A MISSISSIPPI TOWN
It was dark when, after a journey of one hundred and twenty miles at the
rate of twenty miles an hour, we reached Columbus, a city which was
never intended to be a metropolis and which will never be one.
Columbus is situated upon a bluff on the east bank of the Tombigbee
River, to the west of which is a very fertile lowland region, filled
with plantations, the owners of which, a century ago, founded the town
in order that their families might have churches, schools, and the
advantages of social life. As the town grew, a curious but entirely
natural community spirit developed; when a gas plant, water works, or
hotel was needed, prosperous citizens got together and financed the
enterprise, not so much for profit as for mutual comfort.
In these ante bellum times the planters used to make annual journeys to
Mobile and New Orleans, going by boat on the Tombigbee and taking their
crops and their families with them. After selling their cotton and
enjoying themselves in the city, they would load supplies for the
ensuing year upon river boats and return to Columbus, where the supplies
were transferred to their vast attic storerooms.
Though their only water transportation was to the southward, they did
not journey invariably in that direction, but sometimes made excursions
to such fashionable watering places as the Virginia Springs, or
Saratoga, to which they drove in their own carriages.
When, in the early days of railroad building, the Mobile & Ohio Railroad
was being planned, the company proposed to include Columbus as one of
its main-line points and asked for a right of way through the town and a
cash bonus in consideration of the benefits Columbus would derive from
railroad service. Both requests were refused. The railroad company then
waived the bonus and attempted to obtain a right of way by purchase. But
to no purpose. The citizens would not sell. They did not want a
railroad. They were prosperous and healthy, and they contended that a
railroad would bring poor people and disease among them, besides killing
farm animals and causing runaways. The company was consequently forced
to make a new survey, and when the line was built it passed at a
distance of a dozen miles or more from the city.
Gradually dawned the era of speed and impatience. People who had
hitherto been satisfied to make long journeys in horse-drawn vehicles,
and had refused the railroad a right of way, now began to complain of
the twelve-mile drive to the nearest station, and to suggest that the
company build a branch line into the town. But this time it was the
railroad's turn to say no, and Columbus was informed that if it wished a
branch line it could go ahead and build it at its own expense. This was
finally done at a cost of fifty thousand dollars.
With the construction of the branch line, carriages fell into disuse and
dilapidation, and many an old barouche, landau, and brett passed into
the hands of the negro hackmen who were former slaves of the old
families. Among these ex-slaves the traditions of the first families of
Columbus were upheld long after the war, and it thus happened that when,
a few years since, a young New Yorker, arriving for a visit in the town,
alighted from his train, he was greeted by an ancient negro who,
indicating an equally ancient carriage, cried: "Hack, suh! Hack, suh!
Ain't nevah been rid in by none but the Billupses."
Not every young man from the North would have understood this reference,
but by a coincidence it was at the residence of Mrs. Billups that this
one had come to visit.
Neither as to hack nor habitation were my companion and I so fortunate
as the earlier visitor. Our conveyance was a Ford, and the driver warned
us, as we progressed through shadowy tree-bordered streets, that the
Gilmer Hotel was crowded with delegates who had come to attend the State
convention of the Order of the Eastern Star. Nor was his warning without
foundation. The wide old-fashioned lobby of the Gilmer was hung with the
colors of the Order and packed with Ladies of the Eastern Star and their
ecstatic families; we managed to make our way through the press only to
be told by the single worn-out clerk on duty that not a room was to be
had.
Unlike the haughty clerk who had dismissed us from the Tutwiler Hotel in
Birmingham, the clerk at the Gilmer was not without the quality of
mercy. Overworked though he was, he began at once to telephone about the
town in an effort to secure us rooms. But if this led us to conclude
that our problem was thereby in effect solved, we discovered, after
listening to his brief telephonic conversations with a series of unseen
ladies, that the conclusion was premature. Though there were vacant
rooms in several private houses, strange stray males were not desired as
lodgers.
Concerned as we were over our plight, my companion and I could not help
being aware that a young lady who had been standing at the desk when we
came in, and had since remained there, was taking kindly interest in the
situation. Nor, for the matter of that, could we help being aware, also,
that she was very pretty in her soft black dress and corsage of
narcissus. She did not speak to us; indeed, she hardly honored us with a
glance; but, despite her sweet circumspection, we sensed in some subtle
way that she was sorry for us, and were cheered thereby.
After a time, when the clerk seemed to have reached the end of his
resources, the young lady hesitantly ventured some suggestions as to
other houses where rooms might possibly be had. These suggestions she
addressed entirely to the clerk--who, upon receiving them, did more
telephoning.
"Have you tried Mrs. Eichelberger?" the young lady asked him, after
several more failures.
He had not, but promptly did so. His conversation with Mrs. Eichelberger
started promisingly, but presently we heard him make the damning
admission he had been compelled repeatedly to make before:
"No, ma'am. It's two men."
Then, just as the last hope seemed to be fading, our angel of mercy
spoke again.
"Wait!" she put in impulsively. "Tell her--tell her I recommend them."
Thus informed, Mrs. Eichelberger became compliant; but when the details
were arranged, and we turned to thank our benefactor, she had fled.
Mrs. Eichelberger's house was but a few blocks distant from the Gilmer.
She installed us in two large, comfortable rooms, remarking, as we
entered, that we had better hurry, as we were already late.
"Late for what?" one of us asked.
"Didn't you come for the senior dramatics?"
"Senior dramatics where?"
"At the I.I. and C."
"What is the I.I. and C?"
At this question a look of doubt, if not suspicion, crossed the lady's
face.
"Where are you-all from?" she demanded.
The statement that we came from New York seemed to explain
satisfactorily our ignorance of the I.I. and C. Evidently Mrs.
Eichelberger expected little of New Yorkers. The I.I. and C., she
explained, was the Mississippi Industrial Institute and College,
formerly known as the Female College, a State institution for young
women; and the senior dramatics were even then in progress in the
college chapel, just up the street.
To the chapel, therefore, my companion and I repaired as rapidly as
might be, guided thither by frequent sounds of applause.
From among the seniors standing guard in cap and gown at the chapel
door, the quick artistic eye of my companion selected a brown-eyed
auburn-haired young goddess as the one from whom tickets might most
appropriately be bought. Nor did he display thrift in the transaction.
Instead of buying modest quarter seats he magnificently purchased the
fifty-cent kind.
The dazzling ticket seller, transformed to usher, now led us into the
crowded auditorium and down an aisle. A few rows from the stage she
stopped, and, fastening a frigid gaze upon two hapless young women who
were seated some distance in from the passageway, bade them emerge and
yield their place to us.
Of course we instantly protested, albeit in whispers, as the play was
going on. But the beautiful Olympian lightly brushed aside our
objections.
"They don't belong here," she declared loftily. "They're freshmen--and
they only bought quarter seats."
Then, as the guilty pair seemed to hesitate, she summoned them with a
compelling gesture and the command: "Come out!"
At this they arose meekly enough, whereupon we redoubled our protests.
But to no purpose. The Titian-tinted creature was relentless. Our pleas
figured no more in her scheme of things than if they had been babblings
in an unknown tongue. To add to our discomfiture, a large part of the
audience seemed to have perceived the nature of our dilemma, and was
giving us amused attention.
It was a crisis; and in a crisis--especially one in which a member of
the so-called gentle sex is involved--I have learned to look to my
companion. He understands women. He has often told me so. And now, by
his action, he proved it. What he did was to turn and flee, and I fled
with him; nor did we pause until we were safely hidden away in humble
twenty-five cent seats at the rear of the chapel, in the shadow of the
overhanging gallery.
It is not my intention to write an extended criticism of the
performance. For one thing, I witnessed only a fragment of it, and for
another, though I once acted for a brief period as dramatic critic on a
New York newspaper, I was advised by my managing editor to give up
dramatic criticism, and I have followed his advice.
The scene evidently represented a room, its walls made of red screens
behind which rose the lofty pipes of the chapel organ. On a pedestal at
one side stood a bust of the Venus de Milo, while on the other hung an
engraving of a familiar picture which I believe is called "The Fates,"
and which has the appearance of having been painted by some-one-or-other
like Leighton or Bouguereau or Harold Bell Wright.
After we had given some attention to the play my companion remarked
that, from the dialect, he judged it to be "Uncle Tom's Cabin." I had
been told, however, that for certain reasons "Uncle Tom's Cabin" is
never played in the South; I therefore asked the young man in front of
me what play it was. He replied that it was Booth Tarkington and Harry
Leon Wilson's comedy, "The Man From Home," and as he made the statement
openly, I feel that I am violating no confidence in repeating what he
said--especially since his declaration was supported by the program
which he showed me.
He was a pleasant young man. Perceiving that I was a stranger, he
volunteered the additional information that the masculine rôles, as well
as the feminine ones, were being played by girls; and I trust that I
will not seem to be boasting of perspicacity when I declare that there
had already entered my mind a suspicion that such was indeed the case.
Behold them! Gaze upon the character called Daniel Voorhees Pike! See
what long strides he takes, and with what pretty tiny feet! Observe the
manliness with which he thrusts his pink little hands deep in the
pockets of his--or somebody's--pantaloons!
Look at the Grand Duke Vasili of Russia, his sweet oval face and rosy
mouth partly obscured by mustache and goatee of a most strange
wooliness.
Observe the ineradicable daintiness of the Honorable Almeric St. Aubyn,
but more particularly attend to that villain of helpless loveliness, the
Earl of Hawcastle. The frightful life which, it is indicated, the Earl
has led, leaves no tell-tale marks upon his blooming countenance. His
only facial disfigurement consists in a mustache which, by reason of its
grand-ducal lanateness, seems to hint at a mysterious relationship
between the British and Russian noblemen.
Take note, moreover, of the outlines of the players. If ever earl was
belted it was this one. If ever duke in evening dress revealed
delectable convexities of figure, it was this duke. If ever worthy male
from Indiana spoke in a soprano voice and was lithe, alluring, and
recurvous, she was Daniel Voorhees Pike.
A young woman seated near us described to her escort the personal
characteristics of the various young ladies on the stage, and when we
heard her call one girl who played in a betrousered part, "a perfect
darling," we echoed inwardly the sentiment. All were darlings. And this
especial "perfect darling" appeared as well to be a "perfect
thirty-six."
The Earl was my undoing. At a critical point in the unfolding of the
plot there was talk of his having been connected with a scandal in St.
Petersburg. This he attempted to deny, and though I am unable to quote
the exact words of his denial, the sound of it lingers sweetly in my
memory. Nor would the exact words, could I give them, convey, in print,
the quality of what was said, for the Earl, and all the rest, spoke in
the soft, melodious tones of Mississippi.
"What you-all fussin' raound heah for, this mownin'?" That, perhaps,
conveys some sense of a line he spoke on entering.
And when, in reply, one of the others mentioned the scandal at St.
Petersburg, the flavor of the Earl's retort, as its cooing tones remain
with me, was this:
"Wha', honey! What you-all mean hintin' raound 'baout St. Petuhsbuhg? I
reckon you don' know what you talkin' 'baout! Ah nevuh was in that taown
in all ma bo'n days!"
What followed I am unable to relate, for the Earl's speech caused me to
become emotional, and my companion, after informing me severely that I
was making myself conspicuous, removed me from the chapel.
The auburn goddess was still on duty at the door as we went out.
Advancing, she placed in each of our hands a quarter. I regret to say
that, in my shaken state, I misinterpreted this action.
"Oh, no! _Please!_" I protested, fearing that she thought we had not
enjoyed the performance, and was therefore returning our money. "It
really wasn't bad at all. We're only going because we have an
engagement."
"Be quiet!" interrupted my companion in a savage undertone, jerking me
along by the arm. "It's only a rebate on the seats!" And without
allowing me a chance to set myself right he dragged me out.