WEDDINGS AND SOCIAL HALLS
When we came to Henry Street, the appearance of a carriage before the
door caused some commotion, and members of the settlement returning to
the house would be met by excited little girls who announced, “You’s
got a wedding by you. There’s a carriage there.” It was taken for
granted in those days that nothing short of a wedding would justify such
magnificence.
In one way or another we were continually reminded of the paramount
importance of the wedding in the life of the neighborhood. “What!”
said a shocked father to whom I expressed my occidental revolt against
insistence upon his daughter’s marriage to a man who was brought by the
professional matchmaker and was a stranger to the girl; “let a girl of
seventeen, with no judgment whatsoever, decide on anything so important
as a husband?” But as youth asserts itself under the new conditions,
the _Schadchen_, or marriage-broker, no longer occupies an important
position.
[Illustration]
When we first visited families in the tenements, we might have been
misled as to the decline in the family fortunes if we judged their
previous estate by the photographs hung high on the walls of the poor
homes, of bride and groom, splendidly arrayed for the wedding ceremony.
But we learned that the costumes had been rented and the photographs
taken, partly that the couple might keep a reminder of the splendor of
that brief hour, and also that relations on the other side of the water
might be impressed with their prosperity.
Since those days the neighborhood has become more sophisticated, and
brides are more likely to make their own wedding gowns, often exhibiting
good taste as well as skill; though the shop windows in the foreign
quarters still display waxen figures of modishly attired bride and groom,
with alluring announcements of the low rates at which the garments may be
hired.
We were invited to many weddings, and often pitied the little bride
who, having fasted all day as required by orthodox custom, went wearily
through the intricate ceremony, reminiscent of tribal days. One bride to
whom we offered our congratulations accepted them without enthusiasm, and
added, “’Tain’t no such easy thing to get married.”
The younger generation, born in America, whose loyalty and affection for
their elders is unimpaired by the changed conditions, but for whom the
old symbols and customs have no longer a religious meaning, often submit
to the orthodox wedding ceremony out of deference to the wishes of the
parents and grandparents.
[Illustration: THE OLDER GENERATION]
The ceremony in the rented hall (where it takes place owing to the
physical limitations of the home) loses some of its dignity, however
much it may have of warmth and affection. To the weddings come all the
family, from the aged grandparents to the youngest grandchildren. Before
the evening is over the babies are asleep in the arms of their parents or
under the care of the old woman in attendance in the cloak-room.
[Illustration]
At a typical wedding of twenty years ago the supper was spread in the
basement of one of the public halls, and the incongruities were not more
painfully obvious to us than to the delicate-minded bride. The rabbi
chanted the blessings, and the “poet” sang old Jewish legends, weaving
in stories of the families united that evening. We were moved almost to
tears by the pathos of these exiles clinging to the poetic traditions
of the past amid filthy surroundings; for the tables were encompassed
by piles of beer kegs, with their suggestion of drink so foreign to
the people gathered there; and men and women who were not guests came
and went to the dressing-rooms that opened into the dining-hall. Every
time we attended a wedding it shocked us anew that these sober and
right-behaving people were obliged to use for their social functions the
offensive halls over or behind saloons, because there were no others to
be had.
An incident a few days after my coming to the East Side had first brought
to my attention the question of meeting-places for the people. As usual
in hard times, it was difficult for the unhappy, dissatisfied unemployed
to find a place for the discussion of their troubles. Spontaneous
gatherings were frequent that summer, and in one of them, described by
the papers next morning as a street riot, I accidentally found myself.
It was no more than an attempt of men out of work to get together
and talk over their situation. They had no money for the rent of a
meeting-place, and having been driven by the police from the street
corners, they tried to get into an unoccupied hall on Grand Street. Rough
handling by the police stirred them to retaliation, and show of clubs was
met by missiles—pieces of smoked fish snatched from a nearby stand kept
by an old woman. Violence and ill-feeling might have been averted by the
simple expedient of permitting them to meet unmolested. Instinctively
I realized this, and felt for my purse, but I had come out with only
sufficient carfare to carry me on my rounds, and an unknown, impecunious
young woman in a nurse’s cotton dress was not in a position to speak
convincingly on the subject of renting halls.
Later, when I visited London, I could understand the wisdom of
non-interference with the well-known Hyde Park meetings. It is
encouraging to note that common sense is touching the judgment of New
York’s officials regarding the right of the people to meet and speak
freely.
Other occurrences of those early days pointed to the need of some place
of assemblage other than the unclean rooms connected with saloons.
Walhalla Hall, on Orchard Street, famous long ago as a meeting-place
for labor organizations, provided them with accommodations not more
appropriate than those I have described. When from time to time a
settlement resident helped to hide beer kegs with impromptu decorations,
we pledged ourselves that whenever it came into our power we would
provide a meeting-place for social functions and labor gatherings and a
forum for public debate that would not sacrifice the dignity of those who
used it. Our own settlement rooms were by that time in constant service
for the neighborhood; but it was plain that even if we could have given
them up entirely to such purposes, a place entirely free from “auspices”
and to be rented—not given under favor—was required. Prince Kropotkin,
then on a visit to America, urged upon me the wisdom of keeping a people
free by allowing freedom of speech, and of respecting their assemblages
by affording dignified accommodations for them.
[Illustration]
It was curious, when one realized it, that recognition of the normal,
wholesome impulse of young people to congregate should also have been
left to the saloon-keeper, and the young lads who frequented undesirable
places were often wholly unaware that they themselves were, to use their
own diction, “easy marks.”
A genial red-haired lad, a teamster by trade, referred with pride to his
ability as a boxer. In answer to pointed questions as to where and how
he acquired his skill, he said a saloon-keeper, “an awful good sport,”
allowed the boys to use his back room. Fortunately the “good sport’s”
saloon was at some distance; and, suggesting that it must be a bore to
go so far after a day’s hard work, I offered to provide a room and a
professional to coach them on fine points if James thought the “fellows”
would care for it. A call next morning at the office of the Children’s
Aid Society resulted in permission to put to this service an unused part
of a nearby building, and during the day a promising boxer was engaged.
James had not waited to inquire if I had either the room or trainer
ready, and appeared the next evening with a list of young men for the
club.
Some weeks later a “throw-away,” a small handbill to announce events,
came into my hands. It read:
EAT ’EM ALIVE!
Grand Annual Ball of the ⸺ of the
Nurses’ Settlement.[8]
The date was given and the price of admission “with wardrobe”;[9] and to
my horror the place designated for this function was a notorious hall
on the Bowery, its door adjacent to one opening into “Suicide Hall,” so
designated because of several self-murders recently committed there.
There was a great deal of mystery about the object of the ball, and
the instructor, guileless in almost everything but the art of boxing,
reluctantly betrayed the secret. They had in mind to make a large sum of
money and with it buy me a present. They dreamed of a writing-desk. It
was a difficult situation, but the young men, their chivalrous instincts
touched, reacted to my little speech and seemed to comprehend that it
would be embarrassing to the ladies of the settlement to be placed under
the implication of profiting by the sale of liquor,—though this was
delicate ground to tread upon, since members of the families of several
of the club boys were bartenders or in the saloon business; but the name
of the settlement had been used to advertise the ball, and “there was
something in it.”
To emphasize my point and to relieve them of complications, since they
had contracted for the use of the place, I offered to pay the owner of
the hall a sum of money (one hundred dollars, as I recall it) if he would
keep the bar closed on the night of the dance; and I pledged the young
men that we would all attend and help to make the ball a success if we
could compromise in this manner. The owner of the hall, however, as some
of the more worldly-wise members had prophesied, scoffed at my offer.
Public halls are the most common way of making money for a desired
end. Sometimes ephemeral organizations are created to “run” them and
divide the profits that may accrue. At other times, like the fashionable
“Charity” balls, the object is to raise money for a beneficent purpose.
It required some readjustment of the ordinary association of ideas
to purchase without comment the tickets offered at the door of the
settlement for a “grand ball,” the proceeds of which were to provide a
tombstone for a departed friend.
* * * * *
It was soon clear to us that an entirely innocent and natural desire for
recreation afforded continual opportunity for the overstimulation of the
senses and for dangerous exploitation. Later, when the question could be
formally brought to the notice of the public, men and women whose minds
had been turned to the evils of the dance-halls and the causes of social
unrest responded to our appeal, and the Social Halls Association was
organized.
Clinton Hall, a handsome, fireproof structure, was erected on Clinton
Street in 1904. It provides meeting-rooms for trades unions, lodges, and
benefit societies; an auditorium and ballroom, poolrooms, dining-halls,
and kitchens, with provision for the Kosher preparation of meals. In
summer there is a roof garden, with a stage for dramatic performances.
The building was opened with a charming dance given by the young men
of the settlement, followed soon after by a beautiful and impressive
performance of the _Ajax_ of Sophocles by the Greeks of New York.
The stock was subscribed for by people of means, by the small merchants
of the neighborhood, and by settlement residents and their friends. A
janitress brought her bank book, showing savings amounting to $200,
with which she desired to purchase two shares. She was with difficulty
dissuaded from the investment, which I felt she could not afford. When
I explained that the people who were subscribing for the stock were
prepared not to receive any return from it; that they were risking the
money for the sake of those who were obliged to frequent undesirable
halls, Mrs. H⸺ replied, “That’s just how Jim and me feel about it. We’ve
been janitors, and we know.” The Social Halls Association is a business
corporation, and has its own board of directors, of which I have been
president from the beginning.
Clinton Hall has afforded an excellent illustration of the psychology of
suggestion. The fact that no bar is in evidence, and no white-aproned
waiters parade in and out of the ballroom or halls of meetings, has
resulted in a minimum consumption of liquor, although, during the first
years, drinks could have been purchased by leaving the crowd and the
music and sitting at a table in a room one floor below the ballroom.
Leaders of rougher crowds than the usual clientele of Clinton Hall,
accustomed to a “rake-off” from the bar at the end of festivities, had to
have documentary evidence of the small sales, so incredible did it seem
to them that the “crowd” had drunk so little.
It has been a disappointment that the income has not met the reasonable
expectations of those interested. This is due partly to some mistakes
of construction,—not surprising since there was no precedent to guide
us,—largely to the competition of places with different standards which
derive profit from a stimulated sale of liquor, and also partly to the
inability, not peculiar to our neighbors, to distinguish between a direct
and an indirect charge. In all other respects the history of this
building has justified our faith that the people are ready to pay for
decency. It is patronized by five to six hundred thousand people every
year.
[Illustration]