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
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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.
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.
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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.
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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
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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?”
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“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.
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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.”
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she comes back with a laugh; and if you look closely—if you have those kind of eyes that can see things below the surface, so to speak—you will see that she doesn’t really belong here, and never did. that she is here because of some unfortunate series of circumstances over which, perhaps, she had no control. you will see something in her manner that distinguishes her from the rest of the women, even those who are better looking and better dressed. it is that intangible, indefinite something which means blood, or previous environment. it cannot be put on and taken off like a garment, and when once there it is there to stay.
that makes the wreck all the more pitiable, and with the same eyes through which you have just looked you will see the finish.
it isn’t pleasant to look at, and now, while the music is playing for the waltz, and the couples are getting on the floor to go through that interminable routine of steps called dancing, while the painted women are laughing, and the men are calling them pet—or other—names, we will go out of this room to where we can breathe a fresher air and see the stars.
i’m not sentimental, but there are some things i don’t like to see, besides, i knew the girl when she was at her best, and i have heard her sing when she brought the house down with applause.
