe of the knowledge, money and power
present that evening. He did his best to keep up and, with what
he’d learned from his recent conversations with Belle, he even
managed to contribute to the discussion.
Charlotte knew the dinner guests at Belle Greene’s table
were the anointed and informed. This was not a Richmond
society dinner party where she could dominate the conversation.
Politics, business, regional and national events were men’s talk
in Richmond. Social gossip, gardens, fashion and decorating
had been her purview. Intimidated by her dining partners,
Charlotte was unaccustomed to being an observer rather than
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