finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man/section_3_part_0.txt
The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man.chapters 7-9
chapters 7-9
{"name": "Chapters VII-IX", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180424054150/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-autobiography-of-an-excolored-man/study-guide/summary-chapters-vii-ix", "summary": "The narrator pauses his story to describe the Club in more detail since he spends so much time there. In the basement is a Chinese restaurant, and many Club patrons have discovered that Chop Suey is good for soaking up alcohol. On the main floor are a parlor which opens into a back room, which is covered from ceiling to floor with pictures of notable African Americans. There is also a private room for parties and an open space for performers. The narrator describes the performance spaces as \"a center of colored Bohemians and sports\". Many notable personalities wander through its rooms. Admirers of both races visit frequently. Meanwhile, the wealthier Club patrons think nothing of buying champagne for everyone in the room. The narrator describes the few white patrons who come to the Club. Some stay a few minutes, others remain the whole night. Some actors come to see how \"colored\" people act so they can work on perfecting their own \"darky characters\" . There are also a few women who appear to be white who come to the Club with dark-skinned companions. One of them in particular catches the narrator's eye. He nicknames her \"the widow\", because rumor has it that she inherited a large sum from a late husband. She is cultured and well-traveled, and pays for her young African American companion to wear fine suits and travel in taxicabs. The morning after the narrator's first eye-opening night in New York City, he and his friends put off finding jobs and instead return to the gambling house to get into good spirits. The narrator loses fifty dollars but is optimistic that he will regain his luck next time. At the Club, the narrator tries to play ragtime like the resident pianist, but finds the task more difficult than he had expected. Eventually, the narrator takes a job rolling cigars to make money during the day and gambling it away at night. He falls into a routine going to the craps table and afterwards, whether he wins or loses, he spends time at the Club. Soon, he decides to gamble full-time and gives up his steady cigar-rolling work. For the next year, which the narrator describes as a \"dark period\", he many other bright ambitious types become obsessed with the world of gambling and glittering nightlife. Sometimes he has money, sometimes he does not. However, during this year he does manage to master ragtime and becomes a popular entertainer at The Club. He soon earns the nickname \"the professor\" and starts making a living playing the piano, which weans him off his gambling habit. It is through his talent for ragtime that the narrator will have the opportunity to explore the world. One night, a young white man , impeccably dressed and very cultured in appearance, comes into the club and, week after week, gives the narrator five dollars after each of his performances. He mysteriously asks the narrator to fill an engagement for him, giving him no other information than a visiting card. On the night of the \"engagement\", the narrator arrives at the millionaire's house to furnish musical entertainment for a dinner party. The lavishly furnished house is comfortable but elegant, and the guests cultured and vibrant. While the narrator plays classical music, a background score, he observes the guests around him, noting the lovely women as well as the millionaire, whose reserve grows in proportion to the guests' gregariousness. The narrator soon learns that this is simply the way the millionaire always behaves at social events. When it is time for dinner, the millionaire encourages the narrator decides to switch to ragtime music. His performance delights the guests and they flock around the piano, nearly forgetting about their food. The millionaire compliments the narrator when the guests leave and tells him that he will give him lots of work as long as he does not perform for any other private employers. The narrator readily consents. The narrator begins playing regularly for the millionaire. What is striking, the narrator observes, is that the millionaire's love for music is all-consuming and his \"powers of endurance in listening often exceeded in performing\". The narrator's arms often grow sore and his mind fatigued, playing for hours while the millionaire listens quietly with his own eyes barely open. Over time, their relationship grows warm and familiar. The narrator still headquarters at the club, playing for fun. He attracts the attention of many women, including the widow. He is warned that her younger African American companion is violent and hot-headed, evidenced by the lovers' frequent quarrels. However, the widow is so beautiful that the narrator cannot help but be charmed by her. One night, she asks him to have a drink with her and he agrees. Mid-conversation, the narrator becomes aware that her companion has arrived. The widow's companion approaches their table and just when the narrator thinks he is going to strike her, the widow's companion pulls out a revolver and shoots her in the throat. The narrator leaps up and runs frantically into the city streets, frightened and paranoid, until the millionaire drives by and finds him. The narrator tells him what has happened and the millionaire replies, \"'I decided last night that I'd go to Europe tomorrow. I think I'll take you along instead of Walter'\" . The narrator agrees to this and sits back in the car; he comments, \"the jet of blood pulsing from had placed an indelible red stain on my memory\". The journey to Europe is difficult for the narrator at first; he is seasick and afraid that he will somehow be tied to the murder. He eventually feels better and by the time they arrive in Paris, he is excited for his next adventure. He writes that \"there was awakened in my heart a love for France\". He details his sightseeing and his love of Parisian culture. The millionaire never treats him as a subordinate, but as an equal. During the days when the millionaire is occupied, the narrator wanders around Paris and begins learning French. He devotes himself to refreshing his Spanish and learning German as well. He spends many evenings at the Opera, and one night, he notices a striking young girl in the audience. She is with her parents, and when the narrator looks a bit more closely, he notices that man is his own father, meaning that the girl is his sister. He leaves the building, feeling suffocated and miserable. He cannot decide whether he wants to weep or curse. The millionaire decides he is tired of Paris, and the narrator is saddened to have to leave. They move on to London, which the narrator finds distasteful at first. He soon grows to love it, though, for different reasons than he loved Paris. They make a stop in Amsterdam and then move on to Germany. In Berlin, the narrator meets some of the millionaire's friends who are also musicians. One night, when the millionaire is entertaining these men, he asks the narrator to play ragtime. The narrator complies, and before he can be commended, a large German man takes over the piano to play many variations on the the ragtime tune, in several different musical genres. The narrator is astonished, for \"this man has taken ragtime and made it classic\". The narrator then loses interest in his travels. He wants to move back to the South, live among African Americans and feel the inspiration firsthand, but he is nervous to leave the millionaire. They are friends and the narrator knows how much music means to the millionaire. When the millionaire announces his plans to go to Egypt and Japan, the narrator finally reveals his plans to return to the USA and pursue a career in music. The millionaire wonders why he would want throw his life away with the poor and ignorant \"colored\" people in America when he can pass for white. They have a deep discussion about race, leading the narrator to conclude that the millionaire does not feel prejudice but is aware that prejudice exists. The millionaire's perspective is this: \"I can imagine no more dissatisfied human being than an educated, cultured, and refined colored man in the United States\". He believes that life should be enjoyed that it is a waste of time attempt to ease the world's suffering. The narrator admits that the millionaire's ideas are compelling and wonders if his motivation is to help his own people or to find success for himself. He concludes that there is some selfishness in his ambitions, as he will be more remarkable as a \"colored composer\" than as a white one, but that he also feels \"stirred by an unselfish desire to voice all the joys and sorrows, the hopes and ambitions, of the American Negro, in classic musical form\". The millionaire accepts the narrator's decision and gives him a large sum of money, with a promise of more should he need it. The narrator does not know if the coldness of their parting is because the millionaire feels that the narrator is making mistake or because he is trying to cover up his own emotions. The narrator soon boards a ship to Boston, and journeys back to his home country.", "analysis": "In these chapters, the narrator establishes himself in New York and unearths new facets of his personality, first as a gambler and then as a the millionaire's personal musician. Although he gets off to a shaky start with ragtime, he soon becomes the best ragtime player in the city, noting that ragtime opens doors for him that his study of Chopin and Mendelssohn never could. His time in New York ends abruptly, though, when has a run-in with the widow's kept man and witnesses her violent death at her companion's hands. However, after his jaunt in Europe, it is music that compels him to come back to the states, just as it catalyzed his departure. As the narrator travels from place to place in the United States, his story reveals that the physical and psychological barriers between the races are invisible and complex. Critic Kathleen Pfeiffer writes, \"the Ex-Colored Man's embodiment of physical whiteness and legal blackness literalizes the instability of these ideological frontiers, and demonstrates that their barriers are increasingly permeable.\" The narrator never ascribes to fixed boundaries, even as a child. He resists music lessons that curtail his creativity and is unimpressed by great books, including the Bible. He evinces frustration that these books present history in a fragmented, impersonal way. His journey of discovery, as described in the novel, is a layered narrative that reveals the history of racial identity in America with all its inexplicable contradictions. However, as Pfeiffer points out, the narrator still has an overwhelming impulse to order and categorize. He lists the content of each of his childhood rooms, compares and contrasts European people, and develops categories of \"colored people\" in the South, Club patrons, and gamblers. Despite this, Johnson denies his reader the same ability to find order in his narrative, as he liberally jumps back-and-forth chronologically, defies literary conventions, and mixes genres. It is difficult to read Autobiography through any single lens or categorize it neatly. Just as the narrator vacillates between \"passing\" as white or embracing his blackness, his internal loyalties fluctuate as well. This could be a symptom of his racial self-hatred, or indicative of a unique form of self-determination; Pfeiffer writes, \"neither wholly black nor wholly white, the Ex-Colored Man believes himself to be free from the politics which race loyalty demands.\" The narrator is extremely adaptable in all of his jobs and locales, and \"his only constant, essential characteristic is that he possesses no constant, essential characteristic.\" Johnson even avoids giving the narrator and most of the other characters real names, identifying them by their physical characteristics or jobs. Traditionally, white masters had the authority to name their slaves, but after emancipation, African Americans reclaimed autonomy by un-naming or re-naming themselves. The narrator avoids being controlled by either tradition and creates a system of identification based neither on the slaveowners' tradition or by rebelling against it. The narrator's ability to straddle racial categories is evident in the novel's treatment of music. The narrator describes his individualism as a musician, eschewing formal lessons and abhorring the role of an accompanist. He distinguishes himself a classical musician, then, in New York, starts employing ragtime techniques to come up with new variations on classical music, and finally, during his stint in Europe, he is inspired by a German musician's classical interpretation of ragtime. Some critics excoriate the narrator for taking an African American form and turning it into something half-white, and then for venturing to exploit music in the South simply because he sees it that route as the most promising. He cannot accept ragtime music for what it is and instead follows the German musician's lead by adulterating it with classical European music. However, it can also be said that the narrator does not accept classical music for what it is either. This blurring of musical boundaries was a reality of the ragtime phenomenon, with both white and black artists borrowing from each other and achieving success. Also, most of the narrator's most important moments take place at a piano, which seems to challenge the idea that the narrator's white identity equals a loss of musical inspiration."}


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
habitue. 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
habituees. 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.





On the day following our night at the "Club" we slept until late in
the afternoon; so late that beginning search for work was entirely out
of the question. This did not cause me much worry, for I had more than
three hundred dollars, and New York had impressed me as a place where
there was lots of money and not much difficulty in getting it. It is
needless to inform my readers that I did not long hold this opinion.
We got out of the house about dark, went to a restaurant on Sixth
Avenue and ate something, then walked around for a couple of hours.
I finally suggested that we visit the same places we had been in
the night before. Following my suggestion, we started first to the
gambling house. The man on the door let us in without any question; I
accredited this to my success of the night before. We went straight
to the "crap" room, and I at once made my way to a table, where I was
rather flattered by the murmur of recognition which went around. I
played in up and down luck for three or four hours; then, worn with
nervous excitement, quit, having lost about fifty dollars. But I was
so strongly possessed with the thought that I would make up my losses
the next time I played that I left the place with a light heart.

When we got into the street our party was divided against itself; two
were for going home at once and getting to bed. They gave as a reason
that we were to get up early and look for jobs. I think the real
reason was that they had each lost several dollars in the game. I
lived to learn that in the world of sport all men win alike, but lose
differently; and so gamblers are rated, not by the way in which they
win, but by the way in which they lose. Some men lose with a careless
smile, recognizing that losing is a part of the game; others curse
their luck and rail at fortune; and others, still, lose sadly; after
each such experience they are swept by a wave of reform; they resolve
to stop gambling and be good. When in this frame of mind it would take
very little persuasion to lead them into a prayer-meeting. Those in
the first class are looked upon with admiration; those in the second
class are merely commonplace; while those in the third are regarded
with contempt. I believe these distinctions hold good in all the
ventures of life. After some minutes one of my friends and I succeeded
in convincing the other two that a while at the "Club" would put us
all in better spirits; and they consented to go, on our promise not
to stay longer than an hour. We found the place crowded, and the same
sort of thing going on which we had seen the night before. I took a
seat at once by the side of the piano player, and was soon lost
to everything except the novel charm of the music. I watched the
performer with the idea of catching the trick, and during one of his
intermissions I took his place at the piano and made an attempt to
imitate him, but even my quick ear and ready fingers were unequal to
the task on first trial.

We did not stay at the "Club" very long, but went home to bed in order
to be up early the next day. We had no difficulty in finding work, and
my third morning in New York found me at a table rolling cigars. I
worked steadily for some weeks, at the same time spending my earnings
between the "crap" game and the "Club." Making cigars became more and
more irksome to me; perhaps my more congenial work as a "reader" had
unfitted me for work at the table. And, too, the late hours I was
keeping made such a sedentary occupation almost beyond the powers of
will and endurance. I often found it hard to keep my eyes open and
sometimes had to get up and move around to keep from falling asleep.
I began to miss whole days from the factory, days on which I was
compelled to stay at home and sleep.

My luck at the gambling table was varied; sometimes I was fifty to a
hundred dollars ahead, and at other times I had to borrow money from
my fellow workmen to settle my room rent and pay for my meals. Each
night after leaving the dice game I went to the "Club" to hear the
music and watch the gaiety. If I had won, this was in accord with my
mood; if I had lost, it made me forget. I at last realized that making
cigars for a living and gambling for a living could not both be
carried on at the same time, and I resolved to give up the cigar
making. This resolution led me into a life which held me bound more
than a year. During that period my regular time for going to bed was
somewhere between four and six o'clock in the mornings. I got up late
in the afternoons, walked about a little, then went to the gambling
house or the "Club." My New York was limited to ten blocks; the
boundaries were Sixth Avenue from Twenty-third to Thirty-third
Streets, with the cross streets one block to the west. Central Park
was a distant forest, and the lower part of the city a foreign land.
I look back upon the life I then led with a shudder when I think what
would have been had I not escaped it. But had I not escaped it, I
should have been no more unfortunate than are many young colored men
who come to New York. During that dark period I became acquainted with
a score of bright, intelligent young fellows who had come up to the
great city with high hopes and ambitions and who had fallen under the
spell of this under life, a spell they could not throw off. There
was one popularly known as "the doctor"; he had had two years in the
Harvard Medical School, but here he was, living this gas-light life,
his will and moral sense so enervated and deadened that it was
impossible for him to break away. I do not doubt that the same thing
is going on now, but I have sympathy rather than censure for these
victims, for I know how easy it is to slip into a slough from which it
takes a herculean effort to leap.

I regret that I cannot contrast my views of life among colored people
of New York; but the truth is, during my entire stay in this city I
did not become acquainted with a single respectable family. I knew
that there were several colored men worth a hundred or so thousand
dollars each, and some families who proudly dated their free ancestry
back a half-dozen generations. I also learned that in Brooklyn there
lived quite a large colony in comfortable homes which they owned; but
at no point did my life come in contact with theirs.

In my gambling experiences I passed through all the states and
conditions that a gambler is heir to. Some days found me able to peel
ten and twenty-dollar bills from a roll, and others found me clad in a
linen duster and carpet slippers. I finally caught up another method
of earning money, and so did not have to depend entirely upon the
caprices of fortune at the gaming table. Through continually listening
to the music at the "Club," and through my own previous training, my
natural talent and perseverance, I developed into a remarkable player
of ragtime; indeed, I had the name at that time of being the best
ragtime-player in New York. I brought all my knowledge of classic
music to bear and, in so doing, achieved some novelties which pleased
and even astonished my listeners. It was I who first made ragtime
transcriptions of familiar classic selections. I used to play
Mendelssohn's "Wedding March" in a manner that never failed to arouse
enthusiasm among the patrons of the "Club." Very few nights passed
during which I was not asked to play it. It was no secret that
the great increase in slumming visitors was due to my playing. By
mastering ragtime I gained several things: first of all, I gained
the title of professor. I was known as "the professor" as long as I
remained in that world. Then, too, I gained the means of earning a
rather fair livelihood. This work took up much of my time and kept me
almost entirely away from the gambling table. Through it I also gained
a friend who was the means by which I escaped from this lower world.
And, finally, I secured a wedge which has opened to me more doors and
made me a welcome guest than my playing of Beethoven and Chopin could
ever have done.

The greater part of the money I now began to earn came through the
friend to whom I alluded in the foregoing paragraph. Among the other
white "slummers" there came into the "Club" one night a clean-cut,
slender, but athletic-looking man, who would have been taken for a
youth had it not been for the tinge of gray about his temples. He was
clean-shaven and had regular features, and all of his movements bore
the indefinable but unmistakable stamp of culture. He spoke to no one,
but sat languidly puffing cigarettes and sipping a glass of beer. He
was the center of a great deal of attention; all of the old-timers
were wondering who he was. When I had finished playing, he called a
waiter and by him sent me a five-dollar bill. For about a month after
that he was at the "Club" one or two nights each week, and each time
after I had played, he gave me five dollars. One night he sent for me
to come to his table; he asked me several questions about myself; then
told me that he had an engagement which he wanted me to fill. He gave
me a card containing his address and asked me to be there on a certain
night.

I was on hand promptly and found that he was giving a dinner in his
own apartments to a party of ladies and gentlemen and that I was
expected to furnish the musical entertainment. When the grave,
dignified man at the door let me in, the place struck me as being
almost dark, my eyes had been so accustomed to the garish light of the
"Club." He took my coat and hat, bade me take a seat, and went to tell
his master that I had come. When my eyes were adjusted to the soft
light, I saw that I was in the midst of elegance and luxury in a
degree such as I had never seen; but not the elegance which makes
one ill at ease. As I sank into a great chair, the subdued tone, the
delicately sensuous harmony of my surroundings, drew from me a deep
sigh of relief and comfort. How long the man was gone I do not know,
but I was startled by a voice saying: "Come this way, if you please,
sir," and I saw him standing by my chair. I had been asleep; and I
awoke very much confused and a little ashamed, because I did not know
how many times he may have called me. I followed him through into the
dining-room, where the butler was putting the finishing touches to a
table which already looked like a big jewel. The doorman turned me
over to the butler, and I passed with the butler on back to where
several waiters were busy polishing and assorting table utensils.
Without being asked whether I was hungry or not, I was placed at a
table and given something to eat. Before I had finished eating, I
heard the laughter and talk of the guests who were arriving. Soon
afterwards I was called in to begin my work.

I passed in to where the company was gathered and went directly to the
piano. According to a suggestion from the host, I began with
classic music. During the first number there was absolute quiet and
appreciative attention, and when I had finished, I was given a round
of generous applause. After that the talk and the laughter began to
grow until the music was only an accompaniment to the chatter. This,
however, did not disconcert me as it once would have done, for I had
become accustomed to playing in the midst of uproarious noise. As the
guests began to pay less attention to me, I was enabled to pay more to
them. There were about a dozen of them. The men ranged in appearance
from a girlish-looking youth to a big grizzled man whom everybody
addressed as "Judge." None of the women appeared to be under thirty,
but each of them struck me as being handsome. I was not long in
finding out that they were all decidedly blase. Several of the women
smoked cigarettes, and with a careless grace which showed they were
used to the habit. Occasionally a "Damn it!" escaped from the lips
of some one of them, but in such a charming way as to rob it of all
vulgarity. The most notable thing which I observed was that the
reserve of the host increased in direct proportion with the hilarity
of his guests. I thought that there was something going wrong which
displeased him. I afterwards learned that it was his habitual manner
on such occasions. He seemed to take cynical delight in watching
and studying others indulging in excess. His guests were evidently
accustomed to his rather non-participating attitude, for it did not
seem in any degree to dampen their spirits.

When dinner was served, the piano was moved and the door left open, so
that the company might hear the music while eating. At a word from the
host I struck up one of my liveliest ragtime pieces. The effect was
surprising, perhaps even to the host; the ragtime music came very near
spoiling the party so far as eating the dinner was concerned. As soon
as I began, the conversation suddenly stopped. It was a pleasure to me
to watch the expression of astonishment and delight that grew on the
faces of everybody. These were people--and they represented a large
class--who were ever expecting to find happiness in novelty, each day
restlessly exploring and exhausting every resource of this great city
that might possibly furnish a new sensation or awaken a fresh emotion,
and who were always grateful to anyone who aided them in their quest.
Several of the women left the table and gathered about the piano. They
watched my fingers and asked what kind of music it was that I was
playing, where I had learned it, and a host of other questions. It
was only by being repeatedly called back to the table that they were
induced to finish their dinner. When the guests arose, I struck up my
ragtime transcription of Mendelssohn's "Wedding March," playing
it with terrific chromatic octave runs in the bass. This raised
everybody's spirits to the highest point of gaiety, and the whole
company involuntarily and unconsciously did an impromptu cake-walk.
From that time on until the time of leaving they kept me so busy that
my arms ached. I obtained a little respite when the girlish-looking
youth and one or two of the ladies sang several songs, but after each
of these it was "back to ragtime."

In leaving, the guests were enthusiastic in telling the host that
he had furnished them the most unusual entertainment they had ever
enjoyed. When they had gone, my millionaire friend--for he was
reported to be a millionaire--said to me with a smile: "Well, I have
given them something they've never had before." After I had put on my
coat and was ready to leave, he made me take a glass of wine; he then
gave me a cigar and twenty dollars in bills. He told me that he would
give me lots of work, his only stipulation being that I should not
play any engagements such as I had just filled for him, except by his
instructions. I readily accepted the proposition, for I was sure that
I could not be the loser by such a contract. I afterwards played for
him at many dinners and parties of one kind or another. Occasionally
he "loaned" me to some of his friends. And, too, I often played for
him alone at his apartments. At such times he was quite a puzzle to me
until I became accustomed to his manners. He would sometimes sit for
three or four hours hearing me play, his eyes almost closed, making
scarcely a motion except to light a fresh cigarette, and never
commenting one way or another on the music. At first I sometimes
thought he had fallen asleep and would pause in playing. The stopping
of the music always aroused him enough to tell me to play this or
that; and I soon learned that my task was not to be considered
finished until he got up from his chair and said: "That will do."
The man's powers of endurance in listening often exceeded mine in
performing--yet I am not sure that he was always listening. At times
I became so oppressed with fatigue and sleepiness that it took almost
superhuman effort to keep my fingers going; in fact, I believe I
sometimes did so while dozing. During such moments this man sitting
there so mysteriously silent, almost hid in a cloud of heavy-scented
smoke, filled me with a sort of unearthly terror. He seemed to be some
grim, mute, but relentless tyrant, possessing over me a supernatural
power which he used to drive me on mercilessly to exhaustion. But
these feelings came very rarely; besides, he paid me so liberally I
could forget much. There at length grew between us a familiar and warm
relationship, and I am sure he had a decided personal liking for me.
On my part, I looked upon him at that time as about all a man could
wish to be.


The "Club" still remained my headquarters, and when I was not playing
for my good patron, I was generally to be found there. However, I no
longer depended on playing at the "Club" to earn my living; I rather
took rank with the visiting celebrities and, occasionally, after being
sufficiently urged, would favor my old and new admirers with a number
or two. I say, without any egotistic pride, that among my admirers
were several of the best-looking women who frequented the place, and
who made no secret of the fact that they admired me as much as they
did my playing. Among these was the "widow"; indeed, her attentions
became so marked that one of my friends warned me to beware of her
black companion, who was generally known as a "bad man." He said
there was much more reason to be careful because the pair had lately
quarreled and had not been together at the "Club" for some nights.
This warning greatly impressed me and I resolved to stop the affair
before it should go any further; but the woman was so beautiful that
my native gallantry and delicacy would not allow me to repulse her; my
finer feelings entirely overcame my judgment. The warning also opened
my eyes sufficiently to see that though my artistic temperament and
skill made me interesting and attractive to the woman, she was, after
all, using me only to excite the jealousy of her companion and revenge
herself upon him. It was this surly, black despot who held sway over
her deepest emotions.

One night, shortly afterwards, I went into the "Club" and saw the
"widow" sitting at a table in company with another woman. She at once
beckoned for me to come to her. I went, knowing that I was committing
worse than folly. She ordered a quart of champagne and insisted that
I sit down and drink with her. I took a chair on the opposite side of
the table and began to sip a glass of the wine. Suddenly I noticed by
an expression on the "widow's" face that something had occurred.

I instinctively glanced around and saw that her companion had just
entered. His ugly look completely frightened me. My back was turned to
him, but by watching the "widow's" eyes I judged that he was pacing
back and forth across the room. My feelings were far from being
comfortable; I expected every moment to feel a blow on my head. She,
too, was very nervous; she was trying hard to appear unconcerned, but
could not succeed in hiding her real feelings. I decided that it was
best to get out of such a predicament even at the expense of appearing
cowardly, and I made a motion to rise. Just as I partly turned in my
chair, I saw the black fellow approaching; he walked directly to our
table and leaned over. The "widow" evidently feared he was going to
strike her, and she threw back her head. Instead of striking her he
whipped out a revolver and fired; the first shot went straight into
her throat. There were other shots fired, but how many I do not know;
for the first knowledge I had of my surroundings and actions was that
I was rushing through the chop-suey restaurant into the street. Just
which streets I followed when I got outside I do not know, but I think
I must have gone towards Eighth Avenue, then down towards Twenty-third
Street and across towards Fifth Avenue. I traveled, not by sight, but
instinctively. I felt like one fleeing in a horrible nightmare.

How long and far I walked I cannot tell; but on Fifth Avenue, under a
light, I passed a cab containing a solitary occupant, who called to
me, and I recognized the voice and face of my millionaire friend. He
stopped the cab and asked: "What on earth are you doing strolling in
this part of the town?" For answer I got into the cab and related to
him all that had happened. He reassured me by saying that no charge of
any kind could be brought against me; then added: "But of course you
don't want to be mixed up in such an affair." He directed the driver
to turn around and go into the park, and then went on to say: "I
decided last night that I'd go to Europe tomorrow. I think I'll take
you along instead of Walter." Walter was his valet. It was settled
that I should go to his apartments for the rest of the night and sail
with him in the morning.

We drove around through the park, exchanging only an occasional word.
The cool air somewhat calmed my nerves and I lay back and closed my
eyes; but still I could see that beautiful white throat with the ugly
wound. The jet of blood pulsing from it had placed an indelible red
stain on my memory.





I did not feel at ease until the ship was well out of New York harbor;
and, notwithstanding the repeated reassurances of my millionaire
friend and my own knowledge of the facts in the case, I somehow
could not rid myself of the sentiment that I was, in a great degree,
responsible for the "widow's" tragic end. We had brought most of the
morning papers aboard with us, but my great fear of seeing my name in
connection with the killing would not permit me to read the accounts,
although, in one of the papers, I did look at the picture of the
victim, which did not in the least resemble her. This morbid state of
mind, together with sea-sickness, kept me miserable for three or four
days. At the end of that time my spirits began to revive, and I took
an interest in the ship, my fellow passengers, and the voyage in
general. On the second or third day out we passed several spouting
whales, but I could not arouse myself to make the effort to go to the
other side of the ship to see them. A little later we ran in close
proximity to a large iceberg. I was curious enough to get up and look
at it, and I was fully repaid for my pains. The sun was shining full
upon it, and it glistened like a mammoth diamond, cut with a million
facets. As we passed, it constantly changed its shape; at each
different angle of vision it assumed new and astonishing forms of
beauty. I watched it through a pair of glasses, seeking to verify
my early conception of an iceberg--in the geographies of my grammar
school days the pictures of icebergs always included a stranded polar
bear, standing desolately upon one of the snowy crags. I looked
for the bear, but if he was there, he refused to put himself on
exhibition.

It was not, however, until the morning that we entered the harbor of
Havre that I was able to shake off my gloom. Then the strange sights,
the chatter in an unfamiliar tongue, and the excitement of landing
and passing the customs officials caused me to forget completely the
events of a few days before. Indeed, I grew so lighthearted that when
I caught my first sight of the train which was to take us to Paris,
I enjoyed a hearty laugh. The toy-looking engine, the stuffy little
compartment cars, with tiny, old-fashioned wheels, struck me as being
extremely funny. But before we reached Paris my respect for our train
rose considerably. I found that the "tiny" engine made remarkably fast
time, and that the old-fashioned wheels ran very smoothly. I even
began to appreciate the "stuffy" cars for their privacy. As I watched
the passing scenery from the car window, it seemed too beautiful to be
real. The bright-colored houses against the green background impressed
me as the work of some idealistic painter. Before we arrived in Paris,
there was awakened in my heart a love for France which continued to
grow stronger, a love which to-day makes that country for me the one
above all others to be desired.

We rolled into the station Saint Lazare about four o'clock in
the afternoon and drove immediately to the Hotel Continental. My
benefactor, humoring my curiosity and enthusiasm, which seemed to
please him very much, suggested that we take a short walk before
dinner. We stepped out of the hotel and turned to the right into the
rue de Rivoli. When the vista of the Place de la Concorde and the
Champs Elysees suddenly burst on me, I could hardly credit my own
eyes. I shall attempt no such supererogatory task as a description
of Paris. I wish only to give briefly the impressions which that
wonderful city made upon me. It impressed me as the perfect and
perfectly beautiful city; and even after I had been there for some
time, and seen not only its avenues and palaces, but its most squalid
alleys and hovels, this impression was not weakened. Paris became for
me a charmed spot, and whenever I have returned there, I have fallen
under the spell, a spell which compels admiration for all of its
manners and customs and justification of even its follies and sins.

We walked a short distance up the Champs Elysees and sat for a while
in chairs along the sidewalk, watching the passing crowds on foot and
in carriages. It was with reluctance that I went back to the hotel for
dinner. After dinner we went to one of the summer theatres, and after
the performance my friend took me to a large cafe on one of the Grands
Boulevards. Here it was that I had my first glimpse of the French life
of popular literature, so different from real French life. There were
several hundred people, men and women, in the place drinking, smoking,
talking, and listening to the music. My millionaire friend and I took
seats at a table, where we sat smoking and watching the crowd. It
was not long before we were joined by two or three good-looking,
well-dressed young women. My friend talked to them in French and
bought drinks for the whole party. I tried to recall my high-school
French, but the effort availed me little. I could stammer out a few
phrases, but, very naturally, could not understand a word that was
said to me. We stayed at the cafe a couple of hours, then went back to
the hotel. The next day we spent several hours in the shops and at
the tailor's. I had no clothes except what I had been able to gather
together at my benefactor's apartments the night before we sailed. He
bought me the same kind of clothes which he himself wore, and that
was the best; and he treated me in every way as he dressed me, as an
equal, not as a servant. In fact, I don't think anyone could have
guessed that such a relation existed. My duties were light and few,
and he was a man full of life and vigor, who rather enjoyed doing
things for himself. He kept me supplied with money far beyond what
ordinary wages would have amounted to. For the first two weeks we were
together almost constantly, seeing the sights, sights old to him, but
from which he seemed to get new pleasure in showing them to me. During
the day we took in the places of interest, and at night the theatres
and cafes. This sort of life appealed to me as ideal, and I asked him
one day how long he intended to stay in Paris. He answered: "Oh, until
I get tired of it." I could not understand how that could ever happen.
As it was, including several short trips to the Mediterranean, to
Spain, to Brussels, and to Ostend, we did remain there fourteen or
fifteen months. We stayed at the Hotel Continental about two months
of this time. Then my millionaire took apartments, hired a piano, and
lived almost the same life he lived in New York. He entertained a
great deal, some of the parties being a good deal more blase than the
New York ones. I played for the guests at all of them with an effect
which to relate would be but a tiresome repetition to the reader. I
played not only for the guests, but continued, as I used to do in New
York, to play often for the host when he was alone. This man of the
world, who grew weary of everything and was always searching for
something new, appeared never to grow tired of my music; he seemed
to take it as a drug. He fell into a habit which caused me no little
annoyance; sometimes he would come in during the early hours of the
morning and, finding me in bed asleep, would wake me up and ask me to
play something. This, so far as I can remember, was my only hardship
during my whole stay with him in Europe.

After the first few weeks spent in sight-seeing I had a great deal of
time left to myself; my friend was often I did not know where. When
not with him, I spent the day nosing about all the curious nooks and
corners of Paris; of this I never grew tired. At night I usually went
to some theatre, but always ended up at the big cafe on the Grands
Boulevards. I wish the reader to know that it was not alone the gaiety
which drew me there; aside from that I had a laudable purpose. I had
purchased an English-French conversational dictionary, and I went
there every night to take a language lesson. I used to get three or
four of the young women who frequented the place at a table and buy
beer and cigarettes for them. In return I received my lesson. I got
more than my money's worth, for they actually compelled me to speak
the language. This, together with reading the papers every day,
enabled me within a few months to express myself fairly well, and,
before I left Paris, to have more than an ordinary command of French.
Of course, every person who goes to Paris could not dare to learn
French in this manner, but I can think of no easier or quicker way of
doing it. The acquiring of another foreign language awoke me to the
fact that with a little effort I could secure an added accomplishment
as fine and as valuable as music; so I determined to make myself as
much of a linguist as possible. I bought a Spanish newspaper every
day in order to freshen my memory of that language, and, for French,
devised what was, so far as I knew, an original system of study. I
compiled a list which I termed "Three hundred necessary words." These
I thoroughly committed to memory, also the conjugation of the verbs
which were included in the list. I studied these words over and over,
much as children of a couple of generations ago studied the alphabet.
I also practiced a set of phrases like the following: "How?" "What did
you say?" "What does the word ---- mean?" "I understand all you say
except ----." "Please repeat." "What do you call ----?" "How do you
say ----?" These I called my working sentences. In an astonishingly
short time I reached the point where the language taught itself--where
I learned to speak merely by speaking. This point is the place which
students taught foreign languages in our schools and colleges find
great difficulty in reaching. I think the main trouble is that
they learn too much of a language at a time. A French child with a
vocabulary of two hundred words can express more spoken ideas than
a student of French can with a knowledge of two thousand. A small
vocabulary, the smaller the better, which embraces the common,
everyday-used ideas, thoroughly mastered, is the key to a language.
When that much is acquired the vocabulary can be increased simply by
talking. And it is easy. Who cannot commit three hundred words to
memory? Later I tried my method, if I may so term it, with German, and
found that it worked in the same way.

I spent a good many evenings at the Opera. The music there made me
strangely reminiscent of my life in Connecticut; it was an atmosphere
in which I caught a fresh breath of my boyhood days and early youth.
Generally, in the morning after I had attended a performance, I would
sit at the piano and for a couple of hours play the music which I used
to play in my mother's little parlor.

One night I went to hear _Faust_. I got into my seat just as the
lights went down for the first act. At the end of the act I noticed
that my neighbor on the left was a young girl. I cannot describe her
either as to feature, or color of her hair, or of her eyes; she was so
young, so fair, so ethereal, that I felt to stare at her would be a
violation; yet I was distinctly conscious of her beauty. During the
intermission she spoke English in a low voice to a gentleman and a
lady who sat in the seats to her left, addressing them as father and
mother. I held my program as though studying it, but listened to catch
every sound of her voice. Her observations on the performance and the
audience were so fresh and naive as to be almost amusing. I gathered
that she was just out of school, and that this was her first trip to
Paris. I occasionally stole a glance at her, and each time I did so my
heart leaped into my throat. Once I glanced beyond to the gentleman
who sat next to her. My glance immediately turned into a stare. Yes,
there he was, unmistakably, my father! looking hardly a day older than
when I had seen him some ten years before. What a strange coincidence!
What should I say to him? What would he say to me? Before I had
recovered from my first surprise, there came another shock in the
realization that the beautiful, tender girl at my side was my sister.
Then all the springs of affection in my heart, stopped since my
mother's death, burst out in fresh and terrible torrents, and I could
have fallen at her feet and worshiped her. They were singing the
second act, but I did not hear the music. Slowly the desolate
loneliness of my position became clear to me. I knew that I could not
speak, but I would have given a part of my life to touch her hand with
mine and call her "sister." I sat through the opera until I could
stand it no longer. I felt that I was suffocating. Valentine's love
seemed like mockery, and I felt an almost uncontrollable impulse to
rise up and scream to the audience: "Here, here in your very midst, is
a tragedy, a real tragedy!" This impulse grew so strong that I became
afraid of myself, and in the darkness of one of the scenes I stumbled
out of the theatre. I walked aimlessly about for an hour or so, my
feelings divided between a desire to weep and a desire to curse. I
finally took a cab and went from cafe to cafe, and for one of the very
few times in my life drank myself into a stupor.

It was unwelcome news for me when my benefactor--I could not think of
him as employer--informed me that he was at last tired of Paris. This
news gave me, I think, a passing doubt as to his sanity. I had enjoyed
life in Paris, and, taking all things into consideration, enjoyed it
wholesomely. One thing which greatly contributed to my enjoyment was
the fact that I was an American. Americans are immensely popular in
Paris; and this is not due solely to the fact that they spend lots of
money there, for they spend just as much or more in London, and in
the latter city they are merely tolerated because they do spend. The
Londoner seems to think that Americans are people whose only claim to
be classed as civilized is that they have money, and the regrettable
thing about that is that the money is not English. But the French
are more logical and freer from prejudices than the British; so the
difference of attitude is easily explained. Only once in Paris did I
have cause to blush for my American citizenship. I had become quite
friendly with a young man from Luxemburg whom I had met at the big
cafe. He was a stolid, slow-witted fellow, but, as we say, with a
heart of gold. He and I grew attached to each other and were together
frequently. He was a great admirer of the United States and never grew
tired of talking to me about the country and asking for information.
It was his intention to try his fortune there some day. One night
he asked me in a tone of voice which indicated that he expected an
authoritative denial of an ugly rumor: "Did they really burn a man
alive in the United States?" I never knew what I stammered out to him
as an answer. I should have felt relieved if I could even have said to
him: "Well, only one."

When we arrived in London, my sadness at leaving Paris was turned into
despair. After my long stay in the French capital, huge, ponderous,
massive London seemed to me as ugly a thing as man could contrive to
make. I thought of Paris as a beauty spot on the face of the earth,
and of London as a big freckle. But soon London's massiveness, I might
say its very ugliness, began to impress me. I began to experience that
sense of grandeur which one feels when he looks at a great mountain or
a mighty river. Beside London Paris becomes a toy, a pretty plaything.
And I must own that before I left the world's metropolis I discovered
much there that was beautiful. The beauty in and about London is
entirely different from that in and about Paris; and I could not but
admit that the beauty of the French city seemed hand-made, artificial,
as though set up for the photographer's camera, everything nicely
adjusted so as not to spoil the picture; while that of the English
city was rugged, natural, and fresh.

How these two cities typify the two peoples who built them! Even the
sound of their names expresses a certain racial difference. Paris is
the concrete expression of the gaiety, regard for symmetry, love of
art, and, I might well add, of the morality of the French
people. London stands for the conservatism, the solidarity, the
utilitarianism, and, I might well add, the hypocrisy of the
Anglo-Saxon. It may sound odd to speak of the morality of the French,
if not of the hypocrisy of the English; but this seeming paradox
impresses me as a deep truth. I saw many things in Paris which were
immoral according to English standards, but the absence of hypocrisy,
the absence of the spirit to do the thing if it might only be done in
secret, robbed these very immoralities of the damning influence of the
same evils in London. I have walked along the terrace cafes of Paris
and seen hundreds of men and women sipping their wine and beer,
without observing a sign of drunkenness. As they drank, they chatted
and laughed and watched the passing crowds; the drinking seemed to be
a secondary thing. This I have witnessed, not only in the cafes along
the Grands Boulevards, but in the out-of-the-way places patronized by
the working classes. In London I have seen in the "pubs" men and women
crowded in stuffy little compartments, drinking seemingly only for the
pleasure of swallowing as much as they could hold. I have seen there
women from eighteen to eighty, some in tatters, and some clutching
babes in their arms, drinking the heavy English ales and whiskies
served to them by women. In the whole scene, not one ray of
brightness, not one flash of gaiety, only maudlin joviality or grim
despair. And I have thought, if some men and women will drink--and it
is certain that some will--is it not better that they do so under the
open sky, in the fresh air, than huddled together in some close, smoky
room? There is a sort of frankness about the evils of Paris which robs
them of much of the seductiveness of things forbidden, and with that
frankness goes a certain cleanliness of thought belonging to things
not hidden. London will do whatever Paris does, provided exterior
morals are not shocked. As a result, Paris has the appearance only of
being the more immoral city. The difference may be summed up in this:
Paris practices its sins as lightly as it does its religion, while
London practices both very seriously.

I should not neglect to mention what impressed me most forcibly during
my stay in London. It was not St. Paul's nor the British Museum nor
Westminster Abbey. It was nothing more or less than the simple phrase
"Thank you," or sometimes more elaborated, "Thank you very kindly,
sir." I was continually surprised by the varied uses to which it was
put; and, strange to say, its use as an expression of politeness
seemed more limited than any other. One night I was in a cheap
music hall and accidentally bumped into a waiter who was carrying a
tray-load of beer, almost bringing him to several shillings' worth of
grief. To my amazement he righted himself and said: "Thank ye, sir,"
and left me wondering whether he meant that he thanked me for not
completely spilling his beer, or that he would thank me for keeping
out of his way.

I also found cause to wonder upon what ground the English accuse
Americans of corrupting the language by introducing slang words. I
think I heard more and more different kinds of slang during my few
weeks' stay in London than in my whole "tenderloin" life in New York.
But I suppose the English feel that the language is theirs, and that
they may do with it as they please without at the same time allowing
that privilege to others.

My millionaire was not so long in growing tired of London as of Paris.
After a stay of six or eight weeks we went across into Holland.
Amsterdam was a great surprise to me. I had always thought of Venice
as the city of canals; it had never entered my mind that I should find
similar conditions in a Dutch town. I don't suppose the comparison
goes far beyond the fact that there are canals in both cities--I
have never seen Venice--but Amsterdam struck me as being extremely
picturesque. From Holland we went to Germany, where we spent five or
six months, most of the time in Berlin. I found Berlin more to my
taste than London, and occasionally I had to admit that in some things
it was superior to Paris.

In Berlin I especially enjoyed the orchestral concerts, and I attended
a large number of them. I formed the acquaintance of a good many
musicians, several of whom spoke of my playing in high terms. It was
in Berlin that my inspiration was renewed.

One night my millionaire entertained a party of men composed of
artists, musicians, writers, and, for aught I know, a count or
two. They drank and smoked a great deal, talked art and music, and
discussed, it seemed to me, everything that ever entered man's mind.
I could only follow the general drift of what they were saying. When
they discussed music, it was more interesting to me; for then some
fellow would run excitedly to the piano and give a demonstration of
his opinions, and another would follow quickly, doing the same. In
this way, I learned that, regardless of what his specialty might
be, every man in the party was a musician. I was at the same time
impressed with the falsity of the general idea that Frenchmen are
excitable and emotional, and that Germans are calm and phlegmatic.
Frenchmen are merely gay and never overwhelmed by their emotions. When
they talk loud and fast, it is merely talk, while Germans get worked
up and red in the face when sustaining an opinion, and in heated
discussions are likely to allow their emotions to sweep them off their
feet.

My millionaire planned, in the midst of the discussion on music, to
have me play the "new American music" and astonish everybody present.
The result was that I was more astonished than anyone else. I went to
the piano and played the most intricate ragtime piece I knew. Before
there was time for anybody to express an opinion on what I had done, a
big bespectacled, bushy-headed man rushed over, and, shoving me out
of the chair, exclaimed: "Get up! Get up!" He seated himself at the
piano, and, taking the theme of my ragtime, played it through first
in straight chords; then varied and developed it through every known
musical form. I sat amazed. I had been turning classic music into
ragtime, a comparatively easy task; and this man had taken ragtime and
made it classic. The thought came across me like a flash--It can be
done, why can't I do it? From that moment my mind was made up. I
clearly saw the way of carrying out the ambition I had formed when a
boy.

I now lost interest in our trip. I thought: "Here I am a man, no
longer a boy, and what am I doing but wasting my time and abusing my
talent? What use am I making of my gifts? What future have I before me
following my present course?" These thoughts made me feel remorseful
and put me in a fever to get to work, to begin to do something. Of
course I know now that I was not wasting time; that there was nothing
I could have done at that age which would have benefited me more than
going to Europe as I did. The desire to begin work grew stronger each
day. I could think of nothing else. I made up my mind to go back into
the very heart of the South, to live among the people, and drink in my
inspiration firsthand. I gloated over the immense amount of material
I had to work with, not only modern ragtime, but also the old slave
songs--material which no one had yet touched.

The more decided and anxious I became to return to the United States,
the more I dreaded the ordeal of breaking with my millionaire. Between
this peculiar man and me there had grown a very strong bond of
affection, backed up by a debt which each owed to the other. He had
taken me from a terrible life in New York and, by giving me the
opportunity of traveling and of coming in contact with the people with
whom he associated, had made me a polished man of the world. On the
other hand, I was his chief means of disposing of the thing which
seemed to sum up all in life that he dreaded--time. As I remember him
now, I can see that time was what he was always endeavoring to escape,
to bridge over, to blot out; and it is not strange that some years
later he did escape it forever, by leaping into eternity.

For some weeks I waited for just the right moment in which to tell my
patron of my decision. Those weeks were a trying time to me. I felt
that I was playing the part of a traitor to my best friend. At length,
one day he said to me: "Well, get ready for a long trip; we are going
to Egypt, and then to Japan." The temptation was for an instant almost
overwhelming, but I summoned determination enough to say: "I don't
think I want to go." "What!" he exclaimed, "you want to go back to
your dear Paris? You still think that the only spot on earth? Wait
until you see Cairo and Tokyo, you may change your mind." "No," I
stammered, "it is not because I want to go back to Paris. I want to go
back to the United States." He wished to know my reason, and I told
him, as best I could, my dreams, my ambition, and my decision. While
I was talking, he watched me with a curious, almost cynical, smile
growing on his lips. When I had finished he put his hand on my
shoulder--this was the first physical expression of tender regard he
had ever shown me--and looking at me in a big-brotherly way, said: "My
boy, you are by blood, by appearance, by education, and by tastes a
white man. Now, why do you want to throw your life away amidst the
poverty and ignorance, in the hopeless struggle, of the black people
of the United States? Then look at the terrible handicap you are
placing on yourself by going home and working as a Negro composer;
you can never be able to get the hearing for your work which it might
deserve. I doubt that even a white musician of recognized ability
could succeed there by working on the theory that American music
should be based on Negro themes. Music is a universal art; anybody's
music belongs to everybody; you can't limit it to race or country.
Now, if you want to become a composer, why not stay right here in
Europe? I will put you under the best teachers on the Continent. Then
if you want to write music on Negro themes, why, go ahead and do it."

We talked for some time on music and the race question. On the latter
subject I had never before heard him express any opinion. Between him
and me no suggestion of racial differences had ever come up. I found
that he was a man entirely free from prejudice, but he recognized
that prejudice was a big stubborn entity which had to be taken into
account. He went on to say: "This idea you have of making a Negro out
of yourself is nothing more than a sentiment; and you do not realize
the fearful import of what you intend to do. What kind of a Negro
would you make now, especially in the South? If you had remained
there, or perhaps even in your club in New York, you might have
succeeded very well; but now you would be miserable. I can imagine no
more dissatisfied human being than an educated, cultured, and refined
colored man in the United States. I have given more study to the race
question in the United States than you may suppose, and I sympathize
with the Negroes there; but what's the use? I can't right their
wrongs, and neither can you; they must do that themselves. They are
unfortunate in having wrongs to right, and you would be foolish to
take their wrongs unnecessarily on your shoulders. Perhaps some day,
through study and observation, you will come to see that evil is
a force, and, like the physical and chemical forces, we cannot
annihilate it; we may only change its form. We light upon one evil and
hit it with all the might of our civilization, but only succeed in
scattering it into a dozen other forms. We hit slavery through a great
civil war. Did we destroy it? No, we only changed it into hatred
between sections of the country: in the South, into political
corruption and chicanery, the degradation of the blacks through
peonage, unjust laws, unfair and cruel treatment; and the degradation
of the whites by their resorting to these practices, the paralyzation
of the public conscience, and the ever over-hanging dread of what the
future may bring. Modern civilization hit ignorance of the masses
through the means of popular education. What has it done but turn
ignorance into anarchy, socialism, strikes, hatred between poor and
rich, and universal discontent? In like manner, modern philanthropy
hit at suffering and disease through asylums and hospitals; it
prolongs the sufferers' lives, it is true, but is, at the same time,
sending down strains of insanity and weakness into future generations.
My philosophy of life is this: make yourself as happy as possible, and
try to make those happy whose lives come in touch with yours; but to
attempt to right the wrongs and ease the sufferings of the world in
general is a waste of effort. You had just as well try to bail the
Atlantic by pouring the water into the Pacific."

This tremendous flow of serious talk from a man I was accustomed to
see either gay or taciturn so surprised and overwhelmed me that I
could not frame a reply. He left me thinking over what he had said.
Whatever was the soundness of his logic or the moral tone of his
philosophy, his argument greatly impressed me. I could see, in spite
of the absolute selfishness upon which it was based, that there was
reason and common sense in it. I began to analyze my own motives, and
found that they, too, were very largely mixed with selfishness. Was it
more a desire to help those I considered my people, or more a desire
to distinguish myself, which was leading me back to the United States?
That is a question I have never definitely answered.

For several weeks longer I was in a troubled state of mind. Added to
the fact that I was loath to leave my good friend was the weight of
the question he had aroused in my mind, whether I was not making a
fatal mistake. I suffered more than one sleepless night during that
time. Finally, I settled the question on purely selfish grounds, in
accordance with my millionaire's philosophy. I argued that music
offered me a better future than anything else I had any knowledge of,
and, in opposition to my friend's opinion, that I should have greater
chances of attracting attention as a colored composer than as a white
one. But I must own that I also felt stirred by an unselfish desire
to voice all the joys and sorrows, the hopes and ambitions, of the
American Negro, in classic musical form.

When my mind was fully made up, I told my friend. He asked me when I
intended to start. I replied that I would do so at once. He then asked
me how much money I had. I told him that I had saved several hundred
dollars out of sums he had given me. He gave me a check for five
hundred dollars, told me to write to him in care of his Paris bankers
if I ever needed his help, wished me good luck, and bade me good-by.
All this he did almost coldly; and I often wondered whether he was in
a hurry to get rid of what he considered a fool, or whether he was
striving to hide deeper feelings.

And so I separated from the man who was, all in all, the best friend I
ever had, except my mother, the man who exerted the greatest influence
ever brought into my life, except that exerted by my mother. My
affection for him was so strong, my recollections of him are so
distinct, he was such a peculiar and striking character, that I could
easily fill several chapters with reminiscences of him; but for fear
of tiring the reader I shall go on with my narration.

I decided to go to Liverpool and take ship for Boston. I still had an
uneasy feeling about returning to New York; and in a few days I found
myself aboard ship headed for home.




Chapters VII-IX
The narrator pauses his story to describe the Club in more detail since he spends so much time there. In the basement is a Chinese restaurant, and many Club patrons have discovered that Chop Suey is good for soaking up alcohol. On the main floor are a parlor which opens into a back room, which is covered from ceiling to floor with pictures of notable African Americans. There is also a private room for parties and an open space for performers. The narrator describes the performance spaces as "a center of colored Bohemians and sports". Many notable personalities wander through its rooms. Admirers of both races visit frequently. Meanwhile, the wealthier Club patrons think nothing of buying champagne for everyone in the room. The narrator describes the few white patrons who come to the Club. Some stay a few minutes, others remain the whole night. Some actors come to see how "colored" people act so they can work on perfecting their own "darky characters" . There are also a few women who appear to be white who come to the Club with dark-skinned companions. One of them in particular catches the narrator's eye. He nicknames her "the widow", because rumor has it that she inherited a large sum from a late husband. She is cultured and well-traveled, and pays for her young African American companion to wear fine suits and travel in taxicabs. The morning after the narrator's first eye-opening night in New York City, he and his friends put off finding jobs and instead return to the gambling house to get into good spirits. The narrator loses fifty dollars but is optimistic that he will regain his luck next time. At the Club, the narrator tries to play ragtime like the resident pianist, but finds the task more difficult than he had expected. Eventually, the narrator takes a job rolling cigars to make money during the day and gambling it away at night. He falls into a routine going to the craps table and afterwards, whether he wins or loses, he spends time at the Club. Soon, he decides to gamble full-time and gives up his steady cigar-rolling work. For the next year, which the narrator describes as a "dark period", he many other bright ambitious types become obsessed with the world of gambling and glittering nightlife. Sometimes he has money, sometimes he does not. However, during this year he does manage to master ragtime and becomes a popular entertainer at The Club. He soon earns the nickname "the professor" and starts making a living playing the piano, which weans him off his gambling habit. It is through his talent for ragtime that the narrator will have the opportunity to explore the world. One night, a young white man , impeccably dressed and very cultured in appearance, comes into the club and, week after week, gives the narrator five dollars after each of his performances. He mysteriously asks the narrator to fill an engagement for him, giving him no other information than a visiting card. On the night of the "engagement", the narrator arrives at the millionaire's house to furnish musical entertainment for a dinner party. The lavishly furnished house is comfortable but elegant, and the guests cultured and vibrant. While the narrator plays classical music, a background score, he observes the guests around him, noting the lovely women as well as the millionaire, whose reserve grows in proportion to the guests' gregariousness. The narrator soon learns that this is simply the way the millionaire always behaves at social events. When it is time for dinner, the millionaire encourages the narrator decides to switch to ragtime music. His performance delights the guests and they flock around the piano, nearly forgetting about their food. The millionaire compliments the narrator when the guests leave and tells him that he will give him lots of work as long as he does not perform for any other private employers. The narrator readily consents. The narrator begins playing regularly for the millionaire. What is striking, the narrator observes, is that the millionaire's love for music is all-consuming and his "powers of endurance in listening often exceeded in performing". The narrator's arms often grow sore and his mind fatigued, playing for hours while the millionaire listens quietly with his own eyes barely open. Over time, their relationship grows warm and familiar. The narrator still headquarters at the club, playing for fun. He attracts the attention of many women, including the widow. He is warned that her younger African American companion is violent and hot-headed, evidenced by the lovers' frequent quarrels. However, the widow is so beautiful that the narrator cannot help but be charmed by her. One night, she asks him to have a drink with her and he agrees. Mid-conversation, the narrator becomes aware that her companion has arrived. The widow's companion approaches their table and just when the narrator thinks he is going to strike her, the widow's companion pulls out a revolver and shoots her in the throat. The narrator leaps up and runs frantically into the city streets, frightened and paranoid, until the millionaire drives by and finds him. The narrator tells him what has happened and the millionaire replies, "'I decided last night that I'd go to Europe tomorrow. I think I'll take you along instead of Walter'" . The narrator agrees to this and sits back in the car; he comments, "the jet of blood pulsing from had placed an indelible red stain on my memory". The journey to Europe is difficult for the narrator at first; he is seasick and afraid that he will somehow be tied to the murder. He eventually feels better and by the time they arrive in Paris, he is excited for his next adventure. He writes that "there was awakened in my heart a love for France". He details his sightseeing and his love of Parisian culture. The millionaire never treats him as a subordinate, but as an equal. During the days when the millionaire is occupied, the narrator wanders around Paris and begins learning French. He devotes himself to refreshing his Spanish and learning German as well. He spends many evenings at the Opera, and one night, he notices a striking young girl in the audience. She is with her parents, and when the narrator looks a bit more closely, he notices that man is his own father, meaning that the girl is his sister. He leaves the building, feeling suffocated and miserable. He cannot decide whether he wants to weep or curse. The millionaire decides he is tired of Paris, and the narrator is saddened to have to leave. They move on to London, which the narrator finds distasteful at first. He soon grows to love it, though, for different reasons than he loved Paris. They make a stop in Amsterdam and then move on to Germany. In Berlin, the narrator meets some of the millionaire's friends who are also musicians. One night, when the millionaire is entertaining these men, he asks the narrator to play ragtime. The narrator complies, and before he can be commended, a large German man takes over the piano to play many variations on the the ragtime tune, in several different musical genres. The narrator is astonished, for "this man has taken ragtime and made it classic". The narrator then loses interest in his travels. He wants to move back to the South, live among African Americans and feel the inspiration firsthand, but he is nervous to leave the millionaire. They are friends and the narrator knows how much music means to the millionaire. When the millionaire announces his plans to go to Egypt and Japan, the narrator finally reveals his plans to return to the USA and pursue a career in music. The millionaire wonders why he would want throw his life away with the poor and ignorant "colored" people in America when he can pass for white. They have a deep discussion about race, leading the narrator to conclude that the millionaire does not feel prejudice but is aware that prejudice exists. The millionaire's perspective is this: "I can imagine no more dissatisfied human being than an educated, cultured, and refined colored man in the United States". He believes that life should be enjoyed that it is a waste of time attempt to ease the world's suffering. The narrator admits that the millionaire's ideas are compelling and wonders if his motivation is to help his own people or to find success for himself. He concludes that there is some selfishness in his ambitions, as he will be more remarkable as a "colored composer" than as a white one, but that he also feels "stirred by an unselfish desire to voice all the joys and sorrows, the hopes and ambitions, of the American Negro, in classic musical form". The millionaire accepts the narrator's decision and gives him a large sum of money, with a promise of more should he need it. The narrator does not know if the coldness of their parting is because the millionaire feels that the narrator is making mistake or because he is trying to cover up his own emotions. The narrator soon boards a ship to Boston, and journeys back to his home country.
In these chapters, the narrator establishes himself in New York and unearths new facets of his personality, first as a gambler and then as a the millionaire's personal musician. Although he gets off to a shaky start with ragtime, he soon becomes the best ragtime player in the city, noting that ragtime opens doors for him that his study of Chopin and Mendelssohn never could. His time in New York ends abruptly, though, when has a run-in with the widow's kept man and witnesses her violent death at her companion's hands. However, after his jaunt in Europe, it is music that compels him to come back to the states, just as it catalyzed his departure. As the narrator travels from place to place in the United States, his story reveals that the physical and psychological barriers between the races are invisible and complex. Critic Kathleen Pfeiffer writes, "the Ex-Colored Man's embodiment of physical whiteness and legal blackness literalizes the instability of these ideological frontiers, and demonstrates that their barriers are increasingly permeable." The narrator never ascribes to fixed boundaries, even as a child. He resists music lessons that curtail his creativity and is unimpressed by great books, including the Bible. He evinces frustration that these books present history in a fragmented, impersonal way. His journey of discovery, as described in the novel, is a layered narrative that reveals the history of racial identity in America with all its inexplicable contradictions. However, as Pfeiffer points out, the narrator still has an overwhelming impulse to order and categorize. He lists the content of each of his childhood rooms, compares and contrasts European people, and develops categories of "colored people" in the South, Club patrons, and gamblers. Despite this, Johnson denies his reader the same ability to find order in his narrative, as he liberally jumps back-and-forth chronologically, defies literary conventions, and mixes genres. It is difficult to read Autobiography through any single lens or categorize it neatly. Just as the narrator vacillates between "passing" as white or embracing his blackness, his internal loyalties fluctuate as well. This could be a symptom of his racial self-hatred, or indicative of a unique form of self-determination; Pfeiffer writes, "neither wholly black nor wholly white, the Ex-Colored Man believes himself to be free from the politics which race loyalty demands." The narrator is extremely adaptable in all of his jobs and locales, and "his only constant, essential characteristic is that he possesses no constant, essential characteristic." Johnson even avoids giving the narrator and most of the other characters real names, identifying them by their physical characteristics or jobs. Traditionally, white masters had the authority to name their slaves, but after emancipation, African Americans reclaimed autonomy by un-naming or re-naming themselves. The narrator avoids being controlled by either tradition and creates a system of identification based neither on the slaveowners' tradition or by rebelling against it. The narrator's ability to straddle racial categories is evident in the novel's treatment of music. The narrator describes his individualism as a musician, eschewing formal lessons and abhorring the role of an accompanist. He distinguishes himself a classical musician, then, in New York, starts employing ragtime techniques to come up with new variations on classical music, and finally, during his stint in Europe, he is inspired by a German musician's classical interpretation of ragtime. Some critics excoriate the narrator for taking an African American form and turning it into something half-white, and then for venturing to exploit music in the South simply because he sees it that route as the most promising. He cannot accept ragtime music for what it is and instead follows the German musician's lead by adulterating it with classical European music. However, it can also be said that the narrator does not accept classical music for what it is either. This blurring of musical boundaries was a reality of the ragtime phenomenon, with both white and black artists borrowing from each other and achieving success. Also, most of the narrator's most important moments take place at a piano, which seems to challenge the idea that the narrator's white identity equals a loss of musical inspiration.