THE OPEN-AIR DRAWING-ROOMS OF KENNIDY SQUARE
If in the long summer days Kennedy Square was haunted by the idle and
the weary, in the cool summer nights its dimly lighted paths were alive
with the tread of flying feet, and its shadowy benches gay with the
music of laughter and merry greetings.
With the going down of the sun, the sidewalks were sprinkled, and the
whole street about the Square watered from curb to curb, to cool its
sun-baked cobbles. The doors and windows of all the houses were thrown
wide to welcome the fresh night-air, laden with the perfume of
magnolia, jasmine, and sweet-smelling box. Easy-chairs and cushions
were brought out and placed on the clean steps of the porches, and the
wide piazzas covered with squares of china-matting to make ready for
the guests of the evening.
These guests would begin to gather as soon as the twilight settled; the
young girls in their pretty muslin frocks and ribbons, the young men in
white duck suits and straw hats. They thronged the cool, well-swept
paths, chattered in bunches under the big trees, or settled like birds
on the stone seats and benches. Every few minutes some new group, fresh
from their tea-tables, would emerge from one of the houses, poise like
a flock of pigeons on the top step, listen to the guiding sound of the
distant laughter, and then swoop down in mad frolic, settling in the
midst of the main covey, under the big sycamores until roused at the
signal of some male bird in a straw hat, or in answer to the call of
some bare-headed songstress from across the Square, the whole covey
would dash out one of the rickety gates, only to alight again on the
stone steps of a neighbor's porch, where their chatter and pipings
would last far into the night.
It was extraordinary how, from year to year, these young birds and even
the old ones remembered the best perches about the Square. On Colonel
Clayton's ample portico--big enough to shelter half a dozen covies
behind its honeysuckles--both young and old would settle side by side;
the younger bevy hovering about the Judge's blue-eyed daughter--a bird
so blithe and of so free a wing, that the flock always followed
wherever she alighted. On Judge Bowman's wide veranda only a few old
cocks from the club could be found, and not infrequently, some rare
birds from out of town perched about a table alive with the clink of
glass and rattle of crushed ice, while next the church, on old Mrs.
Pancoast's portico, with its tall Corinthian columns--Mr. Pancoast was
the archdeacon of the Noah's ark church--one or two old grandmothers
and a grave old owl of a family doctor were sure to fill the
rocking-chairs. As for Richard Horn's marble steps they were never free
from stray young couples who flew in to rest on Malachi's chairs and
cushions. Sometimes only one bird and her mate would be tucked away in
the shadow of the doorway; sometimes only an old pair, like Mrs. Horn
and Richard, would occupy its corners.
These porticoes and stone door-steps were really the open-air
drawing-rooms of Kennedy Square in the soft summer nights. Here ices
were served and cool drinks--sherbets for the young and juleps and
sherry cobblers for the old. At the Horn house, on great occasions, as
when some big melon that had lain for days on the cool cellar floor was
cut (it was worth a day's journey to see Malachi cut a melon), the
guests would not only crowd the steps, but all the hall and half up the
slender staircase, where they would sit with plates in their laps, the
young men serving their respective sweethearts.
This open-air night-life had gone on since Kennedy Square began; each
door-step had its habitues and each veranda its traditions. There was
but one single porch, in fact, facing its stately trees whereon no
flocks of birds, old or young, ever alighted, and that belonged to
Peter Skimmerton--the meanest man in town--who in a fit of parsimony
over candles, so the girls said, had bared his porch of every
protesting vine and had placed opposite his door-step a glaring street
gas-lamp---a monstrous and never-to-be-forgotten affront.
And yet, free and easy as the life was, no stranger sat himself down on
any one of these porches until his pedigree had been thoroughly
investigated, no matter how large might be his bank-account nor how
ambitious his soarings. No premeditated discourtesy ever initialed this
exclusiveness and none was ever intended. Kennedy Square did not know
the blood of the stranger--that was all--and not knowing it they could
not trust him. And it would have been altogether useless for him to try
to disguise his antecedents--especially if he came from their own
State--or any State south of it. His record could be as easily reached
and could be as clearly read as a title-deed. Even the servants knew.
Often they acted as Clerks of the Rolls.
"Dat Mister Jawlins, did you ask 'bout?" Malachi would say. "Why you
know whar he comes f'om. He's one o' dem Anne Rundle Jawlinses. He do
look mighty peart an' dey do say he's mighty rich, but he can't fool
Malachi. I knowed his gran'pa," and that wise and politic darky, with
the honor of the house before his eyes, would shake his head knowingly
and with such an ominous look, that had you not known the only crime of
the poor grandfather to have been a marriage with his overseer's
daughter--a very worthy woman, by the way--instead of with some lady of
quality, you would have supposed he had added the sin of murder to the
crime of low birth. On the other hand, had you asked Malachi about some
young aristocrat who had forgotten to count his toddies the night
before, that Defender of the Faith would have replied:
"Lawd bress ye! Co'se dese young gemmens like to frolic--an' dey do git
dat way sometimes--tain't nuthin'. Dem Dorseys was allers like dat--"
the very tones of his voice carrying such convictions of the young
man's respectability that you would have felt safe in keeping a place
at your table for the delinquent, despite your knowledge of his habits.
This general intimacy between the young people, and this absolute faith
of their elders in the quality of family blood, was one of the reasons
why every man about Kennedy Square was to be trusted with every other
man's sister, and why every mother gave the latch-key to every other
mother's son, and why it made no difference whether the young people
came home early or late, so that they all came home when the others
did. If there were love-making--and of course there was love-making--it
was of the old-fashioned, boy-and-girl kind, with keepsakes and pledges
and long walks in the afternoons and whispered secrets at the
merry-makings. Never anything else. Woe betide the swain who forgot
himself ever so slightly--there was no night-key for him after that,
nor would any of the girls on any front steps in town ever look his way
again when he passed--and to their credit be it said, few of the young
men either. From that day on the offender became a pariah. He had
committed the unpardonable sin.
As for these young men, this life with the girls was all the life they
knew. There were fishing parties, of course, at the "Falls" when the
gudgeons were biting, and picnics in the woods; and there were oyster
roasts in winter, and watermelon parties in summer--but the girls must
be present, too. For in those simple days there were no special clubs
with easy-chairs and convenient little tables loaded with drinkables
and smokables--none for the young Olivers, and certainly none for the
women. There was, to be sure, in every Southern city an old mausoleum
of a club--sometimes two--each more desolate than the other--haunted by
gouty old parties and bonvivants; but the young men never passed
through their doors except on some call of urgency. When a man was old
enough to be admitted to the club there was no young damosel on
Malachi's steps, or any other steps, who would care a rap about him.
HIS day was done.
For these were the days in which the woman ruled in court and
home---championed by loyal retainers who strove hourly to do her
bidding. Even the gray-haired men would tell you over their wine of
some rare woman whom they had known in their youth, and who was still
their standard of all that was gentle and gracious, and for whom they
would claim a charm of manner and stately comeliness that--"my dear
sir, not only illumined her drawing-room but conferred distinction on
the commonwealth."
"Mrs. Tilghman's mother, were you talking about?" Colonel Clayton or
Richard Horn, or some other old resident would ask. "I remember her
perfectly. We have rarely had a more adorable woman, sir. She was a
vision of beauty, and the pride of our State for years."
Should some shadow have settled upon any one of these homes--some
shadow of drunkenness, or love of play, or shattered brain, or
worse--the woman bore the sorrow in gentleness and patience and still
loved on and suffered and loved and suffered again, hoping against
hope. But no dry briefs were ever permitted to play a part, dividing
heart and hearth. Kennedy Square would have looked askance had such
things been suggested or even mentioned in its presence, and the dames
would have lowered their voices in discussing them. Even the men would
have passed with unlifted hats either party to such shame.
Because of this loyalty to womankind and this reverence for the home--a
reverence which began with the mother-love and radiated to every sister
they knew--no woman of quality ever earned her own bread while there
was an able-bodied man of her blood above ground to earn it for her.
Nor could there be any disgrace so lasting, even to the third and
fourth generation, as the stigma an outraged community would place upon
the renegade who refused her aid and comfort. An unprogressive,
quixotic life if you will--a life without growth and dominant
personalities and lofty responsibilities and God-given rights--but oh!
the sweet mothers that it gave us, and the wholesomeness, the
cleanliness, the loyalty of it all.
With the coming of summer, then, each white marble step of the Horn
mansion, under Malachi's care, shone like a china plate.
"Can't hab dese yere young ladies spile dere clean frocks on Malachi's
steps--no, sah," he would say; "Marse Oliver'd r'ar an' pitch tur'ble."
There were especial reasons this year for these extra touches of rag
and brush. Malachi knew "de signs" too well to be deceived. Pretty Sue
Clayton, with her soft eyes and the mass of ringlets that framed her
face, had now completely taken possession of Oliver's heart, and the
old servant already had been appointed chief of the postal service--two
letters a day sometimes with all the verbal messages in between.
This love-affair, which had begun in the winter, was not yet of so
serious a nature as to cause distress or unhappiness to either one of
their respective houses, nor had it reached a point where suicide or an
elopement were all that was left. It was, in truth, but a few months
old, and so far the banns had not been published. Within the last week
Miss Sue had been persuaded "to wait for him--" that was all. She had
not, it is true, burdened her gay young heart with the number of years
of her patience. She and Oliver were sweethearts--that was enough for
them both. As proof of it, was she not wearing about her neck at the
very moment a chain which he had fashioned for her out of
cherry-stones; and had she not given him in return one of those same
ringlets, and had she not tied it with a blue ribbon herself? And above
all--and what could be more conclusive--had she not taken her hair down
to do it, and let him select the very tress that pleased him best?--and
was not this curl, at that very moment, concealed in a pill-box and
safely hidden in his unlocked bureau-drawer, where his mother saw it
with a smile the last time she put away his linen? This love-affair--as
were the love-affairs of all the other young people--was common gossip
around Kennedy Square. Had there been any doubts about it, it would
only have been necessary to ask any old Malachi, or Hannah; or Juno.
They could have given every detail of the affair, descanting upon all
its joys and its sorrows.
Sweet girls of the days gone by, what crimes some of you have to answer
for! At least one of you must remember how my own thumb was cut into
slits over these same cherry-stones, and why the ends of your ringlets
were tucked away in a miniature box in my drawer, with the pressed
flowers and signet-ring, and the rest of it. And you could--if you
would--recall a waiting promise made to me years and years ago. And the
wedding! Surely you have not forgotten that. I was there, you
remember--but not as the groom.
On one particular evening in June--an evening that marked an important
stage in the development of Oliver's fortunes--the front porch, owing
to Malachi's attentions, was in spotless condition--steps, knocker, and
round silver knobs.
Sue and Oliver sat on the top step; they had stolen across from the
Clayton porch on some pretended errand. Sue's chin was in her hand, and
Oliver sat beside her pouring out his heart as he had never done
before. He had realized long ago that she could never understand his
wanting to be a painter as Miss Clendenning had done, and so he had
never referred to it since the night of the musicale, when he had raced
across the Square to tell her of his talk with the little lady. Sue, as
he remembered afterward, had listened abstractedly. She would have
preferred at the time his running in to talk about herself rather than
about his queer ambitions. She was no more interested now.
"Ollie, what does your father say about all this?" she finally asked in
a perfunctory way. "Would he be willing for you to be a painter?" It
bored her to listen to Oliver's enthusiastic talk about light and
shade, and color and perspective, and what Mr. Crocker had said and
what Mr. Crocker was doing, and what Mr. Crocker's last portrait was
like. She was sure that nobody else around Kennedy Square talked of
such things or had such curious ambitions. They shocked her as much as
Oliver's wearing some outlandish clothes would have done--making him
conspicuous and, perhaps, an object of ridicule.
"Father's all right, Sue. He's always right," Oliver answered. "He
believes in Mr. Crocker, just as he believes in a lot of things that a
good many people around here don't understand. He believes the time
will come when they will value his pictures, and be proud to own them.
But I don't care who owns mine; I just want the fun of painting them.
Just think of what a man can do with a few tubes of color, a brush, and
a bit of canvas. So I don't care if they never buy what I paint. I can
get along somehow, just as Mr. Crocker does. He's poor, but just see
how happy he is. Why, when he does a good thing he's nothing but a boy,
he's so glad about it. I always know how his work has gone when I see
his face."
"But, Ollie, he's so shabby, and his daughter gives music-lessons.
Nobody THINKS of inviting her anywhere." Sue's eyes were shut tight,
with an expression of assumed contempt, and her little nose was
straight up.
"Yes--but that doesn't hurt his pictures, Sue." There was a slight
trace of impatience in Oliver's tone.
"Well, perhaps it doesn't--but you don't want to be like him. I
wouldn't like to see you, Ollie, going about with a picture under your
arm that everybody knew you had painted yourself. And suppose that they
would want to buy your pictures? How would you feel now to be taking
other people's money for things you had painted?"
The boy caught his breath. It seemed useless to pursue the talk with
Sue. She evidently had no sympathy with his aspirations.
"No--but I wish I could paint as he does," he answered, mechanically.
Sue saw the change in his manner. She realized, too, that she had hurt
him in some way. She drew nearer and put her hand on his arm.
"Why, you can, Ollie. You can do anything you want to; Miss Lavinia
told me so." The little witch was mistress of one art--that of holding
her lover--but that was an art of which all the girls about Kennedy
Square approved.
"No, I can't," he replied, forgetting in the caressing touch of her
hand the tribute to his ability, and delighted that she was once more
in sympathy with him. "Mother wouldn't think of my being an artist. She
doesn't understand how I feel about it, and Miss Lavinia, somehow,
doesn't seem to be favorable to it either. I've talked to her lots of
times--she was more encouraging at first, but she doesn't seem to like
the idea now. I've been hoping she'd fix it so I could speak to mother
about it. Now she tells me I had better wait. I can't see why Miss
Lavinia knows what an artist's life can be, for she knew plenty of
painters when she was in London with her father, and she loves
pictures, too, and is a good judge--nobody here any better. She told me
only a week ago how much one of these Englishmen was paid for a little
thing as big as your hand, but I've forgotten the amount. I don't see
why I can't paint as well as those fellows. Do you know, Sue, I'm
beginning to think that about half the people in Kennedy Square are
asleep? They really don't seem to think there is anything respectable
but the law. If they are right, how about all the men who painted the
great pictures and built all the cathedrals, or the men who wrote all
the poems and histories? Mother, of course, wants me to be a lawyer.
Because I'm fitted for it?--not a bit of it! Simply because father was
one before me and his father before him, and Uncle John Tilghman
another, and so on back to the deluge."
Sue drew away a little and turned her head toward the Square as if in
search of someone. Oliver noticed the movement and his heart sank
again. He saw but too clearly how little impression the story of his
ambitions had made upon her. Then the thought flashed into his mind
that he might have offended her in some way, clashing against her
traditions and her prejudices as he had done. He bent toward her and
laid his hand in hers.
"Little girl," he said, in a softened tone, "I can't make you unhappy,
too. Mother is enough for me to worry about--I haven't talked it all
out to you before, but don't you get a wrong idea of what I'm going to
do--" and he looked up into her face and tightened his hold upon her
fingers, his eyes never wavering from her own.
The girl allowed his hand to remain an instant, then quickly withdrew
her own and started up. Coyness is sometimes fear in the timid heart
that is stepping into the charmed circle for the first time.
"There goes Ella Dorsey and Jack--" she cried, springing down the
steps. "Ella! El--la!" and an answering halloo came back, and the two
started from Malachi's steps and raced up the street to join their
young friends.