Maggie, a Girl of the Streets and Other New York Writings

by Stephen Crane

  “Mag’s dead,” repeated the man.

  “Deh hell she is,” said the woman. She continued her meal. When she finished her coffee she began to weep.

  “I kin remember when her two feet was no bigger dan yer tumb, and she weared worsted boots,” moaned she.

  “Well, whata dat?” said the man.

  “I kin remember when she weared worsted boots,” she cried.

  The neighbors began to gather in the hall, staring in at the weeping woman as if watching the contortions of a dying dog. A dozen women entered and lamented with her. Under their busy hands the rooms took on that appalling appearance of neatness and order with which death is greeted.

  Suddenly the door opened and a woman in a black gown rushed in with outstretched arms. “Ah, poor Mary,” she cried, and tenderly embraced the moaning one.

  “Ah, what ter’ble affliction is dis,” continued she. Her vocabulary was derived from mission churches. “Me poor Mary, how I feel fer yehs! Ah, what a ter’ble affliction is a disobed’ent chile.”

  Her good, motherly face was wet with tears. She trembled in eagerness to express her sympathy. The mourner sat with bowed head, rocking her body heavily to and fro, and crying out in a high, strained voice that sounded like a dirge on some forlorn pipe.

  “I kin remember when she weared worsted boots an’ her two feets was no bigger dan yer tumb an’ she weared worsted boots, Miss Smith,” she cried, raising her streaming eyes.

  “Ah, me poor Mary,” sobbed the woman in black. With low, coddling cries, she sank on her knees by the mourner’s chair, and put her arms about her. The other women began to groan in different keys.

  “Yer poor misguided chil’ is gone now, Mary, an’ let us hope its fer deh bes’. Yeh’ll fergive her now, Mary, won’t yehs, dear, all her disobed’ence? All her tankless behavior to her mudder an’ all her badness? She’s gone where her ter’ble sins will be judged.”

  The woman in black raised her face and paused. The inevitable sunlight came streaming in at the windows and shed a ghastly cheerfulness upon the faded hues of the room. Two or three of the spectators were sniffling, and one was loudly weeping. The mourner arose and staggered into the other room. In a moment she emerged with a pair of faded baby shoes held in the hollow of her hand.

  “I kin remember when she used to wear dem,” cried she. The women burst anew into cries as if they had all been stabbed. The mourner turned to the soiled and unshaven man.

  “Jimmie, boy, go git yer sister! Go git yer sister an’ we’ll put deh boots on her feets!”

  “Dey won’t fit her now, yeh damn fool,” said the man.

  “Go git yer sister, Jimmie,” shrieked the woman, confronting him fiercely.

  The man swore sullenly. He went over to a corner and slowly began to put on his coat. He took his hat and went out, with a dragging, reluctant step.

  The woman in black came forward and again besought the mourner.

  “Yeh’ll fergive her, Mary! Yeh’ll fergive yer bad, bad chil’! Her life was a curse an’ her days were black an’ yeh’ll fergive yer bad girl? She’s gone where her sins will be judged.”

  “She’s gone where her sins will be judged,” cried the other women, like a choir at a funeral.

  “Deh Lord gives and deh Lord takes away,” said the woman in black, raising her eyes to the sunbeams.

  “Deh Lord gives and deh Lord takes away,” responded the others.

  “Yeh’ll fergive her, Mary!” pleaded the woman in black. The mourner essayed to speak but her voice gave way. She shook her great shoulders frantically, in an agony of grief. Hot tears seemed to scald her quivering face. Finally her voice came and arose like a scream of pain.

  “Oh, yes, I’ll fergive her! I’ll fergive her!”

  GEORGE’S MOTHER

  I

  In the swirling rain that came at dusk the broad avenue glistened with that deep bluish tint which is so widely condemned when it is put into pictures. There were long rows of shops, whose fronts shone with full, golden light. Here and there, from druggists’ windows, or from the red street-lamps that indicated the positions of fire-alarm boxes, a flare of uncertain, wavering crimson was thrown upon the wet pavements.

  The lights made shadows, in which the buildings loomed with a new and tremendous massiveness, like castles and fortresses. There were endless processions of people, mighty hosts, with umbrellas waving, banner-like, over them. Horse-cars, aglitter with new paint, rumbled in steady array between the pillars that supported the elevated railroad. The whole street resounded with the tinkle of bells, the roar of iron-shod wheels on the cobbles, the ceaseless trample of the hundreds of feet. Above all, too, could be heard the loud screams of the tiny newsboys, who scurried in all directions. Upon the corners, standing in from the dripping eaves, were many loungers, descended from the world that used to prostrate itself before pageantry.

  A brown young man went along the avenue. He held a tin lunch-pail under his arm in a manner that was evidently uncomfortable. He was puffing at a corn-cob pipe. His shoulders had a self-reliant poise, and the hang of his arms and the raised veins of his hands showed him to be a man who worked with his muscles.

  As he passed a street-corner a man in old clothes gave a shout of surprise, and rushing impetuously forward, grasped his hand.

  “Hello, Kelcey, ol’ boy,” cried the man in old clothes. “How’s th’ boy, anyhow? Where in thunder yeh been fer th’ last seventeen years? I’ll be hanged if you ain’t th’ last man I ever expected t’ see.”

  The brown youth put his pail to the ground and grinned. “Well, if it ain’t ol’ Charley Jones,” he said, ecstatically shaking hands. “How are yeh, anyhow? Where yeh been keepin’ yerself? I ain’t seen yeh fer a year!”

  “Well, I should say so! Why, th’ last time I saw you was up in Handyville!”

  “Sure! On Sunday, we——”

  “Sure! Out at Bill Sickles’s place. Let’s go get a drink!”

  They made toward a little glass-fronted saloon that sat blinking jovially at the crowds. It engulfed them with a gleeful motion of its two widely smiling lips.

  “What’ll yeh take, Kelcey?”

  “Oh, I guess I’ll take a beer.”

  “Gimme little whiskey, John.”

  The two friends leaned against the bar and looked with enthusiasm upon each other.

  “Well, well, I’m thunderin’ glad t’ see yeh,” said Jones.

  “Well, I guess,” replied Kelcey. “Here’s to yeh, ol’ man.”

  “Let ’er go.”

  They lifted their glasses, glanced fervidly at each other, and drank.

  “Yeh ain’t changed much, on’y yeh’ve growed like th’ devil,” said Jones, reflectively, as he put down his glass. “I’d know yeh anywheres!”

  “Certainly yeh would,” said Kelcey. “An’ I knew you, too, th’ minute I saw yeh. Yer changed, though!”

  “Yes,” admitted Jones, with some complacency, “I s’pose I am.” He regarded himself in the mirror that multiplied the bottles on the shelf back of the bar. He should have seen a grinning face with a rather pink nose. His derby was perched carelessly on the back part of his head. Two wisps of hair straggled down over his hollow temples. There was something very worldly and wise about him. Life did not seem to confuse him. Evidently he understood its complications. His hand thrust into his trousers’ pocket, where he jingled keys, and his hat perched back on his head expressed a young man of vast knowledge. His extensive acquaintance with bartenders aided him materially in this habitual expression of wisdom.

  Having finished he turned to the barkeeper. “John, has any of th’ gang been in t’-night yet?”

  “No—not yet,” said the barkeeper. “ol’ Bleecker was aroun’ this afternoon about four. He said if I seen any of th’ boys t’ tell ’em he’d be up t’-night if he could get away. I saw Connor an’ that other fellah goin’ down th’ avenyeh about an hour ago. I guess they’ll be back after awhile.”

  “This is th’ ha
ng-out fer a great gang,” said Jones, turning to Kelcey. “They’re a great crowd, I tell yeh. We own th’ place when we get started. Come aroun’ some night. Any night, almost. T’-night, b’ jiminy. They’ll almost all be here, an’ I’d like t’ interduce yeh. They’re a great gang! Gre-e-at!”

  “I’d like teh,” said Kelcey.

  “Well, come ahead, then,” cried the other, cordially. “Yeh’d like t’ know ’em. It’s an outa sight crowd. Come aroun’ t’-night!”

  “I will if I can.”

  “Well, yeh ain’t got anything t’ do, have yeh?” demanded Jones. “Well, come along, then. Yeh might just as well spend yer time with a good crowd ’a fellahs. An’ it’s a great gang. Great! Gre-e-at!”

  “Well, I must make fer home now, anyhow,” said Kelcey. “It’s late as blazes. What’ll yeh take this time, ol’ man?”

  “Gimme little more whiskey, John!”

  “Guess I’ll take another beer!”

  Jones emptied the whiskey into his large mouth and then put the glass upon the bar. “Been in th’ city long?” he asked. “Um—well, three years is a good deal fer a slick man. Doin’ well? Oh, well, nobody’s doin’ well these days.” He looked down mournfully at his shabby clothes. “Father’s dead, ain’t ’ee? Yeh don’t say so? Fell off a scaffoldin’, didn’t ’ee? I heard it somewheres. Mother’s livin’, of course? I thought she was. Fine ol’ lady—fi-i-ne. Well, you’re th’ last of her boys. Was five of yeh onct, wasn’t there? I knew four m’self. Yes, five! I thought so. An’ all gone but you, hey? Well, you’ll have t’ brace up an’ be a comfort t’ th’ ol’ mother. Well, well, well, who would ’a thought that on’y you’d be left out ’a all that mob ’a tow-headed kids. Well, well, well, it’s a queer world, ain’t it?”

  A contemplation of this thought made him sad. He sighed and moodily watched the other sip beer.

  “Well, well, it’s a queer world—a damn queer world.”

  “Yes,” said Kelcey, “I’m th’ on’y one left!” There was an accent of discomfort in his voice. He did not like this dwelling upon a sentiment that was connected with himself.

  “How is th’ ol’ lady, anyhow?” continued Jones. “Th’ last time I remember she was as spry as a little ol’ cricket, an’ was helpeltin’ aroun’ th’ country lecturin’ before W.C.T.U.’s an’ one thing an’ another.”

  “Oh, she’s pretty well,” said Kelcey.

  “An’ outa five boys you’re th’ on’y one she’s got left? Well, well—have another drink before yeh go.”

  “Oh, I guess I’ve had enough.”

  A wounded expression came into Jones’s eyes. “Oh, come on,” he said.

  “Well, I’ll take another beer!”

  “Gimme little more whiskey, John!”

  When they had concluded this ceremony, Jones went with his friend to the door of the saloon. “Good-by, ol’ man,” he said, genially. His homely features shone with friendliness. “Come aroun’, now, sure. T’-night! See? They’re a great crowd. Gre-e-at!”

  II

  A man with a red, mottled face put forth his head from a window and cursed violently. He flung a bottle high across two backyards at a window of the opposite tenement. It broke against the bricks of the house and the fragments fell crackling upon the stones below. The man shook his fist.

  A bare-armed woman, making an array of clothes on a line in one of the yards, glanced casually up at the man and listened to his words. Her eyes followed his to the other tenement. From a distant window, a youth with a pipe, yelled some comments upon the poor aim. Two children, being in the proper yard, picked up the bits of broken glass and began to fondle them as new toys.

  From the window at which the man raged came the sound of an old voice, singing. It quavered and trembled out into the air as if a sound-spirit had a broken wing.

  “Should I be car-reed tew th’ skies

  O-on flow’ry be-eds of ee-ease,

  While others fought tew win th’ prize

  An’ sailed through blood-ee seas.”

  The man in the opposite window was greatly enraged. He continued to swear.

  A little old woman was the owner of the voice. In a fourth-story room of the red and black tenement she was trudging on a journey. In her arms she bore pots and pans, and sometimes a broom and dust-pan. She wielded them like weapons. Their weight seemed to have bended her back and crooked her arms until she walked with difficulty. Often she plunged her hands into water at a sink. She splashed about, the dwindled muscles working to and fro under the loose skin of her arms. She came from the sink, steaming and bedraggled as if she had crossed a flooded river.

  There was the flurry of a battle in this room. Through the clouded dust or steam one could see the thin figure dealing mighty blows. Always her way seemed beset. Her broom was continually poised, lance-wise, at dust demons. There came clashings and clangings as she strove with her tireless foes.

  It was a picture of indomitable courage. And as she went on her way her voice was often raised in a long cry, a strange war-chant, a shout of battle and defiance, that rose and fell in harsh screams, and exasperated the ears of the man with the red, mottled face.

  “Should I be car-reed tew th’ skies

  O-on flow’ry be-eds of ee-ease——”

  Finally she halted for a moment. Going to the window she sat down and mopped her face with her apron. It was a lull, a moment of respite. Still it could be seen that she even then was planning skirmishes, charges, campaigns. She gazed thoughtfully about the room and noted the strength and position of her enemies. She was very alert.

  At last, she turned to the mantel. “Five o’clock,” she murmured, scrutinizing a little, swaggering, nickel-plated clock.

  She looked out at chimneys growing thickly on the roofs. A man at work on one seemed like a bee. In the intricate yards below, vine-like lines had strange leaves of cloth. To her ears there came the howl of the man with the red, mottled face. He was engaged in a furious altercation with the youth who had called attention to his poor aim. They were like animals in a jungle.

  In the distance an enormous brewery towered over the other buildings. Great gilt letters advertised a brand of beer. Thick smoke came from funnels and spread near it like vast and powerful wings. The structure seemed a great bird, flying. The letters of the sign made a chain of gold hanging from its neck. The little old woman looked at the brewery. It vaguely interested her, for a moment, as a stupendous affair, a machine of mighty strength.

  Presently she sprang from her rest and began to buffet with her shrivelled arms. In a moment the battle was again in full swing. Terrific blows were given and received. There arose the clattering uproar of a new fight. The little intent warrior never hesitated nor faltered. She fought with a strong and relentless will. Beads and lines of perspiration stood upon her forehead.

  Three blue plates were leaning in a row on the shelf back of the stove. The little old woman had seen it done somewhere. In front of them swaggered the round nickel-plated clock. Her son had stuck many cigarette pictures in the rim of a looking-glass that hung near. Occasional chromos were tacked upon the yellowed walls of the room. There was one in a gilt frame. It was quite an affair, in reds and greens. They all seemed like trophies.

  It began to grow dark. A mist came winding. Rain plashed softly upon the window-sill. A lamp had been lighted in the opposite tenement; the strong orange glare revealed the man with a red, mottled face. He was seated by a table, smoking and reflecting.

  The little old woman looked at the clock again. “Quarter ’a six.”

  She had paused for a moment, but she now hurled herself fiercely at the stove that lurked in the gloom, red-eyed, like a dragon. It hissed, and there was renewed clangor of blows. The little old woman dashed to and fro.

  III

  As it grew toward seven o’clock the little old woman became nervous. She often would drop into a chair and sit staring at the little clock.

  “I wonder why he don’t come,” she continua
lly repeated. There was a small, curious note of despair in her voice. As she sat thinking and staring at the clock the expressions of her face changed swiftly. All manner of emotions flickered in her eyes and about her lips. She was evidently perceiving in her imagination the journey of a loved person. She dreamed for him mishaps and obstacles. Something tremendous and irritating was hindering him from coming to her.

  She had lighted an oil-lamp. It flooded the room with vivid yellow glare. The table, in its oil-cloth covering, had previously appeared like a bit of bare, brown desert. It now was a white garden, growing the fruits of her labor.

  “Seven o’clock,” she murmured, finally. She was aghast.

  Then suddenly she heard a step upon the stair. She sprang up and began to bustle about the room. The little fearful emotions passed at once from her face. She seemed now to be ready to scold.

  Young Kelcey entered the room. He gave a sigh of relief, and dropped his pail in a corner. He was evidently greatly wearied by a hard day of toil.

  The little old woman hobbled over to him and raised her wrinkled lips. She seemed on the verge of tears and an outburst of reproaches.

  “Hello!” he cried, in a voice of cheer. “Been gettin’ anxious?”

  “Yes,” she said, hovering about him. “Where yeh been, George? What made yeh so late? I’ve been waitin’ th’ longest while. Don’t throw your coat down there. Hang it up behind th’ door.”

  The son put his coat on the proper hook, and then went to splatter water in a tin wash-basin at the sink.

  “Well, yeh see, I met Jones—you remember Jones? Ol’ Handyville fellah. An’ we had t’ stop an’ talk over ol’ times. Jones is quite a boy.”

  The little old woman’s mouth set in a sudden straight line. “Oh, that Jones,” she said. “I don’t like him.”

  The youth interrupted a flurry of white towel to give a glance of irritation. “Well, now, what’s th’ use of talkin’ that way?” he said to her. “What do yeh know ’bout ’im? Ever spoke to ’im in yer life?”