Authors: Karin Tanabe
There was a serenity to four hundred acres without eligible men. There were, of course, men on campus, but besides the French professor, who had more than a few of the girls besotted, none were suitable. But everything changed on Phil Day. As the men arrived in the afternoon, their male energy upended the decorous atmosphere of Main, seeping under the windows and through door frames like steam escaping a kettle.
“I can’t believe it’s our last Phil Day,” said Anita, pushing back her covers, as excited as Lottie. She knew that after a barely touched breakfast, girls in costumes for the Phil plays would fly through the school and there would be
hours of preparations—the decorating of the boxes for the dance, and more important, the decorating of the women for the impending arrival of the men.
“Anita! Don’t get nostalgic yet. What you can’t believe is that the dashing Porter Hamilton is arriving in six hours. And what I can’t believe is that I am attending Phil with some street urchin I have never met. Old Southpaw.” Lottie pulled Anita’s straight black hair. “Hand me your mirror, Anita. I know I look frightening. That Southpaw boy will scream in horror when he sees me.”
“
Worth,
South
worth,
” said Anita, handing her the mirror.
“Umm-hmm,” said Lottie, standing up. “Say his name all you want, but all you’re thinking about is Porter Hamilton. Hamilton, Hamilton. How convenient. Marry him, and you won’t even have to change your monogram.”
The two girls dressed quickly and hurried down to the senior table in the center of the dining hall. Breakfast was more animated than on any morning since the semester began. Even the freshmen, who didn’t know what to expect past the play and the lecture, were buzzing.
“Who is giving the address this year?” asked Caroline, through bites of pancakes. The college had a passion for pancakes, and there was even a special ten-foot griddle in the kitchen to cook them on.
Belle took a bite from Caroline’s plate and motioned to the servers to bring her more. Anita may have been too nervous to eat, but Belle was not. “It’s a Mr. John Kendrick Bangs,” she said, watching the servers bring out plates of still-sizzling bacon. “He is the editor for the departments of humor for all three Harper’s magazines, including
Bazaar
.” Belle was an avid connoisseur of all things print, magazines included.
“At least he won’t be dry. Is he handsome?” asked Caroline.
“Extremely bald, I’m afraid. Tiny eyes like a street pigeon. A Columbia man,” Belle said.
“A man’s looks are not everything,” Marion Schibsby chimed in from three seats down. She was promised to Jessup Platt, one of the homeliest men Yale had ever graduated. But he made up for his crooked face with his very straight bank account.
“I know what will make the occasion less dry,” said Lottie.
“The bottle of gin you’re hiding in your room!” said Belle, covering her mouth before the lady principal could come and scold her.
The rest of the morning and the early afternoon saw Main transformed into a den of high-pitched chatter and flying clothes. Belle, Caroline, Anita, and Lottie took over their hallway, practicing their square dances and promenades down the long space. They paused in their antics and Belle let the top hat she was wearing fall, catching it on her foot.
“Bravo, Belle!” said Lottie, applauding with her palms as she had seen them do in Japan. Behind her, a chorus of voices swelled, and she turned to see four girls floating down the hall on a similar cloud of excitement.
“Hide, ladies!” Lottie hissed. “It’s the grandmothers club. Look at them, and your eyes are guaranteed to burn right out of your skull.”
“Oh, it’s the Society of the Granddaughters,” Caroline said. “They must be getting ready in Emma’s room.”
Mary Baille, Elizabeth Bishop, Emma Baker, and Clara Tuttle were the four members of the class of 1897 who were part of the exclusive Granddaughters club, open only to girls whose mothers had graduated from Vassar.
“Do you know what that club’s motto is?” asked Lottie, after the group had passed without greeting them. “ ‘The
condition of your birth is the measure of your worth.’ Have you ever heard such nonsense?”
“Of course we’ve heard it,” said Anita. “They’ve been chanting it since we arrived. And don’t be too spiteful, Lottie. They would gladly give up being a Vassar Granddaughter to be a Taylor.”
“Aren’t you sweet,” said Lottie, stealing the top hat from Belle and bowing to Anita. But Anita was right. Although Lottie may have been the first female Taylor to go to Vassar, she certainly wouldn’t be the last, and one day there would be buildings boasting her name, just as Strong Hall had been named for Bessie Rockefeller Strong. Yet Lottie was always quick to skewer elitist behavior, and Anita suspected that even if she were eligible for the Granddaughters, she would shun a club with such an arrogant motto.
After the girls were satisfied with their steps and had lamented again the ban on round dancing, they separated and went back to their rooms to dress.
“Only an hour until Porter and what’s-his-name arrives!” shouted Lottie, throwing every single dress that felt like silk or sateen onto her bed. “I hate your brother for not coming, Anita, hate, hate. How could he let his grades drop when he knew something as important as Phil Day was on the horizon!”
“I can’t imagine,” said Anita. “I’m sure he truly regrets it.”
“He should,” said Lottie from inside her closet. “I plan on looking sensational this evening. And so will you. The two prettiest square dancers there ever were. When will this school modernize? No one has ever ended up with child after a night of round dancing. Not right away, anyhow.” She emerged with her hair unfolding onto her shoulders, pins sticking out in all directions.
“Clearly, something needs to be done about this,” she
said, pointing to her head. “Is there a maid available? I’m going to run down and see.”
The college, not individual girls, employed the maids at Vassar, but on a day like Phil, it did not seem like it.
With the help of two of the older maids, who lived above the girls in the fifth-floor attic alcoves, Anita and Lottie, who were both petite and could easily exchange gowns, dressed in two of Lottie’s finest, a navy blue organdie and silk with two layers of ruffles at the base of the skirt for Anita and a daring, Grecian-cut white sateen dress for Lottie. Very few had yet dared to wear artistic dress at Vassar, though a few rebellious society women had done so in New York City.
“Look at the asymmetrical himation,” Lottie said, fingering the smooth fabric draped dramatically over only her left shoulder. “I am in love with this gown.” She started curtseying to imaginary men and introducing herself to the air.
Anita would never have dared wear such a modern, figure-revealing style, but Lottie lit up with even more confidence in it. “Tell me you at least have a corset on under that thin fabric,” Anita said, as her roommate wiggled in places she shouldn’t have been able to.
“Of course I do,” Lottie said, tugging at her waist. “These corsets are becoming so long we will all look like Egyptian mummies soon. Hand me that little bag, will you, Anita?” she said, nodding to the divan. “It has my Duvelleroy fan inside.” Anita passed it to her. Last month the roommates had read in the latest issue of
Harper’s Bazaar
that a Duvelleroy fan cost as much as four hundred dollars, an entire year’s tuition at Vassar. “I have to bring it along or I won’t be able to hide my mouth and gossip the night away. And since I’m stuck with old Southpaw instead of the dashing Mr. Frederick Hemmings, what choice do I have?”
Just before four o’clock, Anita and Lottie gathered with
Belle and Caroline, and all four descended the stairs to the ground floor to meet their guests in the three visitors’ parlors. As they were the only place in Main where the students were allowed to greet their male visitors, the rooms, and the areas around them, were seething with men.
“Where is that hunchbacked Southpaw fellow?” said Lottie loudly, scanning the visitors. She stopped and laughed, leaning back in her curve-exposing dress. “Why am I surveying the room? I don’t even know what old Southpaw looks like.”
At that moment, a striking man in evening attire approached Lottie and bowed. “Very pleased to meet you,” he said. “
I
am old Southpaw.”
“Oh dear,” said Lottie. “How did you know me?”
“I do hate to be the one to tell you, Miss Taylor, but your likeness has been in the newspapers quite a few times,” he said, handing her a bouquet. “I don’t think there is a man on the East Coast under the age of fifty who doesn’t know your beautiful face.” He bowed to her, all the while keeping his dark eyes on hers. “The name is Old Southpaw, and I am at your service.”
While Caroline and Belle laughed along with Lottie at Joseph’s routine, Anita looked for Porter, who quickly emerged from behind Joseph Southworth as he was charming Lottie.
Seeing Porter again, everything Anita had felt before multiplied like blood cells. He moved closer to her, and she watched his eyes go from her hair, to her dress, and up to her face before pronouncing her name.
“Anita. I’m so glad I’m here,” he said, kissing her right hand just above her glove.
“I am the one—” Anita began quietly, and then stopped, feeling no need to finish her sentence.
Once Belle and Caroline had found their escorts, Arthur Martin and Raymond DeGroot, both Yale men, the group was complete and Joseph finished his story. Still addressing Lottie, but speaking loudly enough for them all to hear, he said, “You, Miss Taylor, fixated on the Orient as you are, will be most pleased to know that I am secretly Japanese. My mother hailed from Kyoto, a geisha who died in childbirth. But I pray you, do not tell a soul. I know that you, Louise Taylor, the empire of Japan’s biggest American fan—besides my late esteemed relation Commodore Perry—will keep my secret safe.”
“Why would you ask me not to tell a soul but then say such a thing in front of my friends?” Lottie asked.
“I’ve always believed that if you tell a secret out loud, there’s more of a chance that someone will keep it, as they can talk it over with their intimate friends. If you confide in just one person, they’ll tell everyone in town.”
Anita felt an inward frisson of dissent.
“I don’t believe you,” said Lottie, her pink mouth turning up, “but I think we’ll get along just fine.” She took Joseph’s arm and guided the group toward the chapel for the afternoon’s first event, the annual lecture.
“You should believe me. It’s true,” said Joseph, positioning his tall, thin frame in the window light. “Just look at my face.”
Anita watched as Lottie examined the wings of his white collar standing up against his elegant neck, his high cheekbones, and small nose. Her roommate suddenly seemed to be finding Old Southpaw much more interesting.
“How are the top brass at the college? Expect a lot out of you?” Joseph asked the girls when they were all sitting in their senior seats in the chapel waiting for Mr. John Kendrick Bangs to begin his oration.
“Only the very highest success or a magnificent failure will satisfy them—mediocrity is the one unpardonable sin,” Lottie replied.
“Aren’t you a clever girl?” said Joseph, beaming at his prize.
“Clever, nothing,” said Belle, leaning over to Anita. “That’s a line from the
Three Girls at Vassar
books. At least she can memorize.”
The two exchanged a smile and listened to the buzz in the audience. It felt almost cruel to force a room of young people bursting with repressed sexual energy to calm themselves for an hour-long lecture. But since they had all been raised to act with decorum when required, they maintained their composure not just for the lecture, but through a concert of Hungarian music, dinner, and two Glee Club performances—which Anita and Belle slipped in to join—until the dining room and college parlors finally opened for the evening at eight o’clock.
As usual, boxes for the girls and their guests had been set up in the two parlors to make promenading and socializing easier, and refreshments were served in the faculty room. The dancing took place in the enormous dining room, and though the faculty tried to prevent it, promenading took place down the halls. Fifteen dances were planned that year, though the student government had lobbied desperately for twenty.
When Anita’s group of eight entered the dining room, they stopped short.
“We are in the Orient!” said Lottie, delightedly. The whole room was decorated with silks and paintings done in the Asian style.
“Are you behind all this, Lottie?” asked Caroline, motioning to a drape of muted gold and blue printed with cranes.
She picked up one of the paper parasols in the entry and twirled it.
“I’m not,” said Lottie. “But I am not the only one captivated by the Orient. It’s quite in vogue now. Haven’t you read about the Japonisme movements in Paris and London, Caroline? It took a great while, but it finally trickled over here.”
“You were the one to bring it over, of course,” said Joseph, already comfortable teasing Lottie.
“Me?” said Lottie, flattered. “You might say that I did. At least on campus,” she continued, plucking the parasol from Caroline’s hand. “Come, we might need this later to fend off all our suitors. I am sure our box will be overflowing.”
“Someone stop Lottie before she bounds in,” said Anita, as her friend appeared ready to sprint into the dining room. “They are announcing our guests this year.”
This was a new custom for the class of 1897’s last Phil Day, and Anita had been anticipating it since the plan was announced. She had been playing with the way her name would sound with Porter’s for the last few weeks, mumbling it under her breath as she walked to class: Anita Hemmings and her escort, Porter Hamilton.
“Look,” said Caroline as they approached the door. “They are using colored ushers to announce the guests. Such a nice addition. For our first three years we had to do without them and walk in without so much as a nod,” she explained to her escort. “It was such confusion.”
“They do add a touch, don’t they?” said Belle. “And all so alike in their tailcoats. Like African statues.”