KILLJOY HOUSE.
The French in their superficial way speak of a bagnio as a maison de
joie, which may be translated literally as a house of joy. It would be
impossible to conceive of a more false description of these habitations
of vice. Riotous exhilaration produced by drink there is, hideous
hysterical hilarity there is—but joy, none. The merriment of the inmates
of such a house has a commercial value, and they do not use any of it
when the men who pay for it are not about.
“I have often thought,” said a man who was connected with the city police
for some ten years, a man of great good sense and wide general reading,
“that the people who speak in condemnation of the social evil do not
dwell sufficiently on the actual revolting facts connected with the life
of a woman of the town. I have read sensational newspaper articles, and
I have heard preachers’ sermons on the subject, but in all there is a
lack of practical treatment. After you have read or heard them, a person
who does not know the facts would think that a house of ill-fame was
the abode of wicked and unholy but yet picturesque passion. In spite of
themselves they succeed in surrounding the unsavory mess with a halo
of romance, than which there could be nothing further from the facts.
There is no romance in the lives of evil women. Everything about them is
gross, sordid and mercenary. The master passion of their lives is not
sensuality, but a greed for money and display conjoined with envy and
all uncharitableness. They are the slaves of the vile women who keep the
houses in which they live. While they are new to the life, pretty and
popular, they are allowed certain latitude. These are the ones whom you
see parading the streets, sitting in the houses of entertainment, and
driving to the races. But when
THEIR WITHERING LIVES
begin to tell upon their good looks, their days of merriment are over.
They now become slaves in the vilest sense of the word. The money for
which they sell their souls is the constant prey of the hoary old
brothel-keeper to whom they are in bondage. The majority of the men who
visit their dens are in liquor. Is there anything picturesque about
half-a-dozen dull-eyed creatures being roused out of their sleep in the
small hours of the morning to be marshalled before an old brute with
rum-laden breath and filthy person whose sottish fancy has led him here?
Is it possible to conceive a woman with a single vestige of pride left
consenting to be at the pick and choose of such a loathsome creature? Yet
this is a frequent sight in these houses of hell. Is there any romance
about that? And when the choice is made the other five are eaten with
envy. But it is envy, spitefulness, and all uncharitableness, morning,
noon and night with them. The demon of hatred is the presiding spirit
of their sunless habitations. She who has good looks and youth is a
continual eyesore to the woman whose lustre of girlhood is a thing now of
memory. She is hated and slandered, and she glories in the fact because
it is a tribute to qualities which she has that they have not. But her
hour comes too soon and too surely, and a younger rival hurries her down
the slope, to be herself displaced in turn as the months go by, leaving
their impress of dissipation.
Envy and hatred of each other are common characteristics, and the same
may be said of lying, intemperance and profanity. Lying is part of their
trade, and is a necessity of their existence, and so much of a habit does
the practice become that they
LIE BY PREFERENCE.
If the truth were equally profitable, they would lie by choice. I have
often heard them relate the stories of their lives to officers of
charities or prisons, and in almost all cases the statements were wildly
improbable. One of them spoke of being of good family and having been
educated in a convent, when it was discovered that she could neither
read nor write. The story of their downfall, as told by themselves, is
always attributed to being the result of loving not wisely, but too well.
In many cases I have heard this claim made, when the men in the force
knew the whole history of the dame, and knew her representations to be
absurdly false.”
“Well, you don’t mean to say that in your experience you haven’t met
women who owed their downfall to the seductive wiles of men.”
“I am only speaking of these women in the aggregate, and giving you their
general characteristics. I look upon them all as unfortunate, and some
more so than others. Some deserve the description of unfortunates in
the same degree as the burglars and thieves in the prisons do. Others
undoubtedly are led into the life by a cruel fate. Indeed I know of such
a case. Five years ago there lived near me a family, consisting of a
husband and wife, and a son and daughter. The husband was a useless old
moke, who didn’t even have energy enough to get drunk, but his wife had,
and did. The boy, who was the eldest of the two children, was a rough,
and got into a fight aboard an excursion boat, and came near killing a
man. He fled to the States, and as far as I know has never been heard
of in this city since. Mary was the only one of the family for whom the
neighbors had any respect. She was a shy girl and seemed to
KNOW NOTHING BUT TO WORK
away at an old sewing machine, making overalls for a factory. Any time
that Mary was seen outdoors was carrying great big bundles wrapped in a
brown piece of linen, which she brought back full of work, and was seen
no more till that dole of labor was completed. The neighbors tolerated
the family on Mary’s account. Mary’s dress was about as uninteresting as
the brown lining which invariably encircled her work, but those who look
for beauty unadorned saw in her dark eyes and delicate complexion things
that were pleasant to look upon. But the chief glory of humble little
Mary was her brown hair, which fairly flowed in a cataract down her back.
She was very much ashamed of these unruly locks, and when she went abroad
they were tucked away in as small a knot as they could be squeezed into
at the back of her head. But people caught glimpses of them at odd times,
and the fame of Mary’s ringlets spread abroad on the street.
Suddenly there came a change in her ways. She commenced to exhibit some
coquetry in dress. But I need not weary you with the details of her
decline and fall. Suffice it to say that Mary was missed from home one
day and her mother bewailed in her cups that her daughter had gone to the
bad.
One night I was standing in the shadow of a lamp on Elizabeth street
when a woman came along. I knew Mary and stopped her. She exhibited
great fear and shame-facedness but I talked to her and finally gained
her confidence. She was very anxious to know what the neighbors thought
of her. “They are very sorry that you have forgot yourself, Mary,” I
answered. “I had to do it,” she said. I tried to reach the meaning of
this answer but it was only after a long time that she told me her story.
She told in a singularly simple and feeling way
HER STORY.
“I am awfully sorry Mr. ⸺ for what has happened, but I couldn’t help it.
My feelings were stronger than myself. There was something happened one
day that changed all my life. You remember the bundles I used to carry.
Well, one day, when I was on my way home it started to rain, and before
I went two blocks I was soaking. Just then a car overtook me, and I
hailed it. I was never on a car before, but I had money that I had just
got from my boss, and I thought I could afford it. I struggled into the
car with my wet bundle. There were six ladies and three gentlemen in
the car. There was plenty of room for me on either side if they had sat
closer, but not one of them moved. I stood there like a fool till one of
the gentlemen at the far end of the car stood up and asked me to take his
seat. When I went to sit down, the lady who had sat close enough to him,
drew as far away from me as possible. I never before felt what a dowdy
ill-dressed thing I was, but I thought so then. My face was crimson, and
I could not look up for the world. Oh, how I wished I had never got on
that car. It became unbearable at length, and I made a foolish attempt
to get off the car before ringing the bell, and I fell on one of the
ladies, and she was very indignant. The gentleman who had given me his
seat picked up my bundle and carried it out, while I slunk out after him
wishing that the earth would swallow me. He carried my bundle to the
sidewalk and asked me which way I was going. I told him, and then when he
found I had got off the car long before I was near my home, he laughed at
me, and joked about the way the old cats (that’s what he called them) had
treated me. That adventure was the
TURNING POINT OF MY LIFE.
That man’s appearance and voice and smile have haunted me to my ruin.
I thought him a god, and when I considered that he took my part before
all those ladies I would willingly have let him tramp on me or kill me.
A blow from that man would have been sweeter a thousand times than
the smiles of another. He did not lose sight of me. I could refuse him
nothing and he was but too ready to use his power over me. What is the
use of talking. You see what I am.
“Now, sir,” continued my friend “the man who ruined this girl is what I
call a professional masher. He still exists to ply his arts. That was as
fine a girl as ever lived, and she was led away by her better instincts,
either love or gratitude, I don’t exactly know which. But I think this is
an exceptional case. The great majority go astray from pure cussedness.
Love of dress, indolence, licentiousness, and bad temper will be found
to have more to do with the propagation of the social evil than man’s
perfidy and woman’s weakness.”
“Your views are very like those of another gentleman I interviewed—all in
favor of the men.”
“I haven’t said a word in favor of the men. I loathe the men who consort
with these women, especially the married portion of them. When I was
a policeman I became acquainted with the dirty habits of many of this
class, and I felt so angry with them that when I would meet them going
along the street during the day with their sanctimonious faces I would
feel like slapping them. No, sir; I don’t defend the men, but neither do
I want to see the woman held blameless when she deliberately chooses this
life, and by her example corrupts and entraps others. But I started out
to talk about the grossness of life in a bagnio, and here I have been
telling stories, but that’s your own fault in interrupting me. I was
looking for a thief one night when I was acting-detective. I found out
where his “woman” lived, and I felt sure the way to catch him was to
WATCH WHERE SHE LIVED.
The house was neither first nor second-class, but a compromise between
the two. It got very cold, and after loitering about for an hour, and
getting chilled to the bone, I concluded I could watch inside as well
as out. My only fear was that some of the inmates would recognize who I
was. I took chances, however, and rang the bell. I was admitted without
much trouble. I found that the greater number of the inmates of the house
were much under the influence of liquor. There were three men in the room
into which I was shown. Each had a woman seated on his knee. Three more
came tripping down stairs, the first of whom threw herself into my lap
and encircled my neck with her arms. I cannot say her attentions were
appreciated. A sickening odor of stale beer permeated her person, and
she was decidedly drunk. The other two who had come down stairs with her
were not so bad, but they were evidently inclined to be sarcastic about
the suddenness of her attack on me. They evidently thought she should
have given me a chance to make my pick. I was anxious to find out which
was the “woman” of the man I was in search of, and when the nymph who
occupied my knee asked me to buy a bottle of beer I complied, the more
willingly as it relieved me of her unpleasant bulk and
ODORIFEROUS BREATHINGS.
The beer was brought and I was assessed $1 for it. During its consumption
I discovered the woman I wanted. A very brief conversation with her
showed me that she was expecting some other society than mine that
evening. “Don’t be making up to me,” she said. “I expect a ‘friend,’ and
the landlady would raise Cain if I threw business for him.”
I felt pretty certain that my thief would show up shortly. By this time
the drunkest of the three who had come down stairs on my entrance, was
quarreling with the others and threatening all sorts of dire disasters.
The profanity and sewer-talk was something frightful. At last one of them
struck her with a glass, and in a moment there was a frightful commotion.
There was no fight in the poor, drunken creature, and the sight of the
blood which flowed from her brow frightened her into maudlin tears. She
sat on the floor, while the blood dabbled her white night-dress, and
rocked back and fore, moaning “Cora, I didn’t think you’d stab me.”
After this incident, although I saw no more drinking in the room, I
observed that each time they re-appeared they were all getting drunker
and drunker. The landlady of the house, a coarse, scowling woman, tried
to keep them quiet, but they sang snatches of song, and swore, and
quarreled, and blows were ever and anon freely interchanged. It was a
scene I can neither describe nor forget, and I was overjoyed in more ways
than one when I saw Pearl, who was the only one who was anyways sober,
go to the door and return with my man. I had the handcuffs on him before
he recovered from his surprise. When it was known that an arrest had
been made in the house, there was a great hubbub. Women rushed here and
there like demented things, and I took advantage of this consternation
to slip out with my prisoner. Again, I say, that there is not one tinge
of romance, sentiment or any other ennobling thing about the lives of
evil women. There is no passion, not even sensuality on the part of the
woman, nothing but a dirty account of bargain and sale, that one of the
parties to the transaction may compound with a rapacious brothel-keeper
for her lodgings and semi-occasional meals.”
With this remark my friend moved away.