in the Bowery, either.
It isn’t healthy.
It’s etiquette to mind your own business and keep out of the way. And
so nobody paid any attention to the weeping girl and the swearing
blackguard. But that night in a dingy room a girl cried herself to
sleep, and between her tears made up her mind what she would do on the
morrow.
She did what she had planned to do, and twenty-four hours later the
tough waiter was looking for another girl to take her place.
Between you and me, that happened a long while ago, as we count time
in New York. Since then she has been abroad, to the Pacific Coast and
in all of the large American cities. Her name is in big type on the
posters, and she is referred to as a prima donna.
I wonder if her memory ever takes her back to the little back room
where she used to sing songs for a dollar a night?
A THROW OF THE DICE
There is probably no street in the world that has the same number and
style of restaurants as Broadway, New York, especially the kind that
are within the bounds of the Tenderloin. Chuck Conners would call them
feed joints; the irreverent might refer to them as hash houses, and the
slangy man or woman who wanted to designate them might be pardoned for
dubbing them lobster palaces. But there would be a lot of sense and
reason in the last if you were only on, or took the time to think it
over.
There is nothing to them in the daytime, and the heavily carpeted
floors and snowy-clad tables burdened with silver and glass are
practically out of commission. There are a few waiters on duty, but
no one ever heard of them being overworked, even with the rush of the
merry-merry after a matinee.
These money-makers begin to rouse up a bit about the time the average
man of business affairs is finishing his quiet dinner at home, but the
time to go there if you want to see things, and by things I mean the
sights and celebrities, is after the theatres have let out the evening
performance. Then, if you amount to anything, you will have a table
where you can see and be seen, and you will feast upon a bite that will
cost you nothing less than a ten-dollar bill, not including wine.
[Illustration: It’s only a dream after the lobster course]
The shining lights of this world are in a class by themselves, and
include the bookmaker with a loud voice--a trifle heavier than his bank
roll; the gambler, soft of hand and manner; the sport who has done
something or other at some time or other to entitle him to a passing
recognition; the detective sergeant, who is a necessary evil, and who
mixes in for business purposes of his own, and not for the purpose of
doing the work for which he is paid by the city; then, last of all, the
actor--star or semi-star.
They order as if the cooks in all the world were working for them
alone, and the waiters were employed for their exclusive benefit.
They are epicures and gourmets by force of circumstances, and the
circumstances are a roll of bank bills about the size of a man’s wrist.
Most of them have risen to a mushroom-like affluence.
The money came quickly, and they are spending it just as quickly.
They know the difference in wines simply because of the price, and
they order that which sounds the best, so for that reason a stream of
the juice of the grape floods a bunch of uneducated palates and floats
high-priced food that would kill a man with an ordinary digestive
apparatus.
Not one in a hundred of these men were to the manor born; their lives
were cast in stony places and what they are they made themselves
by sheer force of will, or else they accepted the golden wreath of
opportunity and knew which road to take when they came to the forks.
At a table near the wall is a man who twenty years ago was a bootblack
of the city’s streets.
From river to river there was no spot on which he could put his finger
and say:
“This is my home.”
He grew up like a blade of grass sprouting between stones, and he
fought tooth and nail for his life. He knew what kicks and cuffs were,
and if his memory isn’t bad he knows yet.
He blacked the boots of a man with florid face, a heavy gold chain
across his vest, and a mammoth stone blazing like a headlight in his
scarf, and because this boy was bright of eye and keen of wit his
customer, whose business was politics, took a fancy to him. Had this
little nomad been born with a gold spoon in his mouth he could not have
fared better, nor could his prospects have been more alluring, for a
politician, you know, is a man who, when he goes to bed at night, hangs
his trousers on the bedpost, and when he wakes up in the morning the
pockets are full of money. At least, that is my idea, and if I am wrong
just let some of the leading politicians of to-day contradict me, and
tell me truly how they got theirs.
While this man is eating his lobster a la Newburg, and sipping the wine
that cost him $5 a bottle, I’ll go on with the story.
For about two weeks he blacked his patron’s shoes, and then one fateful
morning the man with the bull neck said sharply:
“Chuck that box away, son, and come along with me.”
He didn’t wait for the boy to take the cue and act on it, but he gave
the box a kick with his square-toed boot that sent it to the middle of
the street, and then he led the boy to a clothing shop where he had
him fitted out with everything a fellow that size ought to have.
He saw possibilities in this youngster, and he figured that it would
be a wise move to have some one as close to him as his shirt, and upon
whom, in time of trouble, he could depend with absolute certainty.
A good bed, good food three times a day and money in the pocket serves
often to make a marvelous transformation, and it was so in this case,
and the erstwhile bootblack forgot in a moment that he had ever shined
shoes or performed any menial services for any human being. He was
swept along on the tide of prosperity with his patron and he scoffed
at poor things and poor people, as might have been expected. He was
aggressive to everyone except his source of income, whom he followed
and fawned upon like a hound.
The work he did was criminal, but he did it cheerfully, even though a
hundred could have sent him up the river with a word. His morals were
as flat as a desert, and he grew into a selfish, egotistical, arrogant,
blatant man whose friends were friends by force of circumstances, and
not by reasons of any virtues that he possessed, or of any real liking
they had for him.
In the course of time the big man with the neck of a gladiator died,
and was buried in a manner fitting his life. A ton of flowers followed
him to the six-foot hole which had been provided for him; a few bottles
of wine were drunk by his cronies to drown their grief and to toast his
successful debut into that new and unknown world to which he had gone,
and that was all.
The bootblack, who had taken himself seriously, and was fond of calling
himself a gentleman on all possible occasions, for no other reason
apparently than that he wore the best clothes that money could buy,
took possession of his patron’s effects, rifled his safe, his desk, and
appropriated to himself everything that was of the slightest value, and
then developed into a short card man.
So he sits there to-night, eating lobster and talking to a woman who,
between you and me, is worth looking at more than once.
By an old and familiar, as well as extremely simple, process she had
taken his name. It was a trifling matter, settled in a moment over
a small bottle, and her only speculation was as to whether he could
suitably provide for her.
It was a very good investment for him, for she has proven to be a very
useful little lady in more ways than one. She knows a lot of real nice
boys, and when they get very sporty she tells them about a good game
where good fellows may be found. She is the kind of a woman who would
make a sport out of a church deacon, consequently she fits very snugly
into the life and trade of our friend the shoe-shiner.
When you get to know her passing well she will tell you how she was
educated in a convent, which she left to visit a wealthy aunt in
Pittsburg. While there she became engaged to marry a rich broker, and
so on, and so on, you know, the same old story. The stage figures in
it, too, because there is always a fascinating glamor about the other
side of the footlights.
She has been in comic opera and she has a lot of expensive photographs
of herself in theatrical poses, but no matter how well posted you may
be you fail to recall her name, even though she was an understudy for
Lillian Russell, “when Lillian was good.”
If you let your glance rove across the room to a table close by one of
the central pillars, you will see another type of woman, and this one
is worth studying.
She will never see her fortieth birthday again, although she looks
about thirty-two. That may be art, or it may be an inherited physical
characteristic, but the fact remains that she is still young enough and
good looking enough to attract a man.
She is a veritable star and her singing and acting are flawless.
The fine old gentleman she is chatting with is the head of a very
ancient and very distinguished family of New York, and she is under his
protecting wing.
That is a remarkable feature of her career; she always selects with
painstaking care, nice old men, with families.
And for that there may be a good and sufficient reason.
While you are watching her and noting her rather dainty ways, which are
perhaps a bit too dainty for one of her age, listen to the little story
I am going to tell you about her.
Not so many years ago, but just about the time when she was in the
zenith of her career, she met just the same kind of a man she is
talking with now. She had had a great deal of experience with old men
and she took advantage of all she knew to make him like her.
She succeeded--hence this story.
The old fellow was all right, and he knew what was necessary under the
circumstances, and he made good with characteristic rapidity. The first
thing he did was to buy her a handsome brownstone house on a quiet side
street, fill it full of handsome furniture, and then he blew himself
in for a neat little brougham and pair for theatre use.
So far, so good, and the play went merrily on.
And now comes a spectacle, or a melodrama, or even a farce, if you like.
He wasn’t her constant companion, because he was clever enough
to realize that if she saw too much of him it might be fatal to
his chances, so he timed his visits with careful exactitude, and
incidentally showered her with gifts--which, after all, is one of the
direct roads to a woman’s heart.
But he made the fatal mistake one day of introducing to her one of his
old friends, and from that moment there began a fierce rivalry between
them for the smiles of the auburn-haired actress; it was a duel with
a lock of hair as a reward; a combat with a smile for the victor, and
they both went to work with a will and to the exclusion of every other
object in life.
When one bought her a magnificent solitaire, she showed it to the other
and he promptly laid a tiara at her feet, and it was unquestionably the
greatest battle of senile old idiots that ever raged.
Separately they took to waylaying her on the street from her house
to the theatre, and back again, and one even went so far as to buy a
magnificent yacht, equip it for a long cruise, and attempt to kidnap
her. But that plan failed, and it was just as well that it did, because
the man who does eccentric stunts of that character is apt to find
himself in hot water sooner or later, and in any event reap a whirlwind
of scorn from the lady in the case.
Finally, the climax came, as it was bound to come, when they met at her
house one Sunday afternoon.
All this may be new to you, but you must remember it was as common in
club circles as the Spanish war, and the results of the affair were
watched for by thousands of men whose names figure conspicuously in the
public prints.
They met and they quarreled, and when my lady appeared on the scene
these two beaux were on the verge of punching each other in good old
Queensbury fashion.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, I beg that you will not quarrel in _my_ house.”
You will notice that she put the accent on the word “my.”
At once there were criminations and recriminations, but with that
charm of manner which made her famous, not only on the stage, but in
the drawing room, to say nothing of the cafe, she poured oil on the
troubled waters.
“I do not really know what your differences are about, but if you will
allow me, I would like to suggest that you settle them in some amicable
way. Here are dice and a cup, why not play for it?”
They looked at each other for a moment, and then one said:
“Yes, we will do it, madame, just the thing. Here, I will make the
first throw,” and out upon the shining surface of the golden table
rolled the three ivory cubes.
They fought it out while she looked on languidly, and at last when it
had been decided, the winner arose exultingly and shouted:
“I have won.”
“Won what?” she queried, curiously.
“Won what? Why, won you.”
“Won me?” and she placed her taper finger on her breast. “Why, how very
charming that is. I ought to congratulate you, I suppose, and I shall
certainly let you know when I come back--if you are still alive.”
“You’re not going away?” he faltered. “When?”
“I sail to-morrow morning at eight o’clock; I go aboard this afternoon.
I am going to Europe for a good long rest; mother says I need it, and
so we are going together. Good afternoon. Let me congratulate you on
being so lucky, and to win me, too. Why, it’s like a romance. How
splendidly that would stage.”
Down the street the two old fellows walked, one slightly in advance of
the other. At the corner the one who was ahead, hesitated a moment,
then turned and waited for the other to come up.
“Tom,” he said. “I don’t know what you think, but I am of the opinion
that we are a pair of damned old fools who ought to know better. Let’s
go and have a drink.”
The old gentleman who is pouring out that wine for her now would
perhaps like to hear that story in all its wealth of detail, but even
if he knew it might make no difference.
Of all the thousands of people who go to restaurants there are only a
few who do not go for the sole purpose of eating. We have been here an
hour and have looked over but two tables, and the story is not half
told.
[Illustration]
A VOICE IN THE SLUMS
This is one of the “places” of New York.
It is not worth looking at in the daylight, because there is nothing to
see.
It is gray, dull, dreary and desolate--too dismal to be considered for
even a moment.
About it all there is not one thing that is attractive.
It is downtown and on the East Side, and that is enough to tell the
story.
If you have never been downtown on the East Side of this big city, go
and take a look some time, it is worth it, and you may see some things
there--as I have--that will interest you.
At night you wouldn’t recognize this place because of the softening and
concealing effect of the electric lights.
Besides the lights there is music, and in addition to that there are
women--what kind of women you can guess, but the fact remains that they
are still women, and even their presence helps to brighten up this spot
of the slums.
Toughs of the street straggle in singly and by twos, glancing warily
about for prey, or in search of girls to whom they are attached. The
type is familiar enough in every city. Square-jawed, low-browed, with
shifting eyes and an aggressive manner; dressing well when the money
comes easy, and not so well when hard times arrive; living by their
wits, which at the best is precarious, relying for the necessities of
life upon a girl; spending a certain portion of time in jail, unless,
as it often happens, they are too cowardly to rob a man, but not too
cowardly to take from a woman.
[Illustration: She figured once at a masked ball that was raided by the
police]
Sightseers drift in, too, from everywhere, look curiously about, as if
expecting some remarkable and extraordinary occurrence at any moment,
and failing in that, they take chairs at the nearest table, and give
meek orders to the aggressive waiter for liquors which they seem afraid
to drink.
At stated intervals someone sings a song, and between times the music
plays a waltz for those who care to dance on the bit of polished floor
reserved for that purpose.
The very dregs of high life.
It is the lees of the wine.
Just a few years ago--so short a time that it seems almost like
yesterday--a young woman was singing in light operas and doing
occasional turns in vaudeville. If I were to tell you her name now it
would have as familiar a sound to you as the name of any other popular
performer.
One of her distinguishing characteristics was her voice, which had a
remarkable and extraordinary range.
And how she could use it.
She was absolute master of it, and there was no doubt about her
success, nor her future, either, barring accidents, of course.
Besides that she was good to look at. She was of a distinctive style of
beauty, and she had a fetching way with her which spelled magnetism.
Magnetism, between you and me, means success on the stage--or anywhere
else, for that matter. Take the best actor or actress in the world, one
who is perfect in lines, diction and stage business; who is absolute
master of the art of stage craft, and rob them of magnetism, and I will
show you a failure.
So, you see, this young woman was well equipped for the business she
was in, and there is the picture.
Nicely gowned, looking and acting like a thoroughbred, she had a big
following of admirers, and there didn’t seem to be anything on earth
within reason that she wanted she couldn’t have.
The limit of her vices was a few mild drinking bouts with the boys
and the occasional smoking of a cigarette, even though there was a
possibility that in the years to come the tobacco would destroy the
finer tones of her voice.
The moral end of the business was her own affair, and consequently will
not be touched on.
Now look.
See that pallid woman?
The one who has just come in. She is talking to a waiter now. Her thin
face is seamed with lines, and the light of youth, of life and of
enthusiasm has gone out of her eyes.
You wouldn’t think she was once a beautiful girl with a wonderful
voice, would you?
“I had the yin-yin so bad,” she is saying, “that I had to go in and hit
two pills before I came out. Now I’m good till the lights go out.”
One night, after the show, she went with a party on a slumming tour
through Chinatown. They were out to have a good time and nothing more.
In one of the resorts in which they stopped was a good-looking young
bartender who caught her fancy. He was all right in a way, but she
outclassed him about twenty to one, but there is no telling what a
woman is going to do, or upon whom she is going to bestow her favors,
any more than one can tell what the state of the weather will be a
month or two months from now.
She thought she was in love with him--but she wasn’t. She had only
taken a fancy to him, which was a different sort of a proposition, but
she didn’t know it at that time.
She went on singing just the same, but the time she was out of the
theatre she spent with him, and the more money she earned the better he
dressed.
She dipped a little deeper into the different vices, until at last she
went up against the king of them all--opium.
With all of her drinking and cigarette smoking she was still able to
hold her own and keep her voice in some kind of shape, and many a rare
old song has she trilled in some cheap dive, and made the old-timers
straighten up in their seats and tell her she was all right. Previous
to that she had figured in only one escapade and that was when she was
caught in a raid at a masked ball which was so off-color and made up
of many desperate characters--men and women--that it took a platoon of
police with drawn clubs to bring the affair to a sudden end.
They will never forget the night when she went down to the “Drum” in
James street, and after setting up the drinks for the crowd, stood in
the centre of the grimy floor and without a note of accompanying music
sang Annie Laurie.
At the end of the first verse, a drunk crept on his hands and knees
from a dark corner where he had been lying, and staggering to his
feet, looked at her dully with bloodshot eyes, and then cursed her so
violently that she instinctively shrank back for a moment.
But she had been drinking, too, and was equal to the emergency.
“Shut up,” she retorted. “I’m going to sing the whole damned song or
break a rib trying,” and with that she started on the second verse.
Sitting on a chair, holding his head in his hands, the man began to
sob and cry as only a man whose heart is aching can, and then, as if
he could stand it no longer, he rushed madly from the place while she
laughed.
“I can make them all quit if they will stay long enough.”
Almost a year later that same man, but dressed and washed and
respectable, came downtown one night, and went through all the places
upon whose floors he had fallen and slept many a night, looking for the
girl who had sung that song.
He found her at three o’clock in the morning on the Bowery.
She was sitting at a table in McGurk’s with two men with whom she had
been drinking cheap whiskey for hours.
“I beg your pardon,” said the man, “but are you the young woman who
sang a song in a place on James street about a year ago--Annie Laurie
it was?”
“I may have, old pal, I’ve sung a lot of songs in my day.”
“Well, you will probably be glad to know that that song was the turning
point in my life, and I am now a reformed man. I feel that I owe it to
you, and I want to give you some little memento that you can keep.”
As he spoke he pulled a package out of his pocket and handed it to her.
With unsteady fingers she unwrapped it and when she had opened the case
she saw a gold watch upon which was engraved:
_To the singer who saved my life._
“You’re a good old sport, all right, let’s have a drink on it.”
“No, thank you,” he said, hurriedly. “I must be going now, but I want
to tell you that you have a great gift which you are throwing away.”
“So long, old pal, live while you can, for you’ll be a long time dead,”
she said, and he was gone.
She looked at the watch curiously for a moment, and then called one of
the waiters.
“Ha, Jimmy, here’s a swell watch. Ask the old man how much he will give
me for it--it looks to be worth about fifty.”
The waiter returned in a few minutes and said:
“He says he’ll give you ten.”
“All right, he’s on, get the coin.”
She stayed until she had spent the money, and then she went reeling
home.
True? Of course it’s true, every word of it.
But she’s not drinking so hard now, opium is her god, and she spends
most of her time with her pipe and her lamp. Her downward course has
been a very rapid one, and her name has almost been forgotten.
The man at the next table is whispering to his friends:
“She was the greatest singer I ever heard, and many a time I’ve gone
to the same show three times in one week just to hear her, and when a
woman’s voice gets me like that you can bet it’s got to be good.”
“Get her to sing now; I’d like to hear her.”
“Sing now? Why, she couldn’t sound a note if her life depended on it.
She’s got all she can do to talk plain. She looks like a piece of
leather, doesn’t she? Yet she made the prettiest picture on the stage I
ever saw.”
Her voice interrupted here.
It was harsh and strident in tone--there was little of the woman in it.
“Well, if you won’t buy me a drink I’ll buy one for myself; give me a
whiskey, Jack, and don’t be all night about it, either.”
“Why don’t you get that Chinky of yours to buy you a drink?” remarks
some one from the other side of the room.
“Why don’t you mind your own business? He’d buy me all the drinks
I wanted if I would ask him, and that’s more than you would do. If
anybody asks you just tell them that the Chinks are all right, see, and
don’t be so new.”
“Cut that out, you fresh guy over there, cut it out.”
Here’s a champion for her; there are a few left who are still under her
spell, or who, remembering what she once was and knowing her in her
palmy days, stick for old time’s sake.
“Have a drink on me, old pal, and go as far as you like.”