CHAPTER XII
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
