A Southern Girl (32 page)

Margarite, gratified by the prospect of my intrusion on an agenda that follows the rote routine of bus stops, instructed me to arrive at 7:00. On Thursday evening, I turn down Water Street, then onto Meeting for the short hop to the Hall. I could have walked.

The St. Simeon Society is one of a diminishing number of anachronisms deliciously southern. Founded in 1766, it was modeled after a
musical society in Edinburgh, Scotland, of the same name. The by-laws empowered the Society’s managers to fix the dates and times for concerts, “… the Anniversary only excepted.” That concert, “the Grande Ball,” was to be held on St. Simeon’s Day, the third Saturday in April. My great-great-great-great-great grandfather, Alston Carter, was one of eighty-two founding members.

I know little of the Society’s history during its fledgling decades. There must have once been minutes of its gatherings, records of its dues, and the other usual stitches in the social fabric. Certainly I know of no distinction conferred by membership; other equally quaint associations predated the St. Simeon. But none, it seems, survived it, and in 1795 an event occurred which changed it in the eyes of its members and, not long afterwards, enhanced its esteem among average Charlestonians.

In June of that year, fire broke out in Lodge Alley and spread to Queen Street, destroying every house between Church Street and the Cooper River. Arson was strongly suspected, with the focus of inquiry on some newly arrived French “Negroes” from Santo Domingo, where the 1791 slave rebellion produced accounts of murder, rape, and bedlam on a scale that frightened Charlestonians to their core. The distant strains of the Civil War prelude could be heard in the events of the day, and among more attentive listeners a dark suspicion arose that Charleston slaves had abetted this arson.

The owners of slaves perceived, with perfect insight, the most extreme danger to themselves, their families and property in the event of a general rebellion. Founders of the St. Simeon were, almost to the man (for it was then all-male), slave owners, and as an additional precaution against an uprising targeting the landed gentry, a member suggested that the membership roll be destroyed and that henceforth all business be conducted in secret. A diary left by my ancestor Alston records the night, August 15, 1795, the oath of secrecy was taken:

At half-past five we dined and upon adjournment instructed Theo to dismiss the servants and absent himself from the premises. Brandy and cigars went round. After a modicum of discussion, accompanied I must say by no idle amount of good-natured derision aimed at its more vociferous proponents, the measure was approved by a near unanimous chorus of “ayes!”, with the “nays” of a few token recalcitrants drown
down in a boisterous demand for more brandy. Thus, by decree of seventy-one gentlemen, five opposed, this entry could well serve as my last recorded memoir of our blessed St. Simeon Society.

And it was. He lived for twelve more years and there is not a single additional reference to be found.

In hindsight, their rationale seems tenuous if not absurd. The landed gentry comprising the membership were well known, particularly to slaves. A fire in St. Philip’s at 11:30
A.M.
on a Sunday would have netted virtually the entire membership plus dozens more. Slaves were illiterate; did these gentlemen fear the roster falling into the hands of rebels who could not read it? The perspective of two centuries seems to me to dictate the conclusion that this pledge was an aberrational reaction of panic by a few at a loss to take meaningful steps to quell their fear. Reading Alston Carter’s report of “derision aimed at its more vociferous proponents,” I am persuaded that most voting in the affirmative did so tongue-in-cheek and brandy-in-hand, fraternal spirits like those found on any college campus. Whatever the cause, the effect of the pledge was to entrench reticence.

In 1805, a man named Andrew Ramsey was elected president. A Scotsman, he descended from Stuart Ramsey, the Society’s second president. Andrew had only one child, a daughter, foreshadowing the end of the Ramsey line under the rule of male-only descent. In an age emphatically chauvinistic and more than a century removed from the female franchise, Ramsey prevailed upon the Board to alter the rule, so that thereafter any legitimate blood issue of a member qualified. Consistent with its inviolate secrecy, there is no official record of the Board’s action but the story is well known and the admission of Martha Ramsey as the first female member is described in letters that survived her death in 1839. She reported her margin of victory as four to three.

It is easy to make too much of the 1805 Board’s enlightenment. As a musical society, the St. Simeon sponsored concerts regularly attended by women, as of course was the Grande Ball. Thus, while actual membership and the management were strictly male from the founding until Ramsey’s motion passed, women had always been welcomed as indispensable participants.

The early nineteenth century brought decline to the popularity of musical societies in general; they withered like unpicked cotton. All save
one: the St. Simeon. Its roll, unpublished anywhere but increasingly etched into the consciousness of both members and non-members, swelled, and the less said about it the greater its prestige and the more ardent the fervor of those seeking to establish their bloodlines for admission. The rosy patina of exclusivity highlighted with a rouge of hushed intrigue created a goddess of social desire, dark and mysterious and maddeningly elusive. Over decades, through the Civil War, the goddess grew more lovely, more seductive.

Entitlement remained unchanged for the next 170 years. In 1975, rising divorce rates forced a reassessment. Until that time, divorce automatically terminated membership, for both the couple and their descendants, and this rule held more than a few tortured relationships together, so highly is membership prized. I have been told (the rules are unwritten) that a divorced man or woman may now maintain affiliation if: the marriage was of at least ten years duration and produced a child, a potential St. Simeon. It is this change which allowed Adelle to remain a member after her divorce from Legare.

Until Elizabeth’s death, I had attended every Grande Ball since returning to the city to practice law. The Ball is held in the Society’s headquarters on Meeting Street. The gag rule prevents me from disclosing details, but I will offer two that have enjoyed wide circulation.

The front door of the headquarters is opened only once a year; the Anniversary. Access at all other times is a rear door which opens into an enclosed, high-walled parking lot. On the afternoon of the Ball, a long, opaque, custom-made canopy, teal in color, is erected from the curb of Meeting Street to the front door. This allows guests to come and go without being identified from the street. Secondly, the orchestra is shielded from guests by a curtain drawn full length across a stage. This barrier serves the same purpose as the canopy. White-tie and tails for men, formal floor-length gowns for women, all swaying to the muffled strains of an invisible orchestra. For an evening each April, the Old South lives in all its splendor. The social goddess summons her children to suckle the honey of privileged birth.

The man on the street, I must admit, views the Ball as a wealthy dalliance, and the paranoia over secrecy as proof of the members’ arrested development, whoever they are. Such contempt is, of course, the point, and those of us who relish the Ball relish equally the disdain of those who
have never been, and never will. It is our way of having fun in an age when all this self-righteous egalitarianism has gotten completely out of hand. And before the average Charlestonian gets too smug in his condemnation, he should honestly appraise his own attitudes. The vein of snobbery running through old Charleston does not stop at Broad Street but runs west to the Pacific Ocean. I know bowling leagues that consider themselves as exclusive as the St. Simeon.

On the other hand, bowling leagues do not dominate the city, its politics and its wealth, and it is here that the rubber meets the road, for the members of St. Simeon, in a word, control Charleston. It is not the Ball people aspire to but access to those in attendance. Long ago the Society abandoned its music motif to become what it is: the one organization dedicated to keeping the city in the hands of those who founded it, and anyone who tells you otherwise lives in Cleveland. The Ball is the annual reminder of that trust.

The debut remains a rite of passage for young women returning from their first semester in college. Although less common now, the practice still has its devotees in many areas of the country and in Charleston, where Assemblies and Cotillions launch these girls into formal society. But once again, the St. Simeon takes the road less trod. No young adult is eligible to attend before his or her senior year in high school, so that the appearance of the child at that spring Ball is an announcement to all in attendance, the social and political power structure of the city, that this kid has arrived. On that night they become trustees for the next generation, and to miss the Ball, or to be excluded, is a serious matter indeed.

I turn off Meeting Street into the venerable parking lot behind the Hall. Five or six late model cars dot the area. Adelle’s car is parked against the far wall.

Constructed in 1840 and paid for (in cash) by the members, the Hall is a monument to the permanency of the Society itself. It looms over Meeting Street with the ethereal quality of a pyramid. Six Ionic columns rise from its wide portico in support of a Greek revival roof. Even Hugo, the 1989 hurricane, cowed before it, merely displacing a few slate tiles from the roof, perhaps as a concession that Nature too knows limits. Its massive oak door, salvaged from a cathedral in Spain, requires eight hinges. I park in the rear and ring the bell at the back.

The light behind the peep-hole changes. I am being surveyed before being admitted, but accustomed to this I smile at my anonymous voyeur. The door opens and I step into a small foyer, greeted by Margarite herself.

“Coleman, how nice to see you. Right on time.” She smiles genially, overly so, as if to reassure, but there is the faintest tension around her mouth and jaw that signals all is not perfect within. “We’re running a bit behind; would you mind terribly if we took a few more minutes before calling you in?”

“Not at all. I’ll wait right here.”

A chair, Queen Anne sturdy and uncomfortable, rests nearby. I paw the coffee table for this week’s
Time
and sit down as Margarite returns to the library, where business meetings are held. The floor is marble, and the click-click of Margarite’s retreating heels echoes. The library door opens, then closes, leaving me alone with
Time.

Ten minutes elapse, then ten more. What are they doing in there? At last, the library door opens and Margarite calls my name. She swings the door wide and holds it as I enter.

The library is grandly auspicious. The ceiling is twelve feet high, adorned by a chandelier of Waterford crystal. Scaled-down Doric columns frame tall bookcases spaced evenly along the walls except at the far end, where a marble mantel predominates. Above the mantel hangs a Gilbert Stuart portrait of Arthur Ross, the Society’s first president. The mahogany conference table, once an elegant dining room appointment in a local plantation, dates from the founding. The grandeur of the room dwarfs its present occupants, the Board, now seated around the table.

I give a self-conscious wave as I walk toward them. I know them all, of course—have known them all for years, so am surprised by the nervousness I feel as I approach. I manage a twitchy little grin at Adelle as Margarite joins me at the head of the table.

“You all know Coleman, I’m sure,” she says rather formally. “As we briefly discussed before I asked him to join us, I have taken the prerogative of the chair in allowing him to come before us personally. His family’s contributions to St. Simeon over the years are well known, not the least of which was his father’s excellent stewardship as president in 1947, the year I began my active affiliation.” She turns to me as she lays a comforting
hand on my forearm. “We’re all friends here, so Coleman, why don’t you tell the Board what we can do for you.”

I clear my throat in one of those lawyerly mannerisms that portend erudition. Why I am not more at ease baffles me as I face the seven members.

There is Adelle, of course, so I count one vote my way at the outset. Clarkson Mills is a client, a bridge partner on occasion, and a very nice man. I saved his furniture business a few years ago with a Houdini-like loan from some banking associates and I believe he will do anything within reason for me. Clarkson is short, compact, with a birthmark on one temple that faintly resembles Ohio. Vote number two.

With Margarite in my corner, I need one more supporter, but a survey of those facing me reveals this will not be easy.

To Adelle’s left, my right, at the far end sits old Dr. Francis, a retired orthopedist with a long tradition of bow ties, stale breath and, during his practicing years, a bedside manner unrivaled in Charleston until World War II, when newsreels of Nazi generals at the heads of invading armies gave his patients a sense of déjà vu. Your bones better heal, and on schedule, or you got a snoot-full from Doc Francis. He is one of the few men I know who still wears a vest with watch and fob. Unfortunately, he had himself nominated for president of the Society in the very year my father was elected. He has never forgiven the Carters, and although my personal relationship with him has always been satisfactory, I am not optimistic about his vote tonight.

That leaves three members, all women. Jeanette Wilson is a well-proportioned, kudzu-like social climbing vine that, once rooted, wraps itself around everything that will help it grow and which thereafter cannot be stamped out or controlled. She seems to like me, has in fact come on to me a few times when she’s been drunk. Her vote will be cast with index finger raised, tip moistened, to see which way the social wind is blowing.

Sandy Charles is the youngest member of the committee and the newest, serving her first term. Cute, bubbly, in her late thirties, she is married to Edgar Charles, a very fine architect from a distinguished family. I like Sandra, and would be more confident of her support were it not for her lamentable habit of following Charlotte Hines’s lead.