When Washington Was In Vogue

by Edward Christopher Williams

  As an older person I took the liberty of asking questions, all of which she answered very frankly, and at the same time quite as frankly took in everything in my room. She teaches in a graded school, so she says, and her sister teaches in the high school. She, Caroline, is planning through evening work at the University to get her college degree, so that she may take the high school examinations, and thus put herself in line for the better salaries the secondary school positions pay.

  “Genevieve gets $2,740 a year,” she said in her sprightly manner, “and she does not need it half as much as I do. It takes money to keep up in this town!” Verily, I believe it does, to judge from what I have seen thus far! “And you have not a ghost of a show to get married nowadays if you can’t cash a nice fat paycheck once a month,” she added, laughing.

  “Has it come to that?” I queried.

  “It has, indeed,” she answered. “Mother raves over what she calls ‘such a state of things.’ But I tell her that the Middle Ages are over—this is 1922. She used to go buggy riding with her best fellow when she was coming up, but that does not prove that there’s anything wrong with a 1923 Packard, does it?”

  Of course, you know my flair for what you call “things social and sociological.” So I commenced to question her in real earnest, trying to get her point of view, if, indeed, these flappers have any such thing. While talking, I asked her permission to light a cigarette.

  “Surely,” she laughed, “if you will give me one. I love Melachrinos.” She had recognized the box across the room.

  Then she noticed my cigarette holder, the one that pretty French girl at Granges gave me. She sized it up with a discerning eye, noticed my monogram engraved on it, and I had to tell her all about it.

  “By the way,” she said, “Mother and Genevieve fuss a lot about my smoking, so please keep mum. Genevieve thinks I am headed straight to perdition, and says so, while Mother thinks so, I am afraid, without saying so. It’s a chore getting along with two Victorian females in one house. One’s a great plenty, I’ll say!”

  And so she sat, swinging her silk-clad legs with the abandon of a small boy, and regaled me in terms piquant and interesting, if a trifle startling at times, with her very modern views of the woman question, fellows, and marriage. Viewed from some standpoints, it was decidedly refreshing, but I am not sure that it was not more shocking than anything else. Hearing a step on the stairs, she hastily put her half-smoked cigarette back among the books on the shelf behind her. At the moment, Jeffreys appeared at the head of the stairs. She greeted him cordially and most informally, and he returned the greeting with that flashing smile of his, and stopped in the doorway for a few seconds. After introducing us to each other, Caroline resumed her cigarette.

  “He surely is a good-looking fellow,” I thought, as I took in his lithe gracefulness as he leaned carelessly against the door frame, and his manners and “manner” are perfection. And yet, somehow, I don’t like him.

  “Jealous,” you will say.

  “Of what?” say I.

  This is a shockingly long letter, and I know you are overcome by this time, so I shall close. Be good, old fellow, even if you are a bit lonesome at times. A word to the wise—the Brown Boulevard is almost as alluring and quite as dangerous as the gay White Way! Keep that thought in your mind. Remember the words of that catchy song some of the boys used to sing:

  If you haven’t been vamped by a brownskin,

  You haven’t been vamped at all!

  There is not a great deal of poetry in that song, Buddie, but there’s a whole lot of truth. So keep your lamps working, and watch your step! If that Harlem life gets you, you won’t amount to a tinker’s damn excuse my perfect Old English!—but if you can weather that particular trouble, there’s no telling what you may not do. But I have said it all before, you know it, and I know it—so why repeat it, you may say. True, but I am older than you are, and I have seen many a good fellow break his neck over that same old log.

  Write soon, and tell me what you are doing.

  With all good wishes,

  Davy

  TWO

  A day out-of-doors, with music by moonlight and two fair faces. Sunday supper seasoned with gossip.

  Washington, D.C., October 9, 1922

  Dear Bob:

  I am glad you found my last letter entertaining. It surely was long, and I feared it might be tedious. Life has many charms hereabouts, socially speaking. I miss the theater, of course, and envy you your opportunities on the little old island of Manhattan. When I look over the Sunday edition of the New York Times, and note the theatrical page, I could weep. The downtown theaters here segregate colored people, and some of them will not sell them seats anywhere but in the gallery. Naturally, that lets me out. You will say, of course, that since I can “get by,” such a rule should not bother me. But for some reason difficult to explain, it does. Needless to relate, scores of folks here go to the theater whenever they want to, and sit where they please, and no one notices them. Who, indeed, can blame them?

  And that brings me to a question which has interested me very much, the existence of color lines within the color line. It is a very fascinating subject, and one on which I am going to write someday, for nothing that I have seen in print thus far seems to do the theme anything like justice. Then, too, the whole face of the matter is undergoing ceaseless transformations, as might be expected. The complexity of our social life is amazing. It makes one think of the kaleidoscopes we used to have when I was a very small boy. As you looked through them, the colors and forms changed moment by moment. To my mind, and I speak, as you well know, from a varied experience, this town presents a better opportunity for the study of this question of color lines within the race group than any city in America, so I am keeping eyes and ears open.

  I have had a very fine outing since my last. This bachelor man of whom I wrote, Morton Reese, has a bungalow south of the city in a suburb called Anacostia. You may recall the name as being associated with that of Frederick Douglass, for his old mansion is situated there. Well, Reese has a fashion of inviting his friends to motor out now and then for week-ends. Last week the Morrows, the Wallaces, the Hales, and Miss Barton, all of whom you will remember were at the supper party I described in my last, were invited, and I was fortunate enough to be included. Naturally, as a stranger in a strange land, I should like to know who are my friends, and so I should give a good deal to know to whose interest I owe my invitation. Reese himself phoned me Friday night, but somehow I do not believe the initiative came from him. At any rate, not to burden you with too much detail, which may not interest you, I cannot imagine who suggested me as a member of the party, and I would give something handsome to find out.

  But to return to the party itself. The Wallaces, so Reese said, would come for me shortly after three Saturday. So about three-thirty they arrived, bringing with them the Hales. The ride out was delightful in the bracing October chill, and our party was a merry one. Mrs. Hale was strikingly handsome, with her rosy cheeks and dark hair, Mrs. Wallace was as jolly as could be, and Wallace is always the best of company. Hale himself was lively enough for that matter, but his face was flushed, as if he had been drinking, and I noticed that Mrs. H. looked furtively at him from time to time. But the ride was exhilarating, and for my part too soon over.

  The bungalow, as they called it, was after all not a bungalow at all, for it was a tiny two-story affair, with a wide veranda covering the front on both floors. Downstairs there was a tiny kitchen and a pantry, and a small front room with an open grate; and upstairs one bedroom and a big sleeping porch. We sat on the lower porch and waited a few minutes for our host, who brought Miss Barton with him in his very trim roadster, and he was followed immediately by the Morrows, who brought with them someone of whom we have heard more than once from Marcia. I refer to her friend Donald Verney. He is an interesting-looking fellow, surely. He may be a trifle older than Wallace, but he has such a youthful manner that it is hard to guess his age. He is a
little above the medium height, fair, yet with a kind of ruddy brownness, good features, and keen eyes. He seems to be a general favorite, is a lively talker when the mood takes him, and a very good storyteller. Altogether, it was about as lively a crowd of reasonably mature people as I have ever seen.

  The Morrows, Wallaces, and Hales, being householders, had brought generous hampers of provisions. Following Reese’s suggestion I had brought some nuts and candy, and each of the others had a contribution. There was enough and to spare. While the women folks opened up the house, and dusted and swept a bit, the men chopped wood, shook out the beds, hung out the bedding to air, made fires in the kitchen range and in the parlor grate, and swept off the porches. It was great fun. The three married ladies are all accomplished housekeepers, and before long we sat down—on boxes and rickety chairs, to be sure—to as toothsome a repast as I have ever eaten in my life.

  The dinner disposed of, in the midst of a running fire of banter, we men were told to wash the dishes, for which service a large tin of water had been set to boil on the range. As we were all in sweaters, we needed to make no special preparations for work, but set to with a will. While we did the dishes in a clumsy, man-fashion, the ladies arranged the sleeping quarters for the night, and dressed for the evening.

  Soon they were down again, attractive in sweaters, tam-o’-shanters, and leggings. The dishes were soon put up, and Reese and the men who had been at the bungalow before scurried about getting together the paraphernalia for the evening. I was soon staggering under a load consisting of a lot of firewood and a pile of heavy blankets and steamer rugs, and under the leadership of Wallace, Dr. Morrow, Hale, Verney, and I started on ahead, leaving Reese to lock up the house and escort the ladies. We crossed the road and walked down a path through a little clump of woods until we came to a clearing on the brow of a hill, which gave a fine view of all the country around. It was now growing dark, and the edge of the moon could be seen just peeping over the horizon. On the brow of the hill there was a small square enclosed by a low parapet of brick and stone, and close to the trunk of a fallen tree. Here we piled newspapers and a large amount of small wood, and when this had begun to blaze, we put on two or three of the logs we had brought. In a few minutes we had a bonfire of no mean proportions. Then we pulled the fallen tree trunk into a better position, arranged the rugs and blankets, lighted our pipes and cigarettes, and stretching ourselves out luxuriously in the comforting heat and the cheerful light happily awaited the coming of the ladies.

  We had not long to wait, and soon we were all leaning against the fallen trunk, enjoying the fire and the beautiful night. I sat between Miss Barton and Mrs. Hale, and for once in my life I realized to the full the meaning of the old saying: “Oh, I could be happy with either, were t’other dear charmer away.” Surely never in my mundane existence have I had the honor of being the thrice fortunate thorn between two such roses—real American beauties! The looking was deadly to the right or to the left. And such a good time we had! Repartee—and not the cornfield or levee variety, either, my boy—kept one’s wits going constantly. Miss Barton sang—a rich mezzo-soprano, well trained. Verney told stories, and then I had the temerity to sing. I really made a hit with “Duna” and one or two of Tosti’s old ones. I don’t believe I quite appreciated my voice before. But I suppose a gorgeous moon and a bonfire will make pretty rotten music sound like the heavenly choir.

  Reese sat on the other side of Miss Barton, but I was conscious that I was getting more than my full share of her company. However, don’t think, please, that I take too much to myself, for I realize, of course, that as a stranger I might get more attention than home folks. Then we toasted marshmallows and roasted peanuts, and I had the exquisite pleasure of being fed from time to time by the loveliest hands in the world—on both sides of me and if in the process of taking marshmallows from the fingertips of Beauty, I now and then missed the marshmallows and got more than my share of the fingertips, who can blame me? Certainly not you, Old Pal!

  If Miss Barton were not engaged to Reese, I fear that I should make a fool of myself over her, for she is a real fascinator. And then when I look at Mary Hale, I get another dizzy spell, but she is still safer, being married. By the way, I noted a bit of byplay which interested me. It may have meant much or nothing—probably nothing. You have sometimes said that I have a gift for seeing things overlooked by most people. Perhaps I have. At any rate, I have always been more interested in people than in anything else in this world, and I guess that I watch them more than do my fellow mortals, even when, as individuals, they are utterly unknown to me. But to return to the little byplay. I noticed that Mrs. Hale frequently fed marshmallows and peanuts to Verney, and once or twice she even bit them in half and gave him one part, usually, in fact, put it to his lips with her fingers, and neither she, nor he, seemed to hurry the process much. Seated as we were in a row, such a thing might easily escape notice. By pure accident I saw it once, and then I watched for it. Then I noticed that she always appealed to him with questions, that when he talked she listened to no one else, and when a good story or joke was told, her eyes sought his when the laugh went around. Perhaps I overstate her side of it, for he certainly did his part, but he seems to have a shy streak, and is usually very quiet when not actively drawn into the conversation.

  But, alas, even the most delightful of evenings must have an end and thus it was with this most delectable one. So, we scattered the glowing embers, picked up our wraps and belongings, and “with reluctant steps and slow” wended our way back through the woods in the light of the now-risen moon, which shone resplendent over the valley. Reese and I escorted Miss Barton, and I, in my role of investigator, noted that Mrs. Hale leaned heavily on Verney’s arm, and he, though laden down with rugs and blankets, seemed in nowise incommoded thereby.

  Since we men were to sleep on the porch, and therefore would have to pass through the one inside sleeping room, we went up first and turned in early. I lay awake longer than usual, thinking very pleasant thoughts, in which Lillian Barton and Mary Hale were agreeably commingled, and with the strains of Tosti’s “I Dream of the Day I Met You” running melodiously through it all. Then I fell asleep, the fathoms-deep slumber of the health-giving out-of-doors.

  I shall not burden you with a further relation of the events of Sunday, a gorgeous October day, and the tramps in the woods, and the long walk up the country road with Lillian Barton to get milk, and the long talk with Lillian Barton sitting on the brow of the hill. Old Pal, she’s a wonder! I have never met anyone just like her. I have tried to think up a word or two by means of which to give you an idea of her personality, and I can think only of scintillating, sparkling. You will laugh, I know, but you should see her. When you do, I predict your immediate and complete subjugation.

  It was with regret, accompanied by a feeling of keen satisfaction, that I alighted from Wallace’s car Sunday night at eight. Our house was brightly lighted and I knew the girls had visitors. I dodged through the hall quickly, for I felt somewhat bedraggled, and not dressed for company. As I did not feel sleepy, I washed up, changed my clothes, and had started a letter to you when Caroline appeared in the doorway with an invitation to Sunday supper.

  “Nothing special,” she said, “but we need another man.”

  And while she talked, she coolly robbed my cigarette case, and smiled at me coquettishly the while. As she stood in the doorway waiting for me to give a final “lick” to my hair and to adjust my tie, I noted that she was attired in the extreme modern mode — a waist with no top and no back, a skirt extremely abbreviated, the sheerest of fine silk stockings, and the thinnest of French pumps. The amount of bare flesh was amazing and yet this is cold-weather attire in Washington, my boy! However, I suppose we have nothing on Harlem when it comes to displaying our natural advantages, eh? If you were not in New York, I might surprise you, but I realize that a few days in the subway trains leave one without further capacity for shock.

  I went downstairs with Carolin
e, and was ushered into the very attractive dining room. As in certain Washington houses, it is in the basement, and this was the first time I had seen it. It is done in café au lait, and is, I think, quite satisfying to the eye. There were some strange faces around the table, and I was glad that I had fixed up a bit. Besides Mrs. Rhodes and her two daughters, there was my fellow lodger, Jeffreys, a chap named Johns, and two younger women, Misses Clay and Young. The latter was rather frumpy, but Miss Clay was quite as stylish as Caroline. She would be a pretty brown girl if she would stop trying to be white. I noted her critically, having in mind my proposed study of the color line within the race. She was bleached several shades lighter as far as her face was concerned, for, happening later in the evening to stand directly behind her, I noticed that her neck was a very dark brown. She was dressed to the minute, and carelessly thrown over the back of her chair and half dragging on the floor was a Hudson seal coat, which must have knocked the spots out of five hundred dollars. Her dress, stockings, slippers, hat, and jewelry were all the most expensive type, if I am any judge. You will ask with me, “How do they do it?” It is a question one asks here a dozen times a day, and only echo answers.

  “Did you have a good time?” asked Genevieve, with her quiet, courteous manner, after I had been presented and had taken my seat.

  “The time of my young life!” I responded with enthusiasm.

  “Mr. Carr has been spending his weekend among the ‘dicties,’ ” piped up Caroline in explanation. Everybody laughed, and Miss Clay asked who was meant. So Caroline, who had gotten her information from the Lord knows where, proceeded to give an accurate account of our party. Then, with what seemed to me execrable taste, under all the circumstances, Miss Clay proceeded to tear my friends, figuratively speaking, limb from limb. I do not believe that I was ever so scandalized in my life. Here were these people whom I knew only as kind and pleasing hosts to a newcomer, and I had to sit, a guest at a strange table, and listen while still a stranger woman dissected them to the very nerves and arteries. For a few moments I was completely nonplussed, and busily attacked the supper, trying to ignore the monologue, which was plainly intended for me. Mrs. Rhodes and Genevieve intervened as best they could, and finally did succeed in blanketing the loquacious Miss Clay. I have heard more than once, as have you, of the class feeling in Washington, and this was my first contact with it.