Entering “Society”
There was a time, long ago, when “Society” was a very serious matter. A young girl with any pretensions of making a suitable (read money and breeding) marriage had to undergo certain rituals before making her debut at a formal presentation.
First of all, she had to have the right connections: a proper family background, (preferably with a Waspish sounding name and no scandals) and attendance at an A-rated girls’ private school.
Years before she attained true debutante status, there were rites of passage she must undergo. Miss Benjamin’s Dances, known as the “Get Togethers” were at Stage One. To be accepted in the group, both mother and fourteen-year-old daughter had to be screened by a fearsome group of New York dowagers. This took place at a tea, after the important data had previously been submitted. General appearance and social poise were scrutinized. This must have been as stressful for the mothers and offspring as today’s applications for entrance to the proper nursery schools.
I should mention that my mother had quite a problem readying me for the Benjamin ordeal. Like all mothers, she had an idealistic vision of me, my appearance and my social gifts. It was hard enough to talk me into wearing my first pair of long, silk stockings, not to mention straightening my posture, but to design my first real grown-up evening dress would be a real challenge. She had been designing her own clothes for years.
As for me, I couldn’t have cared less, but I’d known for years that there would come a time when my tomboy days were over. Going to dances was one of those terrible things that happened when you grew bumps on your chest. I supposed I would have to go with the only boys I knew, Kim and Willard Roosevelt. Their mother, Belle Roosevelt, daughter-in-law of Teddy Roosevelt, was my mother’s best friend. The boys had taught me, years ago, how to ride a two-wheel bicycle, otherwise we were almost strangers. At least I would not be shamed by going to the dance with my brother, I told myself.
In those days my mother had a small business designing negligees, evening clothes and tea gowns. She had a rather interesting group of customers: some of them the mistresses of well known men-about-town. She was eager for a change and set about creating my first evening dress. I was the tailored type (and still am) but why she pictured me in rufflesremains a mystery. The dress was a lovely color: American Beauty, guaranteed to stand out on the dance floor. It started out tailored, plain to the waist, but ruffles cascaded to the floor for the rest of the way. Conscious of my new chest, I did not stand straight, in fact my whole bearing must have been very disheartening to my mother.
She and my father were not planning to be at the party, so it was arranged that Shirley Campbell, the family governess, would taxi me and the boys to the Plaza ballroom where the “Junior Get Together” was to be held.
On arrival, I and my escorts had to go through the signing in process, then Shirley and I went off to the ladies room to “pay a visit” as a precaution. It was a fancy place with lots of dressing tables, basins, and a room to hang my modest “lapin” (read rabbit) fur jacket. There were a number of cubicles, one of which I entered gratefully. All went well, until on rising, I discovered that the back of my dress had dipped into the bowl. Horrors! Life’s darkest moment. I called out to Shirley in dismay.
Fortunately, the other girls had left the place and nobody saw Shirley as she gathered up my skirt, rinsed it in a wash stand, toweled it a bit, and stood me with my back to the radiator, where I spent the next thirty minutes fluffing my ruffles. The front ruffles looked a bit crisper than those in the back, but Shirley assured me that I was presentable. When I finally arrived at the ballroom entrance I encountered the formidable Miss Benjamin.
“Didn’t you come with the Roosevelt boys?” she challenged. “How old is Willard?”
“Oh, I think he’s fifteen,” I said.
Miss Benjamin, a gentlewoman of small income, but with well-qualified social credentials, had started the dances many years ago. It was rumored that she had worn that same dowdy black dress for the past twenty years. She was short, fat and undistinguished in every way, but she reigned as queen of the junior social scene. She was not awed by a mere Roosevelt.
She glared at me, scorn in her voice, “Don’t you know that the boys have to be at least sixteen. I’m sorry, but I’ll have to send him home.”
I stood beside her, unable to speak or move. What a fiasco!
“Come, come,” she commanded, and briskly pushed me into the Plaza ballroom.
Thus began my first official entrance into Society.