8. College Days

All of the fraternities of my alma mater live in chapter houses now. While I was in college the Phi Kappa Psi boys leased a decadent mansion that had long been the home of an old family which had dwindled down to a bankrupt octogenarian.

As the Phi Psis had been the first national fraternity to organize a chapter at Wittenberg, most of the faculty were members. Beta Theta Pi had come next in order of founding, so the rest of the Faculty were Betas. The Betas and Phi Psis hated each other, a little more vigorously after the Phi Psis acquired their house, and took on airs, and began to have parties. With this competition, the Betas began having parties, too. They opened their fraternity hall to the girls, employed a dancing teacher, and went in for an expansive social program. We “Fijis” pretended to abhor the idea of inviting women to our hall. Fraternities, we maintained, were for men. Our social rating was something like that of the Dead End Kids. I never learned how to dance.

In 1897 the Fiftieth Annual Convention of Phi Gamma Delta was held at the brand-new Hotel Schenley in Pittsburgh. Our Wittenberg undergraduate chapter was represented by two delegates, William Henry (Bill) Robbins and me. Bill’s family was well-to-do and he had been around. It was the first time I had been exposed to luxury and Bill generously coached me on how to get along with the haves.

Fortunately, I was able to make a decent appearance. I had been working on Saturdays in a men’s furnishings store and my wages were paid in clothing which my employer—a very fine fellow, by the way—made for me at a big discount. I not only had modish street clothes but a formal dress suit, for I was a member of the Glee Club. Perhaps I may speak more of this Glee Club and its two weeks of out-of-town engagements annually, if I have time. These trips were fun and earned a little money.

Oh, yes, I had a pair of patent leather pumps, too, which I wore at evening sessions of the Fraternity Convention, though I owned only a half-interest in them. They were necessitated by these Glee Club performances. Classmate John Milton (King) Cole was an excellent violinist. He belonged to the Glee Club, but hated to pay five dollars for a pair of shoes he couldn’t use anywhere except on the stage. So—because the vocal octette, to which I belonged, wouldn’t be on the stage while King was fiddling, we divided the expense. It required some prompt footwork on the part of the King and me to get in and out of these shoes. Backstage people always made way for us.

So—I was well enough dressed at the Fraternity Convention. Incidentally, the survivors of that Convention met for a reminiscent dinner in New York in 1947. I wanted very much to attend but wasn’t well enough. They asked me to write them a letter to be read on that occasion. I enclose a few lines of it.

“One night, after the day’s serious work was over, everybody was down in the swanky, shiny, new cocktail lounge (although I don’t remember that they were called ‘cocktail lounges’ at that period) having a friendly glass of beer and getting personally acquainted.

“The table where Bill Robbins and I sat was surrounded by about fifteen youngsters representing almost that many colleges and universities. On the other side of this big round table a small group quietly discussed some of the recent social doings in their respective chapters. The group of participants and listeners grew larger.

“We heard of what was going on in beautiful chapter houses, mostly in the older Eastern schools; the parties, with home girls imported; the proms, the assorted gaieties, the almost-every-thing that poor little Sigma Chapter didn’t have.

“As I listened I grew more and more miserable over the plight of my brethren back in far-away Ohio and felt traitorous over my inability to make a comparable show of our social antics at little Wittenberg.

“At length, I collected all my courage, won the full attention of the entire table and began to tell them about Sigma Chapter.

“We had, I said, a 50-room chapter house. So long as I was building this chapter house, I thought I might as well give it a favorable location, so I situated it on a hill overlooking the campus. It was a fairly steep hill, which gave our establishment a commanding position. Its grounds were exquisitely landscaped… I described a few of our parties. These brilliant affairs of ours (or mine) made all the social functions we had heard about from our Eastern brethren seem very small and tepid by comparison… I went on and on. My audience sat stunned, wide-eyed, transfixed, while I proceeded to gild my lily to the full extent of my ability. At length—I ended my story. My audience was speechless, stupefied, awe-stricken.

“Then, breaking the silence, came the quiet voice of Bill Robbins. ‘Douglas,’ he remarked, apologetically, ‘is a darned liar.'”

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