The Log-Cabin Lady - An Anonymous Autobiography Part 7

It was the America I love--that spirit. The best America--valuing a human being for personal worth. Then I sailed for home. I went to Newport, to the Atlantic coast resorts. They were all the same.

The world had changed but not my own country.

I saw more show of wealth, more extravagance, more carelessness, more reckless morals than ever before, and--horrible to contemplate--springing up in the new world, the narrow social standards which war had torn from the old.

Social lines tightened. Men who had been overwhelmingly welcome while they wore shoulder straps were now rated according to bank accounts or "family." The "doughboy shavetail", a hero before the armistice, or the aviator who held the stage until November eleventh, once he put on his serge suit and went back to selling insurance or keeping books, became a nodding acquaintance, sometimes not even that.

I was heartsick. I thought often of those splendid men I had met in France and of the girls who poured tea for the King of the Belgians.

I wondered if any one back home was "just nodding" to them.

Everywhere was the blatant show of new wealth.

New money always glitters. I saw it in cars with aluminum hoods and gold fittings, diamonds big as birds' eggs, ermine coats in the daytime--jeweled heels at night.

Bad breeding plus new money shouted from every street corner. At private dinners, I ate foods that I knew were served merely because they were expensive, glutton feasts with twice as much as any one could eat with comfort.

One day I went to market--the kind of a market to which my mother would have gone--and I saw women whose husbands labored hard, scorning to buy any but porterhouse steaks--merely because porterhouse steak stood for prosperity.

In Washington I met a new kind of American, a type that has sprung up suddenly like an evil toadstool. It is a fungous disease that spreads.

Some hangs from old American stock, some dangles from recent plantings, all of it is sn.o.bbish and offensive. It wears foreign clothes and affects foreign ways, sometimes even foreign accents. It chops and mumbles its words like English servants who speak their language badly.

Some of this is acquired at fashionable finishing schools or from foreign secretaries and servants. These new Americans try to appear superior and distinctive by scorning all things American. They want English chintzes in their homes, French brocades and Italian silks and do not even know that some of these very textiles from America have won prizes in Europe since 1912. An American manufacturer told me he has to stamp his cretonne "English style print" to sell it in this country.

This new species of American apes royalty. It goes in for crests. It may have made its money in gum shoes or chewing tobacco, but it hires a genealogist to dig up a shield. Fine, if you are ent.i.tled to a crest.

But fake genealogists will cook up a coat for the price.

There are crests on the motor-cars, crests on the stationery, on the silver, the toilet articles--there are sometimes even crests on the servants' b.u.t.tons and on linen and underclothes!

Fake crests are the first step down, and like all lies they lead to other lies. The next step is ancestors.

Selling and painting ancestors is another business which thrives around New York, Philadelphia, and Washington. And the public swallows it.

They swallow each other's ancestors. Even old families take these new descendants as a matter of course.

One of these new Americans recently gave a large feast in Washington with every out-of-season delicacy in profusion. The only simple thing in the house was the mind of the hostess. That night it was a tangled skein.

I saw she was worried. Her house was full of potentates, the wives of two cabinet officers, and Mrs. Coolidge. She left the room twice after the dinner hour had arrived, and it was late when dinner was finally announced.

Later in the evening one of the servants whispered to the hostess that she was wanted on the telephone--the State Department.

She returned to the drawing-room looking as if she had just heard of a death in the family. The guests began considerately to leave.

Her expensive party was a dismal failure. As I have known her husband for years, I asked if I could be of any use.

[Ill.u.s.tration: p104.jpg HER EXPENSIVE PARTY WAS A DISMAL FAILURE]

"It 's too late, now," he said. "She had the Princess Bibesco and the Princess Lubomirska here and the wife of the Vice President, and she didn't know the precedence they took. She held up dinner half an hour trying to get the State Department and now they tell her she guessed wrong. It 's a tragedy to her."

I confess I did not feel very sorry for that woman. I remembered my little Indiana girl who introduced the captain to the Queen of Belgium.

I began to feel as if all America were like the De Morgan jingle:

"Great fleas have little fleas On their backs to bite 'em, And little fleas have lesser fleas And so ad infinitum."

Then I took a trip across the continent, stopping off in Indiana to see my little Y friends. It was like a bath for my soul. Brains count out West. Anybody who tries to show off is snubbed.

You must do something to be anything in the Middle West; just to have something doesn't count. You don't list your ancestors as you must in Virginia or the Carolinas, but to feel self-respecting you must do something.

I was happy to renew my wartime friendships. Those who have not shared a great work or a greater tragedy will not understand these bonds.

The same young friend who served tea to the king took me to a musicale.

She wore her war medal. One of the guests, a lady from Virginia who claims four coats of arms, was impressed by the girl's medal and the fact that she had entertained the king.

The girl had married since the war, a fine young Irish lawyer, with a family name which once belonged to a king but which, since hard times. .h.i.t the old sod, has been a b.u.t.t for song and jest.

The name did not impress the lady from Virginia. "You have such an interesting face," she said. "What was your name before your marriage?"

"Oh, it was much less interesting than my husband's," answered my young Y friend, and lifting the conversation out of the personal she asked, "Have you read Mr. Keynes' 'The Economic Consequences of the Peace?'"

"I had n't read it myself," she confided to me later, "but it was the first new book I could think of!"

That is good American manners and what the French call savoir faire.

The Far West still keeps the American inheritance of open hearted hospitality and its provincialism. The West has inherited some of the finest virtues of our country, and if it is not bitten by Back Bay, Philadelphia, Virginia, or Charleston, it will grow up into its mother's finest child.

"No church west of Chicago, no G.o.d west of Denver," we used to hear when I was a child. But to-day, the churches are part of the community and even men go. People in the West do not seem to go to church merely out of respect for the devil and a conscience complex, but because they like to. Churches and schools are important places in the West.

President Harding has said that he hopes more and more people will learn to want to pray in a closet alone with G.o.d. There are many people like that in our Middle West. I say this, because I hope it may help other American women who love their country to fight for honesty and purpose in our national life, and for tolerance and respect for the simple things in our private lives.