Carriage Trade (28 page)

From the time they were very little girls, George Banning taught his daughters how to make their way, as women, in the world. They were taught how to perform a deep curtsy, of course, but they were also taught how to enter rooms. They were taught how to smile and how to accept a compliment. (“Thank you.”) They were taught how to cross their legs, ankle on ankle, when seated. (“Knee on knee causes the calf to bulge ungracefully.”) They were taught to speak in richly soft, cultivated voices. He taught them to dance, and he taught them to flirt. All three became expert flirts, which probably persuaded men to think them prettier than they actually were. Flirtation is not an art taught to young women of today's generation, perhaps, but it was taught to the Banning sisters by George Banning himself.

They called him Fa and he called them his bobolinks, and long before they were old enough to have any interest in boys, he would gather the little girls on his lap in his big study chair and give them lessons on how to deal with the opposite sex.

“Bobolinks,” he would say, “always remember that when a young man calls to pick you up for a dance or a dinner date, you should make him wait for you a little bit. That's very important—the little wait. When he rings your doorbell, never come running down the stairs, ready to go, even if you are. Make him wait for a few minutes. That makes it much more exciting for him when you finally appear. Now remember, Bobolinks, most young gentlemen are not good conversation-starters, so it becomes the young lady's duty to start the conversation. That's why it's important to find out, ahead of time, what the young gentleman's interests are. If he happens to be interested in baseball, you can start the conversation by saying, ‘Wasn't that an exciting White Sox game on Saturday?' After the conversation's started, though, you should let him do most of the talking. There's nothing that impresses a gentleman more than a lady who's a good listener. That's why it's important to ask him questions about what interests him. For instance, with this baseball chap you might say, ‘I love baseball, but I've never understood what constitutes an inning.' Then let him explain to you what an inning is, even if you already know. Gentlemen enjoy explaining things to ladies. They do
not
enjoy ladies who seem to know all the answers. They do not enjoy that
at all
. Then, while he's explaining whatever it is to you, you should look him straight in the eye, as though what he's telling you is the most interesting thing in the world to you, even if it isn't.”

“Is it important to be pretty, Fa?”

“No, Bobolinks,” he said firmly, “it is not. But it
is
important to be attractive. If a gentleman finds you attractive, he will also find you pretty. What do I mean by attractive? Do you remember what I told you about attractiveness?”

“A gentleman is attracted to a lady if she makes him feel witty, worldly, wonderful, and wise.”

“Correct. The four W's. Very important. That's why, when a gentleman says something to a lady that he thinks is witty, she should always laugh politely, even if she doesn't find what he said particularly funny. Not a loud laugh, of course. Just a soft, polite laugh. Remember Mr. Shakespeare: ‘Her voice was ever soft, gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman.' Now, unfortunately, some young men are mashers. Do you remember what I told you about mashers?”

“A masher is a man who likes cheap women, Fa.”

“That is correct. Since well-brought-up young ladies are not cheap women, you must treat the masher very carefully. Here are some of the things a masher may try to do. In the theater, on a streetcar, or in an automobile, a masher may try to put his arm around your shoulders. Simply reach up and remove his arm. On the dance floor, the masher may let his hand drop below your waist. Simply reach behind you and move his hand up where it belongs. In the theater, he may rest his knee against yours. Simply withdraw your knee. If he persists, just reach out and tap his knee sharply with your fingertip, like this.” He demonstrated the tap on each of his daughters' kneecaps, and the girls giggled. “A masher may try to tickle you,” he said. “Do not let him.”

The little girls squealed. “Tickle us, Fa!”

And so he tickled them, tickling the backs of their legs, under their chins, between their shoulder blades, until the three girls were shrieking with wild laughter.

“Now that's enough,” he said at last. “But just remember that only your Fa has tickling privileges with his Bobolinks.

“Now here's another important thing to remember. A time may come when you will find yourself at a party with a young man who has had too much to drink. If you should happen to sense this has happened—if you see his eyes begin to roll, or if he seems unsteady on his feet—you must simply leave the party. Do not say good night to your escort. Do not even tell him you are leaving. Just find someone else to take you home or telephone for a taxicab. When the young man discovers you have left, he will be so ashamed of himself that he will telephone you in the morning, and apologize, and beg you for another date. Do not give that to him right away. Make him call you a second time, or even a third.

“Remember, Bobolinks, what I told you about accepting a date from a young gentleman you have not dated before. The first time he asks you out, tell him you're sorry but you're busy, even if you're not. The second time he asks you, tell him you'll think about it. The third time he asks you, it will be proper to accept, if you wish to do so. The point is, you want a young man to keep coming back … coming back … again and again. A gentleman finds a lady
particularly
attractive if she is hard to get, so never let him think you are easy to get. If a young lady is too easy to get, a gentleman finds her unattractive in the end and will lose interest in her.

“Of course, this is all while you are waiting to decide which man you intend to marry. Once you are married, you will become your husband's property and you must do what he tells you to—love, honor, and obey. Is that clear, Bobolinks?”

“Yes, Fa.”

And, quaint though these lectures sound today—and there was a great deal more in this vein—the three Banning sisters learned their lessons well. They adored their father. They thought him the wisest man in the world, as well as the handsomest and the kindest and of course the best.

Consuelo Banning Tarkington used to try to pass on some of her father's wisdom to her own daughter, Miranda, but it fell on deaf ears. She wouldn't listen then, and she'll certainly never listen now.

What is the secret of raising children in today's world? Dressing for dinner, Consuelo Tarkington consults her mirror for the answer.

13

Miranda Tarkington (interview taped 8/19/91)

My mother jumped on me when I tried to tell you this story the other night at the farm. I don't know why. Maybe she thinks it's too childish a story. But I think it illustrates the special feeling I had about my father when I was growing up. Why I loved him so.

In 1976, when I was nine years old, my father and I flew down to Washington, D.C., together. This was to be a very important mission. A few days earlier, a secretary from the White House had phoned the store to say that Mrs. Betty Ford, the First Lady, would like to look at clothes for a state visit that she and the President would be making to France, and in the belly of the jet was a whole wardrobe carton filled with designer dresses, shoes, bags, and accessories for the First Lady's consideration.

Jackie Kennedy had been dressed exclusively by Oleg Cassini when she was in the White House. She didn't become a Tarkington's client till after. Incidentally, that reminds me of a little selling trick my father used to use. He'd have an important client in his office, and he'd have Pauline telephone him from the outer office. He'd say, “Yes, Mrs. Onassis.… Yes, we have a new shipment of those little tops you like so much.… We have it in moss green, in shell pink, in pumpkin, in tobacco, and in navy.… You'd like one in each color? Certainly, Mrs. Onassis.” By the time he hung up on this phony order, the customer's eyes would be popping out of her head. She'd say,
“Let me see those little tops!”

My mother probably wouldn't like me telling that story, either, because it was—well, I suppose a little bit deceptive. But it used to make me laugh.

Anyway, back to Mrs. Ford. Daddy used to complain that there hadn't been a stylish woman in the White House since Jackie. But then Mrs. Ford went on a diet and slimmed down to a size six, and Daddy had been dropping hints that she might consider shopping at his store. And so, when that call came, he was thrilled, and naturally he decided to accompany his merchandise and show it to her personally.

The airline had been notified of the significance of this trip, because the cargo handlers needed to be alerted to the special nature of this big packing box. God forbid that any of the garments should arrive damaged by grappling hooks or even the slightest bit out of press. A Secret Service man had even helped supervise the packing, in case someone tried to slip a bomb into the yards and yards of pink tissue paper.

Why my father took me on this sales trip, I had no idea at the time. Later, I learned he had said, “I understand the Fords are a very family-oriented couple. So I think bringing Miranda along would be a nice touch—to show them I'm a family man.” Even then, my mother and I were being used as window dressing for Daddy's store—not that I minded in the slightest.

Daddy was terribly excited, particularly since these were clothes that were to be worn in Paris. “We'll show those French fashion snobs what American designers are all about!” he said.

I was excited too. All my classmates at Brearley were green with envy that I was going to the White House. So were my teachers. I was going to write a special report on my visit and deliver it in front of the entire school when I got back. Oh, I was Little Miss Important, believe me! I was even going to get to wear a little light lipstick, which was taboo in the fourth grade. My mother says being envied makes her feel sad. It didn't make
me
sad. I loved it!

Beforehand, my mother tutored me carefully on how to greet the First Lady. “No curtsy, just a handshake and a nice smile. Remember, a smile is in the eyes, not the mouth. Just say, ‘How do you do, Mrs. Ford. How very nice of you to let me come.' Then, while she looks at the garments, you just sit there, with your hands folded in your lap and your legs crossed at the ankle. Don't speak to her unless she speaks to you, and if she should speak to you, answer as politely as possible. First impressions are most important, Miranda.”

Then my mother and I had a dress rehearsal for the visit, with Mother standing in for Betty Ford. “How do you do, Miranda,” Mother said.

“How do you do, Mrs. Ford. How very nice of you to let me come.”

My mother held an imaginary garment at her shoulders in front of an imaginary mirror, turning this way and that. “What do
you
think of this dress, Miranda?” she asked.

“I think you would look lovely in it, Mrs. Ford,” I said.

My mother clapped her hands. “Perfect!” she said.

And of course my mother selected my clothes with great care, rejecting outfit after outfit. “You must look like a Tarkington's woman,” she said, though the store didn't have a children's department. Finally, she settled on a white cotton blouse with a yellow ribbon at the throat, a yellow pleated skirt with a matching bolero top, blue low-heeled shoes, and a yellow straw hat with a blue ribbon down the back. “A lady visiting the White House during the daytime should always be hatted,” she explained. “In the evening, never.” Where did she come up with these rules? I wondered. I'd never worn a hat before, and it was my first pair of pantyhose.

I modeled my White House clothes for her. “Oh, you look just like a little yellow tulip,” she said, clapping her hands again. “You're really an awfully pretty little girl, you know.”

She'd never told me that before, and it impressed me. Come to think of it, she never told me again.

So my father and I sat beside each other in the first class section of the big plane. He didn't seem to be nervous, but I knew he was, and I certainly was, at least a little. I concentrated on keeping my hands folded in my lap.

We'd been in the air for about ten minutes, and the seat belt sign had been turned off, when my father summoned the stewardess. I remember she was a young black woman with hair so shiny and pulled back so tightly across her head that it looked as though it had been painted on. It looked like trompe l'oeil hair. “I'd like to visit the captain in the cockpit,” my father said.

“I'm sorry, sir, but F.A.A. regulations do not permit passengers to visit the flight deck while the aircraft is in air operations,” she said.

My father reached in his pocket. “Please give the captain my card,” he said, and handed it to her.

“Certainly, sir.”

My father winked at me. “We'll have some fun with her,” he whispered.

Well, she was back in a flash, all smiles, saying, “Mr. Tarkington, Captain Brown has invited you to join him for a few minutes on the flight deck. Is this your little girl? Perhaps she'd enjoy visiting the flight deck, too. Please follow me, sir.”

And so we went forward to the flight deck, where we met the captain, the first officer, and the flight engineer, who explained what the hundreds of little dials and knobs and buttons and switches on the control panel meant and how they worked. “We're delighted to have you on board, Mr. Tarkington,” the captain said. “I've been assured that your cargo went on board intact and will receive priority care when we get to Washington National.”

“Now that my daughter has had her first flying lesson,” my father said, “perhaps she'd like to take over the controls of the aircraft for a few minutes. Would you like that, Miranda?”