Drysdale also concealed Frederick’s real name and referred to him as “George.” By doing this, he was consistent with how he concealed the names of others he encountered on his travels, including his English friend, presumably out of consideration for their privacy. Nonetheless, his choice of “George” may also have been dictated by the custom American whites had of referring to black servants by “generic” names that denied them their individuality. A striking example of this was porters on Pullman trains, all of whom were black and many of whom were former slaves hired after the Civil War. Passengers called every one of them “George” no matter what their names may have been, and did so automatically and “in honor” of the businessman George M. Pullman, who employed them.
Drysdale was of course curious about Frederick’s origins and began to quiz him. “I comes from Kaintucky, Sah,” was the reply (Frederick continued to misrepresent his origins). “Been on dis side de watah bout fo’ yeahs, Sah.”
And why had he come to Europe? “To see the worl’, Sah.”
Part of Drysdale’s sense of relief when Frederick appeared came from not having to struggle with French any longer. Instead of “de l’eau chaud,” all he had to say now was “bring me a jug of hot water.” By contrast, Frederick spoke French fluently and explained that he had learned it while living in Paris for about three years. He had come to the French Riviera several months earlier for additional language study—except that now he wanted to learn Italian. To his disappointment, he found what little was spoken in Nice to be corrupted with French and Provençal, the old language of the region, so that he had moved to Monaco instead. The Italian there proved to be badly flawed as well, prompting him to make plans to leave for Milan in a few weeks.
Drysdale had the opportunity to verify Frederick’s ability to speak French on several occasions and was much impressed by how good it actually was. Especially surprising was the cultural transformation that it captured. Although Drysdale said that he found Frederick’s “bluegrass dialect” more musical than the band playing in Monte Carlo’s public park, he also thought that the “negro dialect” Frederick spoke had such a coercive hold on him that he would never be able to speak “real English.” It was therefore a genuine shock for Drysdale to find that Frederick’s black southern accent did not affect his French at all—either when he spoke with Drysdale himself or when he spoke with Frenchmen fresh from Paris.
Sounds that it seems impossible for him to make clearly in English he makes without difficulty in French. And the effect is very curious in talking with him in both languages. He has had good teachers and speaks excellent Parisian French one minute, and the next minute he says to me in cottonfield English: “Dem boots wet; dey’s not done gwinter shine, Sah.”
By contrast, Drysdale ruefully acknowledged that his own French was “naturally bad.” In keeping with the practices of the time, it is likely that Frederick’s language studies in Paris consisted less of classroom instruction than of walking and riding around the city in the company of an experienced teacher and repeatedly imitating both the practical, everyday expressions he used and his accompanying manner and gestures.
The elegance of Frederick’s French was echoed by his worldly manner, which Drysdale described as dignified, gentlemanly, and altogether fine. Frederick was also physically striking. He was a bit taller than average at five feet nine, and good-looking, with rich brown skin and generously proportioned features: high cheekbones, large oval eyes, a prominent nose, and a wide mouth that was quick to break into a captivating smile. He also liked to dress stylishly. Everything about Frederick said that he had transformed himself into a genuine cosmopolitan, one who felt free to travel around Europe as his fancy moved him, and without any concerns about being able to find suitable employment whenever he wanted it.
After helping Drysdale settle in, and brushing and cleaning his clothes in a way that “no valet in the world can do as well as Sambo when he chooses,” Frederick went to get the hotel register in which all guests were obligated by local law to write their names, home addresses, and occupations. The police checked the registers every day and guests were supposed to make their entries accurately. But Drysdale blithely dismissed this requirement and told Frederick not to bother him with such details and to register him under any name and occupation that he chose.
Frederick was entirely willing to play with Drysdale’s biography, as he did with his own when it suited him. Frederick’s years of successfully serving clients in half a dozen countries on two continents had made him into an excellent actor and judge of character. He had also gotten to know human nature too well to take entirely seriously all the moral pieties that laws and social norms were meant to reflect. Instead of putting his trust in abstract principles, Frederick invested in private relations; and he could be very generous with his affections.
Taking the black-covered book to a mantelpiece in the room, Frederick began to write in it with an expression that Drysdale characterized as showing “that he was going through a severe mental struggle,” an implausible description that says more about Drysdale’s racially inflected projections than about what proved to be Frederick’s adroit and ironic flattery. Asking “wheder dat’ll do, Sah,” Frederick handed the book to Drysdale, who sheepishly realized that the valet had “rather turned the tables” on him. He had registered him as “Hon. G. W. Ingram, residence Washington, occupation United States Senator, last stopping place Paris, intended stay in Monaco two weeks, intended destination Cairo, Egypt.”
To his discomfort, Drysdale realized that he would have to backpedal because “such false pretenses might lead to awkward complications”; moreover, he would have to find some way to retreat gracefully after saying that he did not care what Frederick wrote about him.
“Has my friend registered yet?” he asked.
“No, Sah… I’se jest goin’ to his room now, Sah.”
“Very well, then,” Drysdale told Frederick. “You need not trouble him. This description you have written will answer for him very nicely, and I will put my own name and ‘pedigree’ beneath.”
Thus it was that Drysdale’s young English friend received what Drysdale, with his rather cumbersome wit, chose to characterize as “the greatest honor of his life”—being transformed “for the moment into an American and a Senator.”
Like any valet or waiter, Frederick would have wanted to ingratiate himself with his patrons by assuming a deferential mien and manner, both because the job demanded it and because his income from tips depended on it. However, in his subsequent encounters with Drysdale, who spent about a month at the Hôtel de Paris before resuming his leisurely journey along the Mediterranean coast, we also get glimpses of Frederick’s poised self-confidence and of his mastery of local cultural norms, which he understood far better than his patron.
Frederick’s assurance and sophistication belied the primitivized portrait captured in Drysdale’s articles. When Frederick saw Drysdale and the Englishman crossing the hotel lobby toward the door on the first evening after their arrival, he hastened to intervene to forestall a possible social gaffe.