Our Little Girl/Chapter 5
V
INCLUDING WHAT LITTLE GIRLS ARE MADE OF
The metamorphosis of the spinsterly Madame Schneider into the fetching Edna Eldridge restored tranquillity to the fluttered bosom of the family Loamford. Dorothy acquired a canoe and became an expert solo paddler, not so much from love of this diversion as from the lack of any romantic assistance in her athletic ventures. Mr. Loamford continued to weed his potatoes and to comment flatteringly on the radishes which came from his garden. His wife continued to patronize the itinerant farmers, and there was no complaint about the vegetables served at the Loamford table.
Music, for a space, had lost its charms. The infrequent visitors to Poole’s Orchard learned that Dorothy was said to have an unusually beautiful natural voice but that she had not studied long enough to sing in public. No; not even for a few friends. Why, her own mother and father hadn’t heard her sing for months. In a year or so—ah, that would be different.
Madame Schneider’s successor was not discussed. Now and then Mrs. Loamford would suggest that it might be worth while to consider the question. She had heard good things of a Mrs. Woodworth, who had been a famous church contralto in her time. Then there was Miss Rachauser, who announced herself the sole teacher of a young tenor who recently had caused an uproar at an open-air concert in New York. Mr. Loamford protested that it was too hot to think of such matters. Dorothy was content to let the matter rest.
Some graduate student, eager to achieve a reputation in the abstruse, might build his thesis on the proposition that the non-delivery of advertising matter sent through the mails is a factor in American life. He might take as his starting point the possible developments in Dorothy’s career had not the letter carrier dutifully brought to the Loamford home the brochure of the St. Cecilia Conservatory of Music (A Home Music School for Girls). The St. Cecilia Conservatory was in the heart of the city, the circular acknowledged, thus permitting access to the opera, concerts, recitals, lectures, etc., and yet conducted by women who knew that a good home was essential to the girl who was studying for a career. It combined, in fact, the cozy atmosphere of the small-town college with the broad cultural advantages of the metropolis. Students who lived in New York City might sleep at home, for a limited number of day students of unusual promise would be accepted.
Mrs. Loamford liked the circular.
“This is the place for Dorothy!” she proclaimed. “It means business.”
Her husband agreed that it sounded plausible and that the rates were reasonable enough, considering that instruction in repertoire (whatever that may have been), fencing and rhythmics and free lectures on musical appreciation were included in the fee. The list of instructors contained several famous names, among them Michel Soedlich, who was listed as a “guest coach.”
The booklet and its entry into the family life Loamfords was a triumph for the anonymous copy who had created it. Dorothy thought that the St. Conservatory would be the best possible place for her.
(Because Soedlich was in the list of instructors.)
Her mother thought that the St. Cecilia Conservatory would be the best possible place.
(The only conceivable objection being the presence of Soedlich.)
Her father thought that it would be as good a place as any.
For all the fanfares on the theme that only pupils of the uttermost promise would be considered for admission to St. Cecilia, the entrance examination inflicted on Dorothy proved to be simple. A few scales—and the benignant lady at the piano announced that Dorothy had been accepted.
“Of course, my dear,” she said, “you have a great deal to learn. You have a fine soprano voice, although it has been injured by faulty use. But never mind—we’ll correct that. A few years’ study, and you ought to be a very good concert artist. Many girls who have come to us with considerably less natural talent have developed into very fine artists. Those who have not gone directly on the concert stage have been able to give great pleasure to their friends in the home. And, my dear, there is much to be said for music in the home!”
Dorothy then learned that a small deposit would entitle her to tickets at cost for every important concert or operatic performance. Any balance remaining at the end of the term would be credited to her account.
“Nothing is more important,” said the handmaiden of St. Cecilia, “than hearing as much good music as possible. You will not have many evenings to spend socially, my dear, but you will not regret that. We have dances here now and then, which the students of St. Michael’s Conservatory attend. They are so jolly! And before the dances, the St. Michael’s Male Choir always gives us a recital. Last year they sang a program of motets by Palestrina and Bach. My dear, it was most interesting!”
Mrs. Loamford nodded enthusiastically.
“This sounds most encouraging,“ she remarked. “Girls today spend too much time in gadding about. Dorothy is a sensible girl, but there’s no use letting her have nothing to do with her time. I suppose the girls go to concerts in a body?”
“Oh, indeed yes! And one of our teachers always goes with them. We may be a little old-fashioned, but we do not think it right for girls to go about unchaperoned—even among themselves—at night in a public place.”
An office attendant spread before Dorothy and Mrs. Loamford a pile of blank forms on which were to be indicated the prospective student’s experience, age, place of birth, father’s business or profession, birthplace of parents, education, foreign languages spoken or read fluently, and religious preferences.
“You will understand,” explained the official, “why we must have this last space on our cards. It’s merely a precaution—although with you, Mrs. Loamford, it’s a mere formality.”
In the weeks preceding the official opening of St. Cecilia’s, Dorothy noted a change in her mother’s attitude toward her. She had observed something unusual for the first time when, on a shopping expedition, Mrs. Loamford had hurried her ostentatiously by a storewindow in which there was a placard announcing reductions in maternity dresses. When Dorothy sat beside a prospective mother in a street-car, Mrs. Loamford became nervous and suggested that they walk home—it would do them both good—and when Dorothy demurred, she left the car anyhow and took a taxi. There always seemed to be something left unsaid in her mother’s conversations with her nowadays. Mrs. Loamford, normally the most voluble of women, was dropping into the habit of saying, “and, Dorothy.” without completing the sentence.
Dorothy thought at first that her mother had discovered Arnold’s picture stowed away in the desk and that she was on the verge of asking whether her little girl had anything to tell her. But a casual allusion to Arnold brought no noteworthy response. It wasn’t Arnold, then, who was on her mother’s mind. It wasn’t until late one afternoon, when Dorothy was reading the proceedings of a divorce case in a newspaper, that Mrs. Loamford unburdened herself.
“I must talk to you, Dorothy,” she said agitatedly.
She pulled herself out of the sitting-room easy chair, and locked the doors cautiously. What was it that the servants couldn’t hear? Generally, Mrs. Loamford seemed to be willing that all who were within a powerful earshot should ascertain her opinions on all subjects.
Mrs. Loamford closed her knitting bag auspiciously, and turned to Dorothy.
“Sit close to me, Dorothy,” she said.
Dorothy moved to a small chair beside her mother’s. This was nothing if not the prelude to something thrilling. “Dorothy,” said her mother, in the lowest voice that ever Dorothy had heard, “I feel that I would not be doing my duty as a mother to you if I did not tell you certain things which—which ought to be a part of—which every girl in your position should know.”
It was a horrible disappointment. Dorothy suspected what would follow. Her mother would tell her "the facts of life." Poor mother! So this was what had worried her-and Dorothy had known "the facts of life" for years! It was the favorite topic of conversation at the teas which the girls used to give. Like as not, she could tell her mother a few things!
“There are certain subjects which are discussed all too freely nowadays,” Mrs. Loamford continued, “—things which a mother ought to tell her daughter rather than let her get wrong information from her friends. Perhaps you don’t know it, Dorothy, but I’ve been making a study of these matters lately just so that I could tell you about them as a mother should.”
“I know about—those things,’ Dorothy volunteered.
Her mother looked horrified.
“What! Idle talk and stories—that’s all,” she commented severely.
She had prepared herself for this occasion, and she would deliver herself, even though Dorothy were as well informed as Dr. Freud.
“When you were a very little girl,’ she continued sternly, “I told you about yourself—you remmeber that?”
Dorothy remembered the event. Her mother had come home from a parents’ meeting and talked endlessly about the digestive system, the brain, the heart, the lungs and what she had called “the more intimate details.”
“You know of course,” Mrs. Loamford went on, warming up to her subject, “that the male body is not exactly like yours. You remember how I used to explain to you in the country how the flowers reproduced. How the pollen was carried and all that. I think that you should know, now that you are going out in the world, how human life is created.”
How simple did her mother think she was?
“I know, mother,” said Dorothy. “We had lectures on sex hygiene in biology class.”
Mrs. Loamford blushed at the word “sex.” Young girls didn’t care what they said nowadays!
“How could they do that?’ she demanded. “You never told me anything about it before. I don’t believe in such things. I’m surprised to hear Miss Blagden tolerated them.”
Her indignation, however, didn’t destroy the continuity of her discourse.
“Every woman, after she has reached a certain period of life, begins-"
It wasn’t what she wanted to say.
“Every woman has in her the seeds of a new life. Before she is married these seeds are—just seeds. After her marriage, they are brought to blossom and to bear fruit by her husband’s love. Just as the pollen produces the flower so does the man’s love.”
Mrs. Loamford was forgetting her text.
“What I mean is that children are the result of love between man and woman.”
She paused a moment.
“I don’t have to tell you why you should keep your body strong, clean and pure for the man who will be the father of your children—and let us hope that your union will be blessed with children. I know that you are a fine girl morally and that you will develop into a fine woman. Still, a mother must tell her daughter these things.
“At the same time, there are many smaller bad habits which are in their way just as bad as some of the worse offences. Never allow any young man to put his arm about you. Even though he goes no further, you will lower yourself in his eyes if you let him do it. The minute a girl lets young men get intimate with her she loses something that no young girl should lose. Many girls today think nothing of holding hands with any young man they meet. Some of them think it’s necessary to indulge in such things to be popular. Dorothy, I would rather be unpopular than find friends in any such way!
“As for kissing—Dorothy, a kiss should be a sacred thing. It is symbolic of-"
Mrs. Loamford blushed again.
All of this was old stuff for Dorothy. She resented the ancient, kindergarten tone which her mother was using. As far as “the facts of life” were concerned, she was certain that she could shock her mother without any effort. As for this talk about holding hands and kissing —that was old-fashioned. Dorothy didn’t make a practice of holding hands, not because the contact was immoral, but because it was more effective to hold young men at a distance. The more they wanted you, the nicer it was. Kissing also was taboo. It didn’t mean anything, but it gave the kisser a psychological advantage. Anyhow, it wasn’t right to encourage a young man too much.
The authorities whom Mrs. Loamford had consulted, however, probably were not aware of Dorothy’s code.
“A kiss,” resumed Mrs. Loamford, recovering from her embarrassment, “means—it means physical love, Dorothy. So many young girls don’t understand that. They play with the most sacred things in life. One of the things I like about your friend, Arnold Deering-"
Now she was beginning to interest Dorothy. Had her mother noticed something? Was all this sexology only an introduction to the real topic?
"-is that he doesn't-he's always a gentleman. I don't mean that some of your friends don't behave well, but Arnold is particularly nice that way."
He was, too. One of the girls had said he as "too virginal to be exciting," but Dorothy rather like to think that Arnold wasn't somebody else's cast-off. Even so, he would kiss, if he were prompted. Her mother didn't know much about men! Mrs. Loamford rose and looked out into the street. She twisted the cord of the window shade.
“Perhaps you wonder why I’ve told you all these things,” she said finally. “Only because I wouldn’t be doing my duty as a mother if I didn’t tell you everything you ought to know. So many mothers neglect their duty to their children that way. They don’t tell them these things. They aren’t frank about marriage and what it means. That’s why there are so many unhappy marriages. Girls get married and then-"
“Well, it’s no wonder there’s so much unhappiness in the younger generation. That poor little McBride girl! You read about her in the paper, didn’t you? She was just swept off her feet by a good-looking young fellow. She married him—and then-"
Mrs. Loamford came close to Dorothy and looked about cautiously.
“The poor little girl didn’t know—that was all. That’s why I’ve told you all these things. When I was a girl, my mother wouldn’t have dreamed of telling me such things or even mentioning them to me.”
Mrs. Loamford opened the doors.
“That’s all,” she concluded. “I don’t think you need to know more than that—now. But you’re going to be faced with temptations in your work and I thought you ought to know—these things.”
Dorothy thanked her mother and went to her room. She rummaged among a pile of dusty books hidden in the back of the clothes closet. Finally she discovered the volume for which she had been searching. She opened it at the preface and smiled.
“Authorities differ,” the preface began, “as to the age at which direct sex instruction should be given to young girls. All agree, however, that the girl’s mother, if living, is the person best qualified to impart the facts of life to her daughter.
“The following chapters are intended as guides for the use of parents in imparting to their children the facts of sex in a clean, wholesome way. Physical details should not be introduced too abruptly. It is best to begin with references to flowers. . . .”
Dorothy wondered what her mother would say had she known of the presence of this book in Dorothy’s room. She observed that her mother had somewhat distorted the order of events as prescribed in the work and had laid undue stress on kissing. She shoved the book back at the bottom of the pile. There was no danger of detection, for the work was enclosed in brown paper, and on it was written in a youthful feminine hand “Geography.” Dorothy reflected that she had never returned this book to the girl from whom she had borrowed it. Not that it mattered. That girl had long since eloped with an assistant movie director. She would hardly need the book. Anyhow, the book had some historic value, for there had been a great ado about the elopement.
Arnold Deering, having been informed of Dorothy’s enrollment at St. Cecilia, proposed a little farewell party before Dorothy “entered conventry,” which was one of his little jests, he explained. They would go to the theatre, then to the Battle Royale, a new dance club instituted by an entrepreneur who had learned something from the success of after-theatre meeting places similarly named, at which the entertainment was furnished by colored performers. Dorothy had been at the Plaza, the Biltmore, the Ritz and the various institutions distinguished by French names and not-so-French habitués, but the “Battle Royale” was something new, ostensibly exclusive, not for the proletariat. It was whispered—but not too softly— that pretty fast parties took place in this caravansary and that the terpsichorean exertions of the talent waxed revelatory after midnight. As no one had been arrested for improper expositions of muscular facility, the place had yet to draw a college following.
The play was a harmless affair, adapted from the Russian and therefore considered profoundly entertaining. Dorothy found little amusing in it, although Arnold insisted that there was a searing irony back of it. Who was seared, he did not explain. But the final scene, in which an old man, deserted by his family, cheated by his supposed friends and impoverished by his faith in mankind, declared that never had he been so happy, was, Arnold set forth, a master stroke. Dorothy thanked him for a good time.
The Battle Royale was in the Fifties, near Broadway. A huge green and red sign of flickering lights almost obscured the little doorway which led into the building. There was a wide, shallow lobby, attended by negroes in Hawaiian costumes—Hawaiian in the best Broadway tradition. The headwaiter was not a negro. Something had to be done to keep the Southern trade.
It was almost midnight when Dorothy and Arnold entered the dining-room, which had a little space cleared in the centre for dancing. A balcony contained a negro jazz band. The tables were crowded closely upon each other, and the twenty-odd dancing couples had little room for their gyrations; not that they needed it for their school of dancing.
Arnold ordered ices and sandwiches and seemed impervious to the waiter’s suggestion that something stronger than coffee might be had if the gentleman so desired.
“You can’t tell what kind of stuff they have here,” he told Dorothy. “And anyhow, I don’t drink—only once in a while, that is—at family celebrations or weddings or something where it wouldn’t be polite not to. I don’t like the stuff though, so what’s the use of forming a habit that can’t do you much good? I’m against Prohibition, but it really hasn’t made any difference to me, except that I’m offered more drinks in a day now than I used to get in a year.”
He looked about the floor. “Let’s dance.”
She noticed that Arnold didn’t clutch at her as tightly as the other young men on the floor clung to their partners. He didn’t even try to interlock fingers. A couple, dancing in such proximity that they might easily have been mistaken for the Siamese twins, collided with them.
“Pretty rough,” Arnold remarked. “And rougher than pretty.”
He almost stopped dancing after making this observation. Dorothy took the cue and laughed. Arnold resumed his evolutions happily.
Arnold’s dancing was lovely. He moved along springily and he felt comfortable. There was nothing too professional in his efforts. Possibly he gangled a trifle. She remembered a malicious comment from Tommy Borge: “Arnold talks like a dancer and dances like a conversationalist.” Tommy wasn’t usually mean. She wondered again what he could have against Arnold. On the other hand, Arnold plainly thought that Tommy was déclassé. Might this account for Tommy’s apophthegm that Arnold didn’t hob-nob; he hob-snobbed? Arnold had mentioned once that Tommy wasn’t light on his feet or anybody else’s. They seemed to be pretty good friends, too.
She considered all of these matters as Arnold rattled ‘on amiably of stocks and bonds and who was being married and how he had eluded a light heavyweight fortune hunter (female) at a recent party.
“How long will it be before you can make your début?” inquired Arnold, as they finished dancing. ‘That’s a nice tune they’re playing. Sounds like Irving Berlin.”
“Three years at least. That isn’t very long to study. Of course, I’ll keep on studying after I begin to sing in public.”
“More likely you’ll get married before you’re half-way through studying.”
“Not at all! I’m going to stick to my work.”
“Until the right man-
“That’s silly, Arnold! I’m serious about it.”
“Oh, they always are.”
“I really mean it.”
“We'll see. Bet you a—what do you want?—bet you anything against a pair of socks that you'll never go through with it.”
Dorothy laughed.
“That would be an easy way to get a grand piano. No, Arnold; I’m going through with it. When I start studying I’ll see very few people and I’ll spend most of my time at the opera and concerts.”
She could deliver this with the experience born of practice.
“I like opera. Don’t you think Madama Butterfly’s great? Wonderful tunes. It’s funny somebody hasn’t used some of them for fox-trots.”
“You're always thinking of dance music, aren’t you?”
“Not always. The music’s wonderful here, though. Want to dance this one?”
They were on the floor again. The lights were dimmed and the orchestra was moaning out a Russian classic with the barest indication of dance time from a subdued banjo.
“I could dance here forever!’ Arnold announced. “The floor’s wonderful—and the music-" The Siamese twins lurched into them again. Arnold whirled Dorothy out of the way, and the Siamese stumbled, knocking over one of the little tables near the edge of the dancing space.
“Tight,’ murmured Arnold.
Waiters appeared suddenly from all sides to resurrect the table. The headwaiter approached the scene of the catastrophe sternly. He was accompanied by a heavy, tired-looking functionary.
“That’s been going on all evening,” whispered the headwaiter. “Want to——”
The heavy man looked at the Siamese. He bowed suddenly, and smiled. The male Siamese smiled back. The heavy man motioned the headwaiter to accompany him.
“Thought they’d put them out,” remarked Arnold. “Probably somebody important.”
“The headwaiter just signaled to the band,” observed Dorothy.
The band slowed up in its music and the tune died out. There was no response to the handclapping of the dancers. The lights shifted to a dull orange.
“Starting the show early,” noted Arnold.
The show proved to be a replica of several vaudeville acts which had been playing about New York. For an hour, negroes shouted out ballads about Dixie and mammies and bandanas and down South. Dancers indulged in cake-walks. A particularly agile young negro performed a skating dance and followed it up with an impersonation of a Russian ballet principal. A large man in a checked suit demanded where Adam went when Eve was cutting the leaves, and a choir of dusky Adams and Eves danced behind him. They repeated the song endlessly.
Then the lights went out. There was a barbaric scraping in the orchestra. A single spotlight from the ceiling flashed to the dance floor, where a pale negress stood dressed in a long piece of silk. In a strident voice she sang an unintelligible lyric which seemed to include the words “do that dance.” Then the lights changed to a garish red. The orchestra shrieked loudly.
The negress started to dance. First she moved only her head. Then her shoulders. Then her hips. And suddenly her whole body quivered to the music. Moving slowly, but never stopping her quivering, she danced from one table to the next, stopping only long enough to perform a rhythmic paroxysm before one of the men at the table. The spotlight followed her about the room. Several diners reached forward as though to embrace her as she shivered before them, but she smiled and flung herself out of their reach. Gradually she came to Arnold’s table. She stopped and wriggled her bare shoulders sinuously, whirling all the time. With each revolution her garment of silk unwound to the accompaniment of the trap-drum.
Dorothy moved her chair back to be out of the glare of the spotlight. Arnold sat still, with his hands on the table. The negress bent over the table, picked up Arnold’s half-burnt cigarette from a match-stand, placed it between her lips, whirled about once more, and leaped abruptly to the dance floor, leaving her silk shimmering behind her. She bent backward, touched her hands to the floor, and suddenly performed a “split.” There was a loud crash from the cymbal at this feat, and the room burst into applause. The lights went out, and the applause continued. The spotlight, narrowed to a mere edge of silver, flashed on the floor again, and the negress bowed, holding in front of her glistening skin the silk cloth. The spotlight went out again. The applause continued. The orchestra started playing a fox-trot. The room was lit brilliantly. The negress was gone. A couple started dancing. The entertainment was over.
Dorothy looked up at Arnold.
“It must be late,” she said.
She was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. What would happen at the two A. M. show?
Arnold understood.
“All right.”
He summoned the waiter and paid the check.
As he made his way out of the room with Dorothy the male Siamese approached him and slapped him heartily on the back.
“Hot dog, brother!” he cried. “ You sure let that li'l black girl slip. Say, brother, if she shook that way in front of me—say, brother—that sure was some shaking— if it was me, brother-———”
Arnold hurried to the cloakroom.
In the taxicab he said nothing. His hand sought Dorothy’s.
“Thank you so much!” she said.
Arnold put his arm about her. She swung free.
“Don’t, Arnold,” she said softly. “I don’t like it.”
“It’s nothing,” he urged.
“T don’t like it,” she repeated mildly.
He dropped his arm.
“Oh, well-"
Thank you so much, Arnold,” she said; “it’s just that——”
“Somebody else?” inquired Arnold.
“Nonsense,” she laughed. We can be just as good friends without that, can’t we?”
Arnold kissed her hand. “That’s enough,” she said.
“It’s all right, Dot,’ he murmured.“You look very sweet tonight.”
They said nothing as the cab swung up Broadway, across Fifty-ninth Street. She was amused at the thought of her mother’s probable reactions to an account of Arnold’s advances. Not that Dorothy would tell her!
“That was an awfully exciting evening,” commented Dorothy at length.
“Nothing excites you,” remarked Arnold almost snappishly.
“I was thrilled.”
“Really?”
He tried to take her hand again, but she withdrew it firmly.
The cab stopped at Dorothy’s door. Arnold paid the driver, and escorted Dorothy up the steps.
“You've still got my key?” she asked.
He opened the door and hesitated.
“I’m sorry I can’t ask you in,” she said, extending her hand. “It’s a little late.”
“Yes, and I’ve got to be downtown early tomorrow— or today.”
“Thank you so much! It was a wonderful evening!"
Arnold smiled.
"When will I see you again?” he asked.
“Oh—ring me up.”
She moved inside the door and switched on the light.
“Good night, Arnold. Thank you so much-"
“S’long, Dot.”
She wondered what had prompted Arnold suddenly to wax amorous in the cab. Could it have been the effect of the negress’ writhings? Hadn’t Tommy once said that Arnold was saving his kisses for the girl he was going to marry? He certainly had come close enough to kissing her tonight! After all the trouble he’d taken, she might have let him—but she wasn’t that kind of girl! Of course, she had heard that post-midnight taxis carry perquisites. Tommy had said that so many of them were orange because they couldn’t blush red any longer for their occupants. “Ask Arnold,” he had said. Would Tommy have behaved differently?
Still, come to think of it, it was a nice experience, this evening. It was nice to be out with Arnold. He danced well; he looked well; he was easily the most gentlemanly-looking man at the Battle Royale that night; he was generous; he was clever; people liked him; he liked her: he was a sweet boy-
And there Dorothy almost fell asleep with her evening dress only half unsnapped.