by Karen Abbott
Minna embraced Honoré de Balzac’s philosophy—“Pleasure,” he wrote in 1834, “is like certain drugs; to continue to obtain the same results one must double the dose, and death or brutalization is contained in the last one”—and she stressed to her girls that contemplation of devilment was more satisfying than the act itself. In an establishment like the Everleigh Club, she advised, a girl could get away with a sly smile and a coy aside, like “Wait until I know you better.” Temper the instinct to rush a man, to exploit his baser fantasies. Flirtations and banter could begin in any of the parlors, but a girl must have a deft touch once she escorted a man upstairs.
There was also the matter of appearance. Minna forbade Everleigh girls to wear those tawdry negligees that passed for standard uniforms in other houses. How would that look, after the girls had so judiciously studied the poetry of Arthur Symons and Ernest Dowson and Longfellow? No, they would wear elegant, full-length evening gowns and all the jewelry they owned, as long as it wasn’t gaudy. Only Minna could pull off such excess.
Minna knew that most of them had come up from the lower classes (save the occasional exception, like Valerie, a doctor’s daughter), so such thorough tutoring was necessary. Their harlots, and others in brothels across the country, usually chose this life—the sporting life—out of pragmatism, not adventure. Many girls were desperately poor, burdened with supporting parents, siblings, and children. They had been juvenile delinquents and tossed out of the home, and the $35 per week that one made as a whore—even in a low-class resort—far exceeded the $6 she could earn in a factory.
Girls who turned to prostitution often suffered the death or desertion of one or both parents at an early age; witnessed their mothers cohabiting with a series of strange men; fell victim to incest, alcoholism, tuberculosis, depression. For some, the sporting life was simply the family business, an inherited proclivity. The sisters’ acquaintance Madam Nell Kimball recalled the sage advice of her aunt Letty, a retired courtesan: “Every girl, if only she knew it, is sitting on her fortune.” Others were reared in brothels and knew no other life. One courtesan in New Orleans was the daughter of a prostitute and her former trick. Before the girl’s fifth birthday, she learned how to prepare opium and wash off her mother’s clients. At seven, she began selling sexual acts herself. Her virginity was auctioned off for $7.75.
“I ain’t ashamed of what I did,” she reasoned, “because I didn’t have much to do with it. I knew it’d be good if I could say how awful it was and like crime don’t pay, but to me it seems just like anything else—like a kid whose father owns a grocery store. He helps him in the store. Well my mother didn’t sell groceries.”
Their husbands left them or lost their jobs; society frowned upon a wife working outside the home, but there was no other choice. Many young girls were abandoned by family owing to suspicions of promiscuity and then decided to hell with it, why not charge a man for the privilege? Sex work wasn’t so different from marriage anyway, they reasoned. “It is not adequate to define a prostitute simply as a woman who sells her body,” Havelock Ellis would soon write. “That is done every day by women who become wives in order to gain a home and a livelihood.” At least a sporting girl got paid to take orders and perform.
Some women joined the life not out of financial necessity, but from a desire for upward mobility, the Victorian version of bling—fine hats, gowns, shoes, pricey baubles, a brand-new bicycle. A nineteen-year-old Polish factory worker in Chicago told authorities that she had sex with men at work in exchange for clothing, and proudly showed off a collection of twenty pairs of silk stockings. “I got to get out of this place and meet some guy, and marry him before my folks get wise,” she added. “If my father knew he’d kill me.”
And returning to “respectable” work after a stint in prostitution was often more difficult than deciding to enter the life in the first place. A Philadelphia prostitute named Maimie Pinzer, who had lost the sight in one eye from a syphilitic infection, found that few jobs were available to a half-blind unskilled woman.
“I spent 3 days in despair,” she wrote to a friend, “thinking of ditching it all and taking up again the life of least resistance.”
Minna sympathized with the young women who were clamoring to work for the Club. High turnover was common in the business, but she vowed that each girl they hired would be spoiled, not degraded. After all, she and Ada, their own pasts dotted with deaths and disappointments, so easily could have been statistics on the other side of the equation.
In between interviews and tutoring, the sisters grappled with prosaic but necessary details, like hiring black servants to replace Hankins’s staff. Butler Edmund and housekeepers Julia Yancy and Etta Wright signed on, and the sisters even contracted with a French designer to create couture gowns for the courtesans. The esteemed Dr. Maurice Rosenberg agreed to perform regular medical examinations on the girls, a practice often forged or skipped altogether in lesser houses. The more resourceful prostitutes stocked up on quack doctors’ tonics and creams, including a red mouthwash laced with alcohol and morphine.
Redecorating projects progressed, but the sisters’ grand vision wouldn’t be complete without a gold piano. It would be the pièce de résistance in a parlor done entirely in the most precious of metals—the Gold Room. They turned to William Wallace Kimball, whose Kimball Piano Company was the largest manufacturer in the country. When Kimball recognized the Everleighs’ address, as any man would, he dismissed their story about a “private conservatory of music”—who ever heard of such a thing at 22nd and Dearborn, in the heart of the South Side Levee?—and declined to sell the sisters a piano, gold or otherwise. A dealer in New York was happy to accommodate.
Piano professors came to audition on the glittering new $15,000 marvel, which Ada cooed over as if it were a sleeping newborn. The professor would complement three string orchestras comprising violins, cellos, and harps. One candidate, Vanderpool Vanderpool, wearing wildly wavy hair and a tuxedo that actually fit, performed a boisterous tune the sisters had loved since its release in 1898. They sang along with the refrain:
She was bred in Old Kentucky
where the meadow grass is blue, there’s the sunshine of the country
in her face and manner, too,
she was bred in old Kentucky, take her, boy, you’re mighty lucky,
when you marry a girl like Sue.
That was that: “Van Van” was their man.
Two private suites reflected their personal styles. Ada’s was plain and serene, Minna’s a cacophony of color. For a canopy, Minna picked an enormous eight-by-twelve-foot mirror—she would never bed a client, but she was a madam, after all. Her favorite feature was the floor-to-ceiling shelves, crammed with books bound in thick, fragrant leather. One day she would write her own.
Even before choosing Chicago as the ideal city, the sisters had lengthy debates about what to call their next brothel. They knew it would be highly inappropriate to use their given surname, Simms, since they still had family throughout the South. In Omaha, they’d gone by Everly—in honor, they claimed, of their grandmother’s signature closing on her letters, “Everly Yours.” It had a nice ring, but this new house required something extra, a certain aristocratic twist.
Inspiration finally hit, and they turned the “ly” into “leigh,” just like Sir Walter Raleigh. Fitting, especially since the writer had spent some time in the American South.
And one of America’s bawdiest idioms was born.
“I have always considered their choice of their professional name to be a marvelous ‘play on words,’” wrote the sisters’ great-niece, “which being a member of the family I could easily relate to their sense of humor.” “The double entendre was intended,” agreed one Chicago historian. The phrase likely evolved from, of all things, the Bible—several passages use “lie with” as a euphemism for sex—but in the decades after the sisters christened their Club, their legacy assumed the credit. I’m getting Everleighed tonight, eminent men from around
the country reportedly boasted. A simple declaration that said many things at once, was understood only by a privileged few—and, ultimately, was shortened and vulgarized.
In the days leading up to the grand opening, the sisters encouraged the courtesans to strike a balance between comfort—this was their new home, after all—and discipline. Minna ordered breakfast to be served daily at two in the afternoon. After the Club was launched, she suspected these meals should reflect the previous night’s indulgences and consist only of a soothing glass of iced clam juice with a side of aspirin. But for those who were inclined to eat, the spread offered eggs, kidney sauté, clam cakes with bacon, planked white fish, shad roe, breast of chicken with ham under glass, buttered toast, and Turkish coffee.
Minna ordered the girls to consume plenty of baked apples, applesauce, sliced oranges, stewed fruits, and, most frequently, iced canned tomatoes. She watched approvingly as they downed the entire contents in quick, wince-inducing gulps. Come now, she cajoled, it’s not that bad—they’ll be thankful when old age crept upon them. Their hair would remain soft, their skin unlined.
The harlots ate again at 6:00 p.m. If they kept to this schedule, they would have plenty of time to primp and polish before the nightly festivities. These were raucous gatherings, with loud, rude jokes that made them all slap the table out of laughter, china jostling, silverware hopping. Petty quarrels and jealousies erupted, especially among the girls who’d become lovers. Such relationships were common in brothels, Minna and Ada knew. For many of the harlots, the Club was the first place they’d felt genuine affection, camaraderie, or security. But the spats, fortunately, were short-lived. They were a close group, a good group, each passing on tips and wisdom collected during her time in the trade—even if such folklore didn’t apply to a place like the Everleigh Club:
It’s bad luck for a man to come in and then leave without spending, the girls advised one another. To remove the curse from the house, spit on the trick’s back. A harlot should never use her real name—best to forget it altogether the minute she joins a house. Never bring a cat inside the resort; it’s plain bad luck. But setting wine out on the sidewalk or straightening a parlor mirror will make the men come running. If the first customer of the night passes over a girl, her luck will be bad for a long time. And when a harlot goes down on a trick, she mustn’t swallow—that stuff causes an upset stomach and rotten teeth.
After a day of preparations and tutoring, Minna and Ada retired to another dining room, the Pullman Buffet. Carved out of mahogany, it was a splendid replica of a Pullman train car—just like the one they had traveled in during their journey to Chicago. The expert kitchen staff handled requests as well as any professor. Minna preferred chicken, and Ada liked vegetables. Both had a fondness for cheese and ice cream, which they ate as often as four times a day.
While they dined, the sisters finalized the rules for the Club’s daily operations. Southern dishes and mannerisms and courtesies prevailed: Fruits, salted pecans, bonbons, cigarettes, cigars, and liqueurs would be available in every parlor, all night long. They must be strict, Minna insisted. After the first night, prospective customers could gain entry only with a solid letter of referral. Out-of-town visitors to Chicago had to prove their identity and financial standing. No sightseers or slumming parties allowed, but the sisters would make exceptions for a few colorful local rogues who paid their bills and kept their lewdness in check—at least until they climbed the stairs.
Banish anyone who spent less than $50, which was technically an entrance fee. Elsewhere in Chicago, a man could enjoy a three-course meal for 50 cents, but dinner in the Pullman Buffet started at $50 per plate. It would behoove them to open an account with Chicago’s Chapin & Gore, allotting a budget of $2,000 to $5,000 a month for imported spirits. Wine would be sold in the parlors for $12 a bottle and in the bedrooms for $15, but beer and hard liquor weren’t available at any price. Servants would press a gentleman’s suit while he was being entertained, and money would not be mentioned until his party was over. All transactions would be handled discreetly, by check—cash was considered crass. When a client looked over his bank statement, he would find his check endorsed by the “Utopia Novelty Company.”
On February 1, 1900, before the doors opened at 8:00 p.m., Minna ordered her courtesans to line up.
“Be polite, patient and forget what you are here for,” she said. A diamond clasp, shaped like a butterfly, gripped her throat. She had grown tremendously fond of the insects, of how their short lives revolved wholly around the process of change. “Gentlemen are only gentlemen when properly introduced. We shall see that each girl is properly presented to each guest. No lining up for selection as in other houses. There shall be no cry, ‘In the parlor, girls’ when visitors arrive. Be patient is all I ask. And remember that the Everleigh Club has no time for the rough element, the clerk on a holiday or a man without a checkbook.”
The girls clucked, shifted their weight, fidgeted beneath mountainous gowns.
“It’s going to be difficult, at first, I know,” Minna continued. She walked slowly up and down the line, a commander instructing her troops, arms folded, heels clacking. “It means, briefly, that your language will have to be ladylike and that you will forgo the entreaties you had used in the past. You have the whole night before you, and one fifty-dollar client is more desirable than five ten-dollar ones. Less wear and tear. You will thank me for this advice in later years. Your youth and beauty are all you have. Preserve it. Stay respectable by all means. We know men better than you do. Don’t rush ’em or roll ’em. We will permit no monkeyshines, no knockout drops, no robberies, no crimes of any description. We’ll supply the clients, you amuse them in a way they’ve never been amused before. Give, but give interestingly and with mystery. I want you girls to be proud that you are in the Everleigh Club. That is all. Now spruce up and look your best.”
From then on, Minna would refer to their girls as “butterflies.” And she had an idea: On special occasions, why not import swarms of the insects and release them in the conversation parlors to flutter and float among the guests?
Initially, some of the butterfly girls doubted the sisters, whispering behind their backs that the $50-minimum rule was absurd. “Just a bluff,” one harlot sneered before the Club’s doors opened for the first time. “Who is going to pay fifty dollars for a good time? I’ve heard of southern hospitality, but not at these prices.”
At 8:00 p.m., several men sought admittance, but neither their credentials nor their wallets were sufficiently impressive. One look and Minna could tell they didn’t belong: eyes shifty, hands shaking, feet restless. Before she could give them the boot, Ada told them, kindly, that they were at the wrong house.
Moments later, a group of actors stood, shivering, by the entrance. They worked at the Alhambra Theater, currently offering a play called The City of New York. A few of the girls had slipped out during the afternoon for a matinee, were “thrilled by the leading men,” and had invited them to the premiere of their resort, opening under new management. More evidence that the harlots doubted the sisters’ standards, since an actor’s salary averaged just $40 per week. These men, too, were politely advised to seek their kicks elsewhere in the Levee.
Then came a group of Texas cattlemen who passed muster handily and spent $300 within a few hours. Madam Cleo Maitland, who so helpfully referred their building, sent flowers, as did a U.S. senator who knew the sisters from Omaha. A few friends from their theatrical troupe sent telegrams full of good wishes. Ike Bloom, a powerful Levee district leader known as “the King of the Brothels,” came by early to pay his respects and promised the sisters he’d be in touch. Minna asked Ada if she could perhaps take a break—traffic was ebbing, and she had some reading to do.
Minna took her copy of the Chicago Daily News to the Gold Room. One headline in particular caught her eye: RITES FOR P. D. ARMOUR, JR. The young son of the famous Chicago meatpacker had died suddenly in San Francisco five days earlier, and his body had fina
lly arrived home for funeral services. His father, Philip Danforth Armour Sr., was so upset by his heir’s untimely death that he couldn’t receive the body at the train station. Masses of men whose lives were connected to the great Armour enterprise filed past a coffin buried beneath a vast tumbling of flowers. Burial was at the prestigious Graceland Cemetery.
Minna was so engrossed in the article that she didn’t notice a harlot tiptoeing up behind her. The girl backed away quietly and found her fellow courtesans.
“We’ve got her all wrong,” she whispered, impressed. “Minna knows the swells all right. I caught her reading about the Armour funeral and she acted like she had known him. She’s been holding out on us.”
Ten minutes later, a loyal servant who had overheard the girls’ chatter cornered Minna and relayed the conversation. The madam laughed, a screeching peal that orbited the room.
“I never heard of Armour until today,” Minna confided. “Don’t tell anyone I told you.”
She and Ada had great fun and satisfaction tallying the opening night proceeds. The gross business was about $1,000, a resounding success for a Thursday evening, and from then on the courtesans could expect to pocket more than $100 per week.
Come Friday, no one posed further questions or made snide asides. One hundred dollars a week was an unthinkable salary in other houses.
Besides, the Everleigh butterflies were exhausted.
THE DEMON OF LUST
LIES IN WAIT
There are no good girls gone wrong,
just bad girls found out.
—MAE WEST
In January 1886, as William Stead neared the end of his prison sentence for purchasing thirteen-year-old Lily Armstrong, a magazine titled The Philanthropist made its debut. The editors, all members of the New York Committee for the Prevention of the State Regulation of Vice—which had, over the years, defeated four proposals to legalize prostitution in that city—picked up where their British counterparts left off, printing Josephine Butler’s impassioned defense of her friend.
