NOSING 'ROUND WASHINGTON
I
I came very near to being shot in the White House grounds the other day.
Yep! You see, my friend is a bit on the order of what the modistes call
"stylish stout." Rather more than a bit, indeed. Looks something like a
slightly youthfuller Irvin Cobb. Also wouldn't consider it decent of him
out of doors not to "wear" his stag-handled cane. Altogether, not
unlikely to be taken for a real somebody. He was fishing round in his
breast pocket for the letter his senator from "back home" had given him
to the President's secretary. Drew out what may have seemed an important
looking document.
As we came along the path toward the executive offices there was an
up-stage looking bunch thronging about the little steps--rollicking
gamins, smartly turned out flappers, a sprinkling of rather rakish
looking young males, and (in their best black silk) a populous
representation of those highly honorable and very ample figures who have
generously mothered the young sons and daughters of the American
prairies.
Suddenly from the side lines they popped out--a whole battery of them,
with their bug-like machines on tall stilts. The motion picture camera
men were taking no chances that anything important would escape their
fire. Evidently they couldn't quite place us, however, so we got through
the door without further incident.
When we had entered the grounds through the gate at the far side of the
lawn my thoughtful friend had thrown away his lighted cigar, feeling
that promiscuous smoking here would be taboo from danger of fire to so
precious a national jewel as the White House. Within the anteroom to the
executive offices the scene very decidedly suggested one of those jovial
masculine gatherings termed a "smoker." The seething and motley company
of (obviously) newspaper men put one in mind of the recent arrival at a
military training camp of a nondescript batch of drafted men not yet got
into uniform. General air about the room of loafing in a corner cigar
store.
Then, suddenly, a rising murmur and a pell-mell push toward the door. My
friend and I were swayed out upon the step, and saw at the gate directly
at the street corner of the building the movie camera men very
vigorously clearing for action. They had halted close before them a
tall, striking and very distinguished figure. You instantly recognized
him by the insignia which he wore on the slope toward his chin of his
under lip--a wisp of whisker (light straw color) such as decorated the
illustrious countenance, too, of the late James Abbott McNeil Whistler.
He was, this gentleman, looking very sheepish, continually bowing in a
rather strained manner to the camera men and lifting his black derby hat
to them. They were scrambling about the legs of their engines and
cranking away with a rattle. "Over this way a little, Mr. Paderewski!"
yelled one. "Hold on, Mr. Paderewski, there you are!" bawled another.
Boisterous mirth about the doorway.... "That's good!" "Sure, he's only a
premier."
Then, a deferential scattering to make way for him as he approached.
Held him up again, the camera guerrillas, on the steps. He was bowing
with an effect of increasing strain and the intensity of his
sheepishness becoming painful to contemplate. His hair a white bush
thrusting out behind. Ghostly white bow tie. His black clothes
beautifully sleek and pressed. At close up, his features blunter, less
sensitive in chiselling than appears in his photographs. The flesh of
his face striking in the degree of the pinkness and fairness of
complexion of the races of Northern Europe.
My friend and I had not yet seen Mr. Christian. Had that morning called
upon Mr. Tumulty on a matter of business. Found he had set up shop in a
business structure called the Southern Building. Transom Legend: Law
Offices ... Joseph P. Tumulty. On entrance door: Joseph P. Tumulty,
Charles H. Baker. Outstanding feature of ante-chamber a life-size cream
plaster bust, on tall polished wood pedestal, of Woodrow Wilson. Mr.
Tumulty, stocky of stature, driving in manner, bustled forth from his
private office. Exhaled atmosphere of ruddiness.
My friend at times (I fear) speaks with some circumlocution. Our real
business here settled, he was ambling on toward the expression of his
hope that we might possibly be able sometime, just for a moment, to see,
just get a glimpse of....
"The President," Mr. Tumulty cut in, with an anticipating nod. My friend
looked a bit confused as (I could see) the words "the ex-President" were
about to come from him. But, undoubtedly, both of them meant the same
gentleman.
In the executive offices we trailed along with the newspaper men for
their daily afternoon interview with Mr. Christian, my friend bathing
himself in tobacco smoke as complacently as anyone of the party. Entered
a sort of council chamber. Long table down the middle. Conspicuous
ornament of the apartment, on a mantel, a plaster cast of a humorous
Uncle Sam in a dress coat, holding aloft an American flag, and flanked
by a turkeyfied looking eagle.
Congregation pressed close about the table, behind which in a swivel
chair sat in a relaxed and rather pensive attitude an angular figure,
swinging leisurely looking legs which terminated in very white sox and
low-cut shoes. A rather thick thatch of greying hair, large aquiline
features, a rather melancholy cast of expression, eyes cast downward at
the table, clothes not recently pressed and which no one would be
inclined to call dapper, Mr. Christian in general effect suggested a
good deal one's impression of a somewhat dusty "reference librarian" at
the information desk of the New York Public Library being besieged by an
unusually large number of questioners.
"Well, gentlemen," he uttered very quietly and slowly, "what have you
got on your mind?"
"George," asked a figure with pad and pencil in hand, "what about this?"
Mr. Christian appeared to ponder the matter a good while, and the upshot
of his cogitation appeared to be that there wasn't much of anything
about it. "And what is there to that?" inquired another. Well at length
there didn't seem to be much to that either. A few items of information
were given. And the audience briefly closed.
When we had filed out with the company from the room my friend and I
took seats in the corridor. He had given his letter to the doorman. A
couple of soldiers in uniform, a group of very spruce, robust and
cheery-looking Catholic priests, an elderly individual of very dejected
pose, and a miscellaneous assortment of humanity also were waiting. The
doorman was being continually accosted. "Just want to shake hands with
him, that's all," and "Just want to say 'How de do'," were solicitations
frequently overheard.
The doorman beckoned to us and told us to go into an apartment which he
indicated and "take a seat." Probably my friend didn't hear that
instruction, as he marched straight up to Mr. Christian directly upon
entering the room flooded with afternoon light pouring through an
imposing row of tall and beautiful windows. Mr. Christian slowly arose
from his desk, coming gradually to his full height, and yielded a
cautious hand to my friend. He looked at the bright and somewhat
flustered countenance of my friend rather sadly, as it seemed. Though at
some sally of my friend's about the pronunciation of his name he smiled
with considerable natural human warmth. Then very gravely he stated that
with so many appointments at present to be made, and with the
multitudinous labors now upon him, and so forth and so on, it was hardly
possible that he could just now arrange for my friend to have a word
with, as he said, ... "the Senator."
My friend was, obviously, a bit taken aback by the term, as his mind
had been careering along with visions of his seeing no less a person
than the President. But there was no doubt that both he and Mr.
Christian were referring to the same gentleman.
I should add that my friend's self-imposed mission of shaking hands with
Mr. Harding and writing an article about his impressions of him before
the President had yet given an audience to the accredited
representatives of the press was more or less audacious. And I should
add still further that Mr. Christian seemed genuinely reluctant to
dismiss my friend without a ray of hope, and suggested that he call
again after a few days. Suggestion was at Mr. Christian's own volition.
As we turned to leave the room we saw that the bevy of Catholic Fathers
and several other persons had also been admitted, and were all beaming
with bland cheerful confidence.
We strolled along the driveway leading by the front entrance to the
White House. The baggy looking policeman lazily sunning himself beside
the portico recalled to my mind with amusing contrast the snappy
Redcoats who briskly pace back and forth before Buckingham Palace.
They are superbly haughty and disdainful beings. A charmingly democratic
character, this policeman. "'At a fierce cloud over there," he observed
to us as we paused nearby.
A splendid looking army officer together with a caped naval commander
emerged with springy step from the White House door, both carrying an
air of high elation. A sumptuous car rolled up and halted beneath the
portico roof extending over the driveway. From it a lady leaned out
extending a card. Out pranced a gleaming negro flunky to receive it with
bows of elaborate courtliness. As he turned to re-enter the White House
it struck me that I did not believe I had ever seen a happier looking
human being. Also, in his beautiful dark blue tail coat with bright
silver buttons, and delicately striped light waistcoat, he brought to my
mind (incongruously enough) the waiters at Keen's Chop House. The lady
rolled on.
A bumptious looking character mounted to the entrance, and sent in a
card. It was evident in his bearing that he expected within a moment to
stride through the doorway. A figure in a skirt coat emerged. Bumptious
being springs upon him and begins to pump his hand up and down with
extraordinary verve, straining the while toward the doorway. Skirt coat
(his hand continuing to be pumped) deferentially edges bumptious
character outward toward descending steps.
It had been an exceedingly hot day for early spring. Traffic policemen
had stood on their little platforms at the centre of the street
crossings under those mammoth parasols they have to shield them from the
rigors of the Washington sun. As we proceeded toward our exit from the
grounds, approaching to the White House came a diminutive and decrepit
figure muffled in an overcoat extending to his heels, bowed under a tall
top hat, a pair of mighty ear-muffs clamped over his ears.
We had that morning visited the Capitol. My friend had been much more
interested in the guide-conducted touring parties than in the atrocious
painting of the Battle of Lake Erie, and so on, expatiated on to them.
Parties which, he said, made him feel that he was back again at the
Indiana State Fair. We had sat, in the visitors' gallery of the Senate,
in the midst of a delegation of some sort of religious sect, whose
beards had most decidedly the effect of false whiskers very insecurely
attached. Had been much struck by the extreme politeness of a new
Senator who bowed deeply to each one in turn of a row of pages he passed
before. Had responded within a few minutes to the command of "All out!"
because of executive meeting, and sympathised with the sentiments of
fellow citizens likewise ejected who went forth murmuring that they
hadn't "got much."
We had wandered through the noble and immaculate Senate Office building,
and been much impressed by the scarcity of spittoons there, an abundance
of which articles of furniture we had since boyhood associated with all
public buildings. We had sat in the outer office of our state's senator,
and listened to one lady after another explain to his secretary in this
wise: "I just made up my mind ... I just decided to go right after it
... I just determined ... I just thought ... Otherwise, of course, I
shouldn't presume to ask it."
In the Library of Congress we had been much interested to hear an
European gentleman of vast erudition connected with the Library declare
that "there was more intellectual life in Washington than in any other
city in America--that it was an European city, in the best sense." We
had been accosted on the street by a very portly and loud-voiced man who
introduced himself by inquiring where we were from; who confided that
his business in Washington had to do with an alcohol permit; and who
asked to be directed to Corcoran Gallery. We had run into an old actor
friend who was here playing, he said, "nut stuff"; and who observed that
Washington was "more of a boob town than ever." We had been assured by a
newspaper friend that Washington was so full of inventors and blue law
fans that if you "dropped a match anywhere a nut would step on it."
We had been charmed by the vast number of elderly couples apparently on
a final mellow honeymoon before the fall of the curtain. At lunch had
overheard an inland matron inquire of a waitress if scollops were
"nice." Had enjoyed hot corn bread with every meal. Had been unable to
account for the appearance on the streets of so many wounded soldiers.
Had made the mistake of getting up so early that in the deep Washington
stillness of half past seven we were scared to run the water for our
baths for fear of rousing the sleeping hotel to angry tumult. Had noted
that nowhere except in London is the fashion of freshly polished shoes
so much an institution. Had speculated as to why the standard model of
the American statesman's hat should be a blend of an expression of the
personalities of W. J. Bryan, Buffalo Bill and Colonel Watterson.
And, finally, listening in the evening to the orchestra in the corridor
of the New Willard, we discussed the large opportunities for a serious
literary work dealing with the varieties and idiosyncrasies of the
Washington hair cut. There is the Bryan type, with the hair turned
outward in a thick roll above the back of the neck, and forming a neat
hat rest. There is the roach back from a noble dome. There is the grey
curly bushy all around. There is the heavy grey wave mounting high over
one side. And--well, there seem to be an almost endless number of
styles, all more or less peculiar to the spirit of Washington, and all
of distinct distinction.
II
"Who's the old bird gettin' so many pictures took?" inquired a loitering
passerby.
A hum of much good nature was coming from the motley throng about the
steps before the executive office of the White House. "Beer and light
wine," called out someone, apparently in echo to something just said by
the queer looking character being photographed by the battery of camera
men, and a rattle of laughter went around through the group.
"That's old Coxey," replied someone. "He's down here to get Debs out,"
he added. The amiable and celebrated "General" who a number of years ago
had led his "army" on to Washington was smiling like a very wrinkled and
animated potato into the lenses of the cameras which had been moved to
within a couple of feet or so of his nose.
My friend and I crossed the street to the State, Army and Navy building.
We had been there the other day to see a young man in the State
Department to whom he had a card. Had been much struck by his beauty.
And had wondered if handsomeness was a requisite for a statesman in this
Administration.
Now we sought the press room. Presented our credentials to a press
association man there. Cordial chap. Said, "Stick around." Others
floated in. Pretty soon press association man heartily calls out to my
friend (whose name is Augustus), "George. Come on!" And we trail along
with about fifty others into the ante-chamber of the new Secretary of
the Navy, who at half past ten is to give his first interview to the
newspaper men.
Funny looking corridors, by the way, in this building. Swing doors all
about, constructed of horizontal slats, and in general effect bearing a
picturesque resemblance to the doors of the old-time saloon.
I noticed that as we went along my friend punched in one side of the
crown of his soft hat and raked it somewhat to one side of his head. He
felt, I suspected, uncomfortably neat for the society of this bonhomie
crowd of bona fide newspaper men, and did not wish to appear aloof by
being too correct in attire.
The company passed along the corridor and into the anteroom under a
heavy head of tobacco smoke. There the press association man presented
each of the flock in turn to a chubby little fellow behind a railing,
whom I took to be secretary to the Secretary; and presently the
delegation was admitted to the inner office, a spacious apartment where
one passed first an enormous globe, then a large model of the _Old
Kearsarge_ in a glass case; and at length we ranged ourselves closely
before a mountain of a man in a somewhat saggy suit. Clean shaven,
massive features, very bald dome, widely smiling, Secretary Denby looks
just a bit (I thought) like Mr. Punch. His voice comes in a deep rumble
and he has entirely ample ears. Trousers too long.
No; he had not seen the story in that morning's paper which was handed
to him by one of the reporters. He would not confirm this; he would not
deny that. After all, he had been "only a week in the job." And one
might so very easily be "injudicious." "Wily old boy," was one comment
as the party trailed out and made for the press telephones, discussing
among themselves "how would you interpret" this and that?
Next, at eleven o'clock, the Secretary of State was down on the
newspaper men's schedule. We went into a kind of waiting room across the
corridor from the real offices of the Secretary. Most conspicuous
decoration a huge painting of a Bey of Tunis, the presentation of which
(the inscription said) had something to do with condolences from France
on the death of Lincoln. Also on one wall a portrait of Daniel Webster.
Mr. Fletcher, Under Secretary of State, appeared before us. Very dapper
gentleman. Athletic in build. Fashionable clothes. Grey hair but
youthful in effect. Handsome, smooth-shaven face. Suggested an actor, or
perhaps a very gentlemanly retired pugilist. Held beautiful shell
spectacles in hand before him. Stood very straight. Had another fellow
alongside of him to supply information when himself in doubt. When asked
concerning someone who was in jail, inquired "Where is the old boy?"
Smiling cordially, seeking continually for an opportunity for some joke
or pleasantry, trying bravely to keep up a strong front, but obviously
becoming more and more uneasy under the ordeal of rapid-fire questions
about Russia, Germany, Japan and so on and so on. On being asked
concerning diplomatic appointments under consideration, bowed briskly,
replied "A great many," and escaped--almost, it might be said, fled.
Secretary of War next on the list. Full length portraits in his offices
of Generals Pershing, Bliss and Petain. Many flags, historic ones
(presumably) in glass cases. Heavy build, Secretary Weeks, very wide
across the middle. Straggling moustache, drooping. Very direct and
business-like in manner. Entered room saying, "Well, there are a number
of things I have to tell you gentlemen." Frank and positive in his
statements and denials. Stood twisting a key-ring as he talked. Wore
neat pin in tie. When told that the War Department was supposed to have
such and such a thing under consideration, he replied, tapping himself
on the breast, "Not this part of the War Department." One questioner
sought to obtain from him a more direct reply to a question that had
been put to the Secretary of the Navy. He answered, "I know nothing
about the navy." When there was apparently nothing more that he had to
say, he concluded the audience very deftly.
"He's a different guy, ain't he?" was one correspondent's observation as
we passed out of the room. "One of the biggest men in the government,"
he added. "Gives the impression of knowing as much about that job now as
Baker did when he left."
To the National Press Club we went for lunch. It is pleasant to see in
what esteem this club holds those two eminent journalists, Eugene Field
and Napoleon Bonaparte, whose portraits hang framed side beside on one
of its walls. Napoleon, however, is held in such very great regard as a
newspaper man that another and larger picture of him hangs in another
room.
The newspaper army had shifted to the business office of the White
House. As we entered Secretary Weeks was departing. He pressed through
the throng of reporters clustered about him. "Nothing to say," was
apparently what he was saying. "We are referred to Warren," said one of
the men. "Looks like we really were going to see him," said another. The
President had not yet given an interview to the press men. So we took
seats among the rows of figures ranged around the walls.
While waiting we were given an audience, so to say, by Laddie, the White
House Airedale. Curly haired breed. "How old is he?" we asked the small
colored boy whose office includes charge of him. "A year," he said. The
dog stands well, and holds his stump of a tail straight aloft, correctly
enough. But there is altogether too much black on him, we observed;
covers his breast and flanks, instead of being merely a "saddle" on his
back. "Yes, everybody says it," answered the boy.
Secretary Hughes was seen coming down the corridor on his way out. The
newspaper men pressed forward forming a narrow line through which he
walked, very erect, smiling broadly, bowing to right and left, and
continually moving his black derby hat up and down before him. "Gets a
great reception, don't he?" said one reporter, glowing with a sort of
jovial pride at Mr. Hughes.
"You'll have to see the boss," Mr. Hughes repeated a number of times as
he came along, and turning slightly made one last very good-natured bow
as he moved out through the door.
"Are they all here?" called out Mr. Christian, then marshalled us
through his office and into the large, circular and very handsome office
of the President.
While we awaited him he could be seen, through a doorway, talking, on a
porch-like structure opening out along the back of the building. He was
very leisurely in manner. I think my first outstanding impression of my
glimpse of him was that he was a very handsome man, most beautifully
dressed in a dark blue serge sack suit, very sharply pressed.
He came in, moving slowly, stood close behind his desk, and said,
"Well, gentlemen, what is there that I can tell you?" He spoke very
quietly and deliberately. The Cabinet he said had discussed problems
relating to the "hang-over" (as he put it) of the War, in particular the
trade situation of the world. He mentioned that he did not desire to be
quoted directly. He had not been "annoyed" but he had been "distressed,"
he said, by having been so quoted not long ago. The top button of his
coat was buttoned. His cuffs were stiffly starched. He inclined his head
a good part of the time to one side. Sometimes half closed his eyelids.
Then would open them very wide, and make an outward gesture with his
hands, accompanied by something like a shrug of the shoulders. Close up
I was struck by the bushiness of his eyebrows. He wore a single ring,
mounting a rather large light stone. No pin to his tie. He swung
backward and forward on his feet. Put on shell-rimmed nose glasses to
read. Sometimes pursed his lips slowly. As he talked absently rolled a
small piece of paper he had picked up from his desk into the shape of a
cigarette. His talk had a slightly oratorical roll. He was exceedingly
patient and exceedingly courteous. His general atmosphere was one of
deep kindness. In conclusion he said, "Glad to see you again."
"That's pretty nice," was the comment of one of the newspaper men as we
emerged from his presence.
As we moved away through the grounds my friend dilated on a somewhat
whimsical idea of his. This was to this effect. In motion picture plays
(my friend insisted) kings were always much more kingly in appearance
and manner than any modern king would be likely to be. But (he declared)
it would be very difficult for a motion picture concern to get hold of
any actor to play the part who would look so much like an American
President as President Harding.
We stopped in to look at the east room, now again open. A character who
had evidently not been born in any of the capitols of Europe was
admiring the place vastly. He looked with especial approval at the
enormous chandeliers, those great showers, or regular storms, of glass.
"Pretty hard to beat," was his patriotic comment.
III
It's a big old building, dark inside, the Washington Post Office. He
looked like some sort of a guard about the premises who was too tired
to stand up and so did his guarding sitting in a chair. My friend had
got so accustomed to inquiring our way to the office of Secretary
Hughes, and of Secretary Weeks, and so on, that he asked where we would
find Secretary Hays.
The man looked at us very contemptuously. "The Postmaster General?" at
length he boomed. Well, he was on the fifth floor. As we stepped from
the car my friend remarked on the practice universal in Washington of
men removing their hats when in the presence of women in elevators.
Our appointment was for ten o'clock. We had got quite used, however, to
waiting an hour or so for the gentlemen we sought to see. Several other
callers were ahead of us here, and we sat down in the outer office when
we had presented our cards to a very kind and attentive young man who
appeared to be in charge.
Within a very few minutes, however, we were ushered round into a
secluded inner office. "The General," the young man said, "will be in in
a moment. He sees them in two different rooms at the same time." This
large room was entirely bare of painting or other decorations.
Speaking of decorations reminds me of the striking handsomeness of the
Cabinet officers we had so far been seeing. Beginning with the President
himself (prize winner of the lot in this respect) the spectacle of this
Administration had up to this moment been a regular beauty show.
The physiognomy of Mr. Hays, of course, strikes a somewhat different
note in the picture. Though he is not, I should say, as funny looking as
some of his pictures suggest.
He fairly leaped into the room. Spidery figure. Calls you by your last
name without the prefix of Mister. Very, very earnest in effect. No
questions necessary to get him started. He began at once to talk. Poured
forth a steady stream of rapid utterance. Denounced the idea of labor as
a "commodity." Said: "We have a big job here. Three hundred thousand
employees. Millions of customers. I think we can do it all right,
though. But our people in the department all over the country everywhere
must be made to feel that a human spirit is behind them. It's in the
heart that the battle's won. It's because of the spirit behind them
whether our men throw a letter on the floor before a door or put it
through the door." Made a gesture with his hands illustrating putting a
letter through a door. Looked very hard at the very clean top of his
desk much of the time as he talked. Now and then looked very straight
indeed at us. Gave us a generous amount of his time. At length arose
very briskly.
Routed us out around through some side way. Had a private elevator
concealed somewhere in a dark corner. Turned us over to the colored man
in charge of it with the request, "Won't you please take my friends
down?"
As we were crossing the street we ran into our old friend from New York
who edits a very flourishing women's magazine. Down here, he said, to
get an article from Mrs. Harding. Had found her altogether willing to
supply him with an article, but in so much of a flutter with her new
activities that she didn't see her way to finding time soon to write it.
What, we asked, was the article to be about? Well, Mrs. Harding's idea
was to revive all the old traditions of the White House. And what were
those traditions? Mrs. Harding hadn't said beyond the custom of Easter
egg-rolling.
We were on our way over to see Assistant Secretary of the Navy
Roosevelt. He is not in the State, Army and Navy building where Mr.
Denby is, but some ten minutes' walk away, in the long, rather fragile
looking Navy Department building constructed during the War.
Here numerous gold-braided officers continually come and go. The
building is filled with very beautiful models of fighting ships. At one
side of Roosevelt's door is a model of the _San Diego_, at the other
side a "sample U. S. Navy Patrol Boat."
As we gave him our cards a young man asked us if we knew "the Colonel."
An old Washington newspaper man had told us that morning, "He will go
far under his own hat." Several very large men, also waiting, were
smoking very large cigars while we waited. While all male visitors to
public offices in Washington appear to smoke continually, those in
government positions apparently do not smoke during office hours. And
government business hours there seem to be queer. The Senate goes into
session at just about lunch time. The President seems to be around in
his business office throughout the whole of the middle of the day. And
the office of the Secretary of State telephones you at six o'clock
Saturday night.
The young man showed us in. Mr. Roosevelt arose from his desk, shook
hands very cordially, said "How do you do?" sat down again and at the
moment said nothing further. It was up to us to swing the conversation.
So my friend launched out: We had nothing to do with affairs of state,
had no design to interview him as to naval matters, simply were curious
to see if we should find him eating an apple and wearing white sox, or
what. With hearty good nature, Mr. Roosevelt replied that he was not
eating an apple because he did not have one to eat, and that he had only
once worn white sox, woolen ones, when a boy at school.
He was very neatly dressed in a suit of quiet dark material, wore rich
dark red tie, with a stick pin to it. Curiously weather beaten looking
complexion. As he has just published a book we asked him if he intended
to carry on more or less of a literary career together with his public
life. He said, well, perhaps more or less. But he wouldn't have time for
much such work. He "practised" writing on Saturdays and Sundays, but
mainly for the purpose of attaining to clearness in expressing himself.
He insisted that the great bulk of his father's writing had been done
_before_ the full course of his political activities and _after_ he had
retired from them.
After we had arisen to go he walked up and down the room with us, with a
somewhat arm-in-arm effect. Declared we should know a friend of his up
in Boston, because we'd "like him." Said to look in on him again any
time when in Washington. Very affable young man.
We went out on S Street to see Wilson's new house. Handsome enough
structure, but, undetached from the building next door and fronting
directly on the sidewalk, we decided that it looked somewhat more like a
club than like a private residence. Were told later that the part of
that house to look at is the back of it, as there are wonderful gardens
there.
One cannot fail to note in the numerous art shops where pictures of
Harding, Roosevelt, Washington, Lincoln and Cleveland are displayed in
abundance the relative absence of pictures of Wilson.
Why do august statesmen in the lobby of the New Willard cross their legs
so that we can see that their shoes need to be half-soled? Why do so
many distinguished looking gentlemen in Washington wear their overcoats
as though they were sleeveless capes? What on earth do so many Oklahoma
looking characters do in Washington? Why is it that there the masses do
not, as in New York and Chicago and Los Angeles, stroll about at night?
We stopped in again at the executive office of the White House.
Remarkable number of doormen there got up somewhat like policemen, so
that you repeatedly have to explain yourself all over again. Man new to
us on today. Suspiciously asked our names. Then (though what just our
names could have meant to him I cannot see) shook hands with immense
friendliness, and told us his name.
Quite a throng waiting. Busy hum all about. Different crowd from usual.
Hardly any reporters. Old gentlemen. Stout red-faced fellows with large
black slouch hats. Several youngish women with very generous bosom
displays. Some sort of a delegation, apparently. We did not make out
just what. But the scene somewhat suggested a meeting of the Los Angeles
branch of the Ohio Society. At length the company lines up. We trail in
through with the rest.
The President, looming in the centre of his office, shakes hands with
each caller in turn, in a manner of paternal affection. Holds your hand
very gently within his for a considerable while. Rather odd position he
takes when shaking hands. Right shoulder lifted. Looks (though I felt
that he was unconscious of this effect) somewhat like a pose that a
painter might put his model into when about to paint him shaking hands.
He bent over us in a very fatherly fashion. Said, yes, yes, he had got
our letters while in the South. Which was quite a mistake, as we hadn't
written him any letters. But his kindly intention was quite
unmistakable.
IV
Senator New's secretary, in his room on the second floor of the Senate
Office building, was opening a wooden box that had come by mail. No; he
wasn't exactly opening this box, either. He was looking at it
suspiciously and cautiously tipping it from side to side. "Feels like it
was a snake," he said fearsomely. "Soft, live-like weight in there. I
don't believe I'll open it. You see," indicating the stamps, "it's from
India, too."
"But why would anybody be sending Senator New a snake?" inquired my
friend.
"Goodness gracious! We get lots of things just as queer as snakes,"
replied Mr. Winter. "I guess the Senator must be coming in pretty soon,"
he remarked, glancing about. "So many people coming in," he added, and
continued: "It's a remarkable thing. Visitors seem to have some sort of
psychic knowledge of when the Senator will be in. Same way out in
Indianapolis, we could always tell when Tom Taggart was likely to be
back soon from French Lick--so many people (who couldn't have heard from
him) looking for him at the Denizen House."
"Everybody," someone observed, "always comes to Washington at least once
a year." All United-Statesians, at any rate, one would say looking about
the city, probably do. And among visiting United-Statesians not
habitually seen in such profusion elsewhere one would certainly include,
Indians, Mormons, Porto-Ricans, Civil War veterans, pedagogues,
octogenarians, vegetarians, Virginians, Creoles, pastors, suffragettes,
honeymooners, aunts, portly ladies of peculiar outline, people of a very
simple past, and a remarkable number of gentlemen who still cling to
white "lawn" ties, hard boiled shirts and "Congress shoes."
Also, of course, that vast congregation of people who "want" something
in Washington. "What are you looking for around here?" a remark commonly
overheard in the hotel lobbies.
But there are other American cities to which "everybody" goes, too, now
or then, though the visitors are not perhaps so recognizable. Coming out
of the Capitol, passing through the grounds of the White House, what do
you frequently overhear? Frequently some such remark as this: "Haven't
you ever been in the subway? To the Bronx? When you go back you
certainly must go in it."
And out in Los Angeles they boastfully tell you that one way in which
Los Angeles "is like New York" is this: That whereas a man may or may
not happen to go to Richmond or to Detroit, sooner or later you are
bound to see him on the streets of Los Angeles. That, as I say, is what
they tell you out there.
But what are those aspects of Washington which are peculiar to that
city, and make it so unlike any other city in the United States? And
which in some cases make it an influence for the bad to many of its
visitors? And which in some cases it is so strange should be the aspect
of such a city?
For one thing, the first thing which must strike any stranger to the
city is the enormous extent of the souvenir business there. It is
perhaps natural enough that this should be so, and that souvenir shops
should range themselves in an almost unbroken stretch for miles. What is
not altogether so easy to answer is why nearly all of the souvenirs
should be the kind of souvenirs they are.
Printed portraits of the present President and of former Presidents, and
plaster busts of these personages, of course. That many of the articles
for "remembrance" should be touched with a patriotic design, of course,
too. But why today should so many millions of the "souvenir spoons"
(with the Capitol in relief on the bowl), the "hand painted" plates
(presenting a comic valentine likeness of George Washington), the
paper-weights (with a delirious lithograph of the Library of Congress
showing through), the "napkin rings," butter knives, and so on and so
on--why should such millions of these things be precisely in the style
of such articles proudly displayed in the home of my grandmother when I
was a boy in the Middle West?
Outside of Washington, as far as I know in the world, any considerable
exhibition of wares so reminiscent of the taste of the past can only be
found along the water fronts of a city where men of ships shop. And
there, along water fronts, you always find that same idea of ornament.
Another thing. Where in Washington are shops where real art is
sold--paintings of reputable character and rare specimens of antique
furniture? They may be there; I do not swear that they are not, but they
are remarkably difficult to find.
Painting reminds me. The Corcoran Gallery is, of course, a justly famous
museum of art. But a minor museum, containing no Old Masters, but an
excellent collection of American painting, particularly excellent in its
representation of the period immediately preceding the present, the
period of the men called our impressionist painters. Its best canvas, I
should say, is the painting by John H. Twachtman, called (I believe)
"The Waterfall." My point is, that visitors there certainly are seeing
what they are supposed to be seeing there--art.
What I am coming to (and I do not know why someone does not come to it
oftener) is this: That hordes of people who come to Washington will look
at with wonder as something fine anything which is shown to them. The
numerous beautiful works of architecture--to which is now added the very
noble Lincoln Memorial--they see, and probably derive something from.
But the cultural benefits of their visits to their Mecca of patriotic
interest must be weirdly distorted when they are led gaping through the
Capitol and are charged twenty-five cents apiece to be told by a guard
who knows as much about paintings as an ashman a quantity of imbecile
facts about prodigious canvases atrociously bad almost beyond belief.
The Embarkation of the Pilgrims and Washington Resigning his Commission,
and so forth, indisputably are historic moments for the American breast
to recall with solemn emotion. And the iniquity of these paintings here
to minds uninstructed in works of art is that by reason of their appeal
to sentiments of love of country these nightmares of ugliness are put
over on the visitor as standards of beauty.
Still speaking (after a fashion) of "art," another aspect of Washington
hits the eye. And that is the extremely moral note here. In Los Angeles
(that other nation's playground of holiday makers) perhaps even more
picture cards are displayed for sale. A very merry lot of pictures,
those out there--all of "California bathing girls" and very lightly
veiled figures, limbs rythmically flashing in "Greek dances." Such
picture cards of gaiety of course may be found in windows here and there
on some streets in New York and other cities. But after much window
gazing I fancy that anybody bent upon buying such things in Washington
would have to get them from a bootlegger or someone like that.
And whereas, as I recall, in other centres of urban life, and especially
on the Pacific Coast, the photographers' exhibits run very largely to
feminine beauty and fashion, in photographers' windows in Washington,
you will note, masculine greatness dominates the scene.
Speaking of photographers and such-like suggests another thing. Let us
come at the matter in this way. A good many women of culture and means,
I understand, choose to live in Washington; probably in large measure
because the city is beautifully laid out, because it is a pleasant size,
because there are no factories and subways there, and so on. We know
that numerous retired statesmen prefer to remain there. There is society
of the embassies. In consideration of all this, and in consideration
further of the comparatively large leisure there for an American city,
you would suppose that, behind the transient population, in Washington,
a highly civilized life went on. Very well.
True, they have the third greatest reference library in the world and
the numerous scholars associated with it. But where do the people _buy_
their books? One bookstore of fair size. Another good but quite small. A
third dealing mainly in second-hand volumes. Not one shop devoted to
sets in fine bindings, first editions, rare items and such things.
Though in Philadelphia, for instance, there is one of the finest (if not
the finest) bookshops dealing in rare books anywhere in the world. In
San Francisco numerous bookstores. Larger cities? Yes (as to that part
of it), of course.
But it does seem queer that not a single newspaper in Washington runs
book reviews or prints any degree at all of literary comment.
Alluding to San Francisco, that happy dale of the _bon-vivant_, how does
he who likes good living make out in Washington, unless he lives in a
club, an embassy, or at the White House? A grand public market, two
first-class hotel dining-rooms, and many fine homes. But an earnest
seeker after eating as a fine art could find tucked away none of those
chop-houses and restaurants to dine in which enlarge the soul of man.
But, of course, perhaps you can't have everything at once. From the
visitors' gallery the spectacle of the Senate in active session is a
game more national than baseball. "There he goes!" cries one ardent
spectator, pointing to a "home player," so to say, moving down the
aisle. "That's him! Gettin' along pretty good, ain't he?"