I shall take advantage of this pause in my narrative to describe more
closely the "Club" spoken of in the latter part of the preceding
chapter--to describe it as I afterwards came to know it, as an
habitué. I shall do this not only because of the direct influence it
had on my life, but also because it was at that time the most famous
place of its kind in New York, and was well known to both white and
colored people of certain classes.
I have already stated that in the basement of the house there was a
Chinese restaurant. The Chinaman who kept it did an exceptionally good
business; for chop-suey was a favorite dish among the frequenters of
the place. It is a food that, somehow, has the power of absorbing
alcoholic liquors that have been taken into the stomach. I have
heard men claim that they could sober up on chop-suey. Perhaps that
accounted, in some degree, for its popularity. On the main floor there
were two large rooms: a parlor about thirty feet in length, and a
large, square back room into which the parlor opened. The floor of the
parlor was carpeted; small tables and chairs were arranged about the
room; the windows were draped with lace curtains, and the walls were
literally covered with photographs or lithographs of every colored
man in America who had ever "done anything." There were pictures of
Frederick Douglass and of Peter Jackson, of all the lesser lights
of the prize-fighting ring, of all the famous jockeys and the stage
celebrities, down to the newest song and dance team. The most of these
photographs were autographed and, in a sense, made a really valuable
collection. In the back room there was a piano, and tables were placed
around the wall. The floor was bare and the center was left vacant for
singers, dancers, and others who entertained the patrons. In a closet
in this room which jutted out into the hall the proprietor kept
his buffet. There was no open bar, because the place had no liquor
license. In this back room the tables were sometimes pushed aside, and
the floor given over to general dancing. The front room on the next
floor was a sort of private party room; a back room on the same floor
contained no furniture and was devoted to the use of new and ambitious
performers. In this room song and dance teams practiced their steps,
acrobatic teams practiced their tumbles, and many other kinds of
"acts" rehearsed their "turns." The other rooms of the house were used
as sleeping-apartments.
No gambling was allowed, and the conduct of the place was surprisingly
orderly. It was, in short, a center of colored Bohemians and sports.
Here the great prize fighters were wont to come, the famous jockeys,
the noted minstrels, whose names and faces were familiar on every
bill-board in the country; and these drew a multitude of those
who love to dwell in the shadow of greatness. There were then no
organizations giving performances of such order as are now given by
several colored companies; that was because no manager could imagine
that audiences would pay to see Negro performers in any other role
than that of Mississippi River roustabouts; but there was lots of
talent and ambition. I often heard the younger and brighter men
discussing the time when they would compel the public to recognize
that they could do something more than grin and cut pigeon-wings.
Sometimes one or two of the visiting stage professionals, after being
sufficiently urged, would go into the back room and take the places
of the regular amateur entertainers, but they were very sparing with
these favors, and the patrons regarded them as special treats. There
was one man, a minstrel, who, whenever he responded to a request
to "do something," never essayed anything below a reading from
Shakespeare. How well he read I do not know, but he greatly impressed
me; and I can say that at least he had a voice which strangely stirred
those who heard it. Here was a man who made people laugh at the size
of his mouth, while he carried in his heart a burning ambition to be a
tragedian; and so after all he did play a part in a tragedy.
These notables of the ring, the turf, and the stage, drew to the place
crowds of admirers, both white and colored. Whenever one of them came
in, there were awe-inspired whispers from those who knew him by sight,
in which they enlightened those around them as to his identity, and
hinted darkly at their great intimacy with the noted one. Those who
were on terms of approach immediately showed their privilege over
others less fortunate by gathering around their divinity. I was, at
first, among those who dwelt in darkness. Most of these celebrities I
had never heard of. This made me an object of pity among many of my
new associates. I soon learned, however, to fake a knowledge for the
benefit of those who were greener than I; and, finally, I became
personally acquainted with the majority of the famous personages who
came to the "Club."
A great deal of money was spent here, so many of the patrons were men
who earned large sums. I remember one night a dapper little brown-skin
fellow was pointed out to me and I was told that he was the most
popular jockey of the day, and that he earned $12,000 a year. This
latter statement I couldn't doubt, for with my own eyes I saw him
spending at about thirty times that rate. For his friends and those
who were introduced to him he bought nothing but wine--in sporting
circles, "wine" means champagne--and paid for it at five dollars
a quart. He sent a quart to every table in the place with his
compliments; and on the table at which he and his party were seated
there were more than a dozen bottles. It was the custom at the "Club"
for the waiter not to remove the bottles when champagne was being
drunk until the party had finished. There were reasons for this;
it advertised the brand of wine, it advertised that the party was
drinking wine, and advertised how much they had bought. This jockey
had won a great race that day, and he was rewarding his admirers for
the homage they paid him, all of which he accepted with a fine air of
condescension.
Besides the people I have just been describing, there was at the place
almost every night one or two parties of white people, men and women,
who were out sight-seeing, or slumming. They generally came in cabs;
some of them would stay only for a few minutes, while others sometimes
stayed until morning. There was also another set of white people who
came frequently; it was made up of variety performers and others who
delineated "darky characters"; they came to get their imitations first
hand from the Negro entertainers they saw there.
There was still another set of white patrons, composed of women; these
were not occasional visitors, but five or six of them were regular
habituées. When I first saw them, I was not sure that they were white.
In the first place, among the many colored women who came to the
"Club" there were several just as fair; and, secondly, I always saw
these women in company with colored men. They were all good-looking
and well-dressed, and seemed to be women of some education. One of
these in particular attracted my attention; she was an exceedingly
beautiful woman of perhaps thirty-five; she had glistening
copper-colored hair, very white skin, and eyes very much like Du
Maurier's conception of Trilby's "twin gray stars." When I came to
know her, I found that she was a woman of considerable culture; she
had traveled in Europe, spoke French, and played the piano well. She
was always dressed elegantly, but in absolute good taste. She always
came to the "Club" in a cab, and was soon joined by a well-set-up,
very black young fellow. He was always faultlessly dressed; one of the
most exclusive tailors in New York made his clothes, and he wore a
number of diamonds in about as good taste as they could be worn in by
a man. I learned that she paid for his clothes and his diamonds. I
learned, too, that he was not the only one of his kind. More that I
learned would be better suited to a book on social phenomena than to a
narrative of my life.
This woman was known at the "Club" as the rich widow. She went by a
very aristocratic-sounding name, which corresponded to her appearance.
I shall never forget how hard it was for me to get over my feelings
of surprise, perhaps more than surprise, at seeing her with her black
companion; somehow I never exactly enjoyed the sight. I have devoted
so much time to this pair, the "widow" and her companion, because it
was through them that another decided turn was brought about in my
life.