_Harper's Magazine, October, 1882._
January 13th, 188-.--Twenty-nine to-day, with two painful facts
staring me blankly in the face. I am reduced almost literally to my
last cent, and have no prospect of increasing this sum. For the first
time in my life I may as well examine the situation impartially. It
is not my fault that it is a physical impossibility for me to get up
early in the morning, and therefore that I never have stayed in
any office more than two or three weeks at the longest. It is
constitutional. I can't write a good hand, or keep books correctly,
for the same reason. Mathematics were left out of my composition. I
_must_ smoke, and it is impossible for me to smoke a poor cigar. If I
am in debt for cigars, as well as other necessities, how can I help
it? I would willingly work if I could only find the kind of work that
would suit me. I am not a fool. There is not a man in New York who
speaks French with a better accent than I do. I can sing better than
most amateurs. There is no vanity in saying that people consider me
good-looking. I don't find it difficult to please when I make an
effort, and yet I am a complete failure. It is _not_ my fault. I'm
a round peg in a square hole. I ought to have been the oldest son
of a duke, with a large allowance. Instead, I am a helpless orphan,
with nothing a year. I seem to joke; in reality I am in despair.
Fortunately, my landlady trusts me blindly, or I would be turned into
the street.
I have sold or pawned all my valuables. I might pawn my dress suit and
studs, but if I did, I couldn't go out to dinner if I were asked, and
that is always a saving. I cannot get a place in an opera company,
because my voice has not been sufficiently trained. There always _is_
something to prevent my success, no matter what I try.
To-day I met Morton in the street. He stopped me and said: "By the
way, Valentine, your name will come up at the Amsterdam very soon. You
are sure to get in."
Imagine paying club dues in my present condition! Yet to belong to the
Amsterdam has been one of my ambitions. I had to get out of it, and
said, in an offhand way: "Ah, thanks, Morton, but you may as well
take my name off the list. I'm thinking of living out of town."
So I am--I think of occupying six feet of real estate in the country,
if something doesn't happen soon. Morton always irritates me. He is
one of those prosperous, fortunate creatures, always so completely
_the thing_, that I feel hopelessly my own deficiencies.
_January 15th._--Something _has_ happened. I have an idea. It strikes
me as strange, yet feasible. When I came in this afternoon I found a
letter lying on my table. I opened it; it ran as follows:
"NEW YORK, January 14, 188-.
"Families who are about to give receptions, dinner parties,
or other entertainments will be gratified to know that
persons who will assist in making these events pleasant and
enjoyable can be obtained through the medium of the Globe
Employment Bureau. These persons will not be professionals,
but parties of culture and refinement, who will appear well,
dress elegantly, and mingle with the guests, while able and
willing to play, sing, converse fluently, tell a good story,
give a recitation, or anything that will help to make an
evening pass pleasantly.
"The Globe Employment Bureau in this plan simply complies
with the increasing demands of a large class of its patrons.
The attendance of these persons, young or old, can be had
for the sum of fifteen dollars per evening each. We will
guarantee them to be strictly honorable and reliable
persons. Respectfully yours,
"THE GLOBE EMPLOYMENT BUREAU."
The idea amused me. I moralized on it as a phase of New York society;
wondered what sort of people would employ these individuals; wondered
what the individuals would feel like themselves; smiled grimly at the
inference that I could go to the expense of fifteen dollars to procure
the services of one of the persons. While I stood with the letter in
my hand, a thought flashed into my mind. It widened and developed,
until now it possesses my whole being. I can't hire a Globe young man,
but anything is better than starvation: I will _be_ a Globe young man!
_January 18th._--It is all settled, and I am in the service of the New
York Globe. After two days of hesitation, I presented myself this
morning at the Globe office. I was shown to the Employment Bureau, and
there, through a little grating, I was interviewed by a young clerk of
supernatural composure. He had a cool discerning eye that seemed to
read my very soul, and take in my situation and errand at a glance.
I produced the Globe letter as the simplest method of introducing
myself.
He looked at me with his discriminating expression. "Let me
see," he murmured. "We have had three thousand applications since
the day before yesterday, and our list is complete. But six
feet--blonde--good-looking--distinguished, in fact"--he bit the
handle of his pen meditatively. His air of reflection changed to one
of decision. "Just follow me, please," he concluded.
I followed him through a dim passage to a little room where there was
a piano with some music on it. Standing beside the piano was a small
dark man, rubbing his hands and bowing politely as we entered. It
reminded me of one of the torture chambers of the Inquisition. What
were they going to do to me?
The chief inquisitor, in the shape of the clerk, began the ceremonies
by saying: "I suppose you would not have come here without being able
to fill the requirements of the Globe circular. Be kind enough to sit
down and sing and play that song."
It proved to be "In the Gloaming." I was in good voice, and managed to
sing it with some expression.
"Bravo!" said the second inquisitor, in the shape of the little dark
man.
He then took me in hand. He proved to be an Italian, and asked me
questions in Italian and French, in both of which languages I answered
as well as I could. I was then obliged to sing pathetic songs,
drinking songs, comic songs, opera bouffe, English ballads, and
then--worse than all--requested to recite some dramatic poetry. Here I
was at sea. I confessed that I knew none.
"Never mind," said the clerk, encouragingly; "you have done remarkably
well in other respects, and you can easily learn the regulation
pieces."
He handed me a list, beginning with "Curfew shall not ring To-night"
and "The Charge of the Light Brigade," and ending with "Betsy and I
are Out" and "The May Queen." I choked down my rising resentment. What
wouldn't I do for fifteen dollars an evening, short of crime?
"Very well," I said, obediently.
I was led out of the torture chamber, exhausted, but still living. It
is queer. I feel shaky. I had to give them my own name. I found that
there was no getting out of this. They said that the whole matter was
strictly in confidence. They required references, and I had taken the
precaution to bring several letters of recommendation from well-known
business men--letters that had been given to me a short while before
when I was trying to get a situation in a business house down town.
These were satisfactory as to my character.