“By visits,” said the Resident briefly, “and statistics.”
“You go out from here to make the visits upon the poor—”
“And then we make the statistics,” he interrupted, “and publish them.”
Suddenly he became grave, and in doing so made himself seem ten years older.
“You look sceptical,” he said. “I am myself, sometimes. But, seriously, I think that this thing is worth doing. We come because we are really interested in these people. We are interested in all kinds of ways. One man here is doing regular missionary work. Another is writing a book about the reasons for unsanitary living in the slums, and is investigating the condition of every tenement in the East End. There’s a literary man here, looking for material. He goes around getting local colour, but he helps, too, and isn’t so useless as he might seem to be.”
“Helps in what?” I asked.
“In the collective work done by the House,” said the Resident. “We have all kinds of clubs,—literary, political, and scientific. You see, though each man is doing his own private work, we have organized effort. It isn’t all exploration. However, I believe I made our twofold object clear in that opening sentence.
“Then there are art exhibitions and lectures. We invite our neighbours to come to hear music, and to come to take baths. We charge five cents for the baths. The music is free. We have dinner parties too, and receptions. You ought to see the costumes that the East End can turn out. A Brand Street swell in his evening dress is a sight for gods and men.”
“I don’t see what you talk about,” I said. “Your guests must be hard to entertain.”
“Oh, we talk about dime museums and Tammany and the things that happen in the streets. That’s when we are adapting ourselves to our guests. Then we show them pictures, and talk about high art and literature. That’s when we are adapting our guests to us. It’s immensely elevating for them, immensely, just to talk with us.”