“Well, I’m damned,” said Jimmie in greeting.
His mother, tottering about the room, pointed a quivering forefinger.
“Lookut her, Jimmie, lookut her. Dere’s yer sister, boy. Dere’s yer sister. Lookut her! Lookut her!”
She screamed in scoffing laughter.
The girl stood in the middle of the room. She edged about as if unable to find a place on the floor to put her feet.
“Ha, ha, ha,” bellowed the mother. “Dere she stands! Ain’ she purty? Lookut her! Ain’ she sweet, deh beast? Lookut her! Ha, ha, lookut her!”
She lurched forward and put her red and seamed hands upon her daughter’s face. She bent down and peered keenly up into the eyes of the girl.
“Oh, she’s jes’ dessame as she ever was, ain’ she? She’s her mudder’s purty darlin’ yit, ain’ she? Lookut her, Jimmie! Come here, fer Gawd’s sake, and lookut her.”
The loud, tremendous sneering of the mother brought the denizens of the Rum Alley tenement to their doors. Women came in the hallways. Children scurried to and fro.
“What’s up? Dat Johnson party on anudder tear?”
“Naw! Young Mag’s come home!”
“Deh hell yeh say?”
Through the open door curious eyes stared in at Maggie. Children ventured into the room and ogled her, as if they formed the front row at a theatre. Women, without, bended toward each other and whispered, nodding their heads with airs of profound philosophy. A baby, overcome with curiosity concerning this object at which all were looking, sidled forward and touched her dress, cautiously, as if investigating a red-hot stove. Its mother’s voice rang out like a warning trumpet. She rushed forward and grabbed her child, casting a terrible look of indignation at the girl.
Maggie’s mother paced to and fro, addressing the doorful of eyes, expounding like a glib showman at a museum. Her voice rang through the building.
“Dere she stands,” she cried, wheeling suddenly and pointing with dramatic finger. “Dere she stands! Lookut her! Ain’ she a dindy? An’ she was so good as to come home teh her mudder, she was! Ain’ she a beaut’? Ain’ she a dindy? Fer Gawd’s sake!”
The jeering cries ended in another burst of shrill laughter.
The girl seemed to awaken. “Jimmie—”
He drew hastily back from her.
“Well, now, yer a hell of a t’ing, ain’ yeh?” he said, his lips curling in scorn. Radiant virtue sat upon his brow and his repelling hands expressed horror of contamination.
Maggie turned and went.
The crowd at the door fell back precipitately. A baby falling down in front of the door, wrenched a scream like a wounded animal from its mother. Another woman sprang forward and picked it up, with a chivalrous air, as if rescuing a human being from an oncoming express train.
As the girl passed down through the hall, she went before open doors framing more eyes strangely microscopic, and sending broad beams of inquisitive light into the darkness of her path. On the second floor she met the gnarled old woman who possessed the music box.
“So,” she cried, “‘ere yehs are back again, are yehs? An’ dey’ve kicked yehs out? Well, come in an’ stay wid me teh-night. I ain’ got no moral standin’.”
From above came an unceasing babble of tongues, over all of which rang the mother’s derisive laughter.
Chapter XVI
Pete did not consider that he had ruined Maggie. If he had thought that her soul could never smile again, he would have believed the mother and brother, who were pyrotechnic over the affair, to be responsible for it.
Besides, in his world, souls did not insist upon being able to smile. “What deh hell?”
He felt a trifle entangled. It distressed him. Revelations and scenes might bring upon him the wrath of the owner of the saloon, who insisted upon respectability of an advanced type.
“What deh hell do dey wanna raise such a smoke about it fer?” demanded he of himself, disgusted with the attitude of the family. He saw no necessity for anyone’s losing their equilibrium merely because their sister or their daughter had stayed away from home.
Searching about in his mind for possible reasons for their conduct, he came upon the conclusion that Maggie’s motives were correct, but that the two others wished to snare him. He felt pursued.
The woman of brilliance and audacity whom he had met in the hilarious hall showed a disposition to ridicule him.
“A little pale thing with no spirit,” she said. “Did you note the expression of her eyes? There was something in them about pumpkin pie and virtue. That is a peculiar way the left corner of her mouth has of twitching, isn’t it? Dear, dear, my cloud-compelling Pete, what are you coming to?”
Pete asserted at once that he never was very much interested in the girl. The woman interrupted him, laughing.
“Oh, it’s not of the slightest consequence to me, my dear young man. You needn’t draw maps for my benefit. Why should I be concerned about it?”
But Pete continued with his explanations. If he was laughed at for his tastes in women, he felt obliged to say that they were only temporary or indifferent ones.
The morning after Maggie had departed from home, Pete stood behind the bar. He was immaculate in white jacket and apron and his hair was plastered over his brow with infinite correctness. No customers were in the place. Pete was twisting his napkined fist slowly in a beer glass, softly whistling to himself and occasionally holding the object of his attention between his eyes and a few weak beams of sunlight that had found their way over the thick screens and into the shaded room.
With lingering thoughts of the woman of brilliance and audacity, the bartender raised his head and stared through the varying cracks between the swaying bamboo doors. Suddenly the whistling pucker faded from his lips. He saw Maggie walking slowly past. He gave a great start, fearing for the previously-mentioned eminent respectability of the place.
He threw a swift, nervous glance about him, all at once feeling guilty. No one was in the room.
He went hastily over to the side door. Opening it and looking out, he perceived Maggie standing, as if undecided, on the corner. She was searching the place with her eyes.
As she turned her face toward him Pete beckoned to her hurriedly, intent upon returning with speed to a position behind the bar and to the atmosphere of respectability upon which the proprietor insisted.
Maggie came to him, the anxious look disappearing from her face and a smile wreathing her lips.
“Oh, Pete — ,” she began brightly.
The bartender made a violent gesture of impatience.
“Oh, my Gawd,” cried he, vehemently. “What deh hell do yeh wanna hang aroun’ here fer? Do yeh wanna git me inteh trouble?” he demanded with an air of injury.
Astonishment swept over the girl’s features. “Why, Pete! yehs tol’ me—”
Pete glanced profound irritation. His countenance reddened with the anger of a man whose respectability is being threatened.
“Say, yehs makes me tired. See? What deh hell deh yeh wanna tag aroun’ atter me fer? Yeh’ll git me inteh trouble wid deh ol’ man an’ dey’ll be hell teh pay! If he sees a woman roun’ here he’ll go crazy an’ I’ll lose me job! See? Yer brudder come in here an’ raised hell an’ deh ol’ man hada put up fer it! An’ now I’m done! See? I’m done.”
The girl’s eyes stared into his face. “Pete, don’t yeh remem—”
“Oh, hell,” interrupted Pete, anticipating.
The girl seemed to have a struggle with herself. She was apparently bewildered and could not find speech. Finally she asked in a low voice: “But where kin I go?”
The question exasperated Pete beyond the powers of endurance. It was a direct attempt to give him some responsibility in a matter that did not concern him. In his indignation he volunteered information.
“Oh, go teh hell,” cried he. He slammed the door furiously and returned, with an air of relief, to his respectability.
Maggie went away.
; She wandered aimlessly for several blocks. She stopped once and asked aloud a question of herself: “Who?”
A man who was passing near her shoulder, humorously took the questioning word as intended for him.
“Eh? What? Who? Nobody! I didn’t say anything,” he laughingly said, and continued his way.
Soon the girl discovered that if she walked with such apparent aimlessness, some men looked at her with calculating eyes. She quickened her step, frightened. As a protection, she adopted a demeanor of intentness as if going somewhere.
After a time she left rattling avenues and passed between rows of houses with sternness and stolidity stamped upon their features. She hung her head for she felt their eyes grimly upon her.
Suddenly she came upon a stout gentleman in a silk hat and a chaste black coat, whose decorous row of buttons reached from his chin to his knees. The girl had heard of the Grace of God and she decided to approach this man.
His beaming, chubby face was a picture of benevolence and kind-heartedness. His eyes shone good-will.
But as the girl timidly accosted him, he gave a convulsive movement and saved his respectability by a vigorous side-step. He did not risk it to save a soul. For how was he to know that there was a soul before him that needed saving?
Chapter XVII
Upon a wet evening, several months after the last chapter, two interminable rows of cars, pulled by slipping horses, jangled along a prominent side-street. A dozen cabs, with coat-enshrouded drivers, clattered to and fro. Electric lights, whirring softly, shed a blurred radiance. A flower dealer, his feet tapping impatiently, his nose and his wares glistening with rain-drops, stood behind an array of roses and chrysanthemums. Two or three theatres emptied a crowd upon the storm-swept pavements. Men pulled their hats over their eyebrows and raised their collars to their ears. Women shrugged impatient shoulders in their warm cloaks and stopped to arrange their skirts for a walk through the storm. People having been comparatively silent for two hours burst into a roar of conversation, their hearts still kindling from the glowings of the stage.
The pavements became tossing seas of umbrellas. Men stepped forth to hail cabs or cars, raising their fingers in varied forms of polite request or imperative demand. An endless procession wended toward elevated stations. An atmosphere of pleasure and prosperity seemed to hang over the throng, born, perhaps, of good clothes and of having just emerged from a place of forgetfulness.
In the mingled light and gloom of an adjacent park, a handful of wet wanderers, in attitudes of chronic dejection, was scattered among the benches.
A girl of the painted cohorts of the city went along the street. She threw changing glances at men who passed her, giving smiling invitations to men of rural or untaught pattern and usually seeming sedately unconscious of the men with a metropolitan seal upon their faces.
Crossing glittering avenues, she went into the throng emerging from the places of forgetfulness. She hurried forward through the crowd as if intent upon reaching a distant home, bending forward in her handsome cloak, daintily lifting her skirts and picking for her well-shod feet the dryer spots upon the pavements.
The restless doors of saloons, clashing to and fro, disclosed animated rows of men before bars and hurrying barkeepers.
A concert hall gave to the street faint sounds of swift, machine-like music, as if a group of phantom musicians were hastening.
A tall young man, smoking a cigarette with a sublime air, strolled near the girl. He had on evening dress, a moustache, a chrysanthemum, and a look of ennui, all of which he kept carefully under his eye. Seeing the girl walk on as if such a young man as he was not in existence, he looked back transfixed with interest. He stared glassily for a moment, but gave a slight convulsive start when he discerned that she was neither new, Parisian, nor theatrical. He wheeled about hastily and turned his stare into the air, like a sailor with a search-light.
A stout gentleman, with pompous and philanthropic whiskers, went stolidly by, the broad of his back sneering at the girl.
A belated man in business clothes, and in haste to catch a car, bounced against her shoulder. “Hi, there, Mary, I beg your pardon! Brace up, old girl.” He grasped her arm to steady her, and then was away running down the middle of the street.
The girl walked on out of the realm of restaurants and saloons. She passed more glittering avenues and went into darker blocks than those where the crowd travelled.
A young man in light overcoat and derby hat received a glance shot keenly from the eyes of the girl. He stopped and looked at her, thrusting his hands in his pockets and making a mocking smile curl his lips. “Come, now, old lady,” he said, “you don’t mean to tel me that you sized me up for a farmer?”
A labouring man marched along; with bundles under his arms. To her remarks, he replied, “It’s a fine evenin’, ain’t it?”
She smiled squarely into the face of a boy who was hurrying by with his hands buried in his overcoat pockets, his blonde locks bobbing on his youthful temples, and a cheery smile of unconcern upon his lips. He turned his head and smiled back at her, waving his hands.
“Not this eve — some other eve!”
A drunken man, reeling in her pathway, began to roar at her. “I ain’ ga no money!” he shouted, in a dismal voice. He lurched on up the street, wailing to himself: “I ain’ ga no money. Ba’ luck. Ain’ ga no more money.”
The girl went into gloomy districts near the river, where the tall black factories shut in the street and only occasional broad beams of light fell across the pavements from saloons. In front of one of these places, whence came the sound of a violin vigorously scraped, the patter of feet on boards and the ring of loud laughter, there stood a man with blotched features.
Further on in the darkness she met a ragged being with shifting, bloodshot eyes and grimy hands.
She went into the blackness of the final block. The shutters of the tall buildings were closed like grim lips. The structures seemed to have eyes that looked over them, beyond them, at other things. Afar off the lights of the avenues glittered as if from an impossible distance. Street-car bells jingled with a sound of merriment.
At the feet of the tall buildings appeared the deathly black hue of the river. Some hidden factory sent up a yellow glare, that lit for a moment the waters lapping oilily against timbers. The varied sounds of life, made joyous by distance and seeming unapproachableness, came faintly and died away to a silence.
Chapter XVIII
In a partitioned-off section of a saloon sat a man with a half dozen women, gleefully laughing, hovering about him. The man had arrived at that stage of drunkenness where affection is felt for the universe.
“I’m good f’ler, girls,” he said, convincingly. “I’m damn good f’ler. An’body treats me right, I allus trea’s zem right! See?”
The women nodded their heads approvingly. “To be sure,” they cried out in hearty chorus. “You’re the kind of a man we like, Pete. You’re outa sight! What yeh goin’ to buy this time, dear?”
“An’t’ing yehs wants, damn it,” said the man in an abandonment of good will. His countenance shone with the true spirit of benevolence. He was in the proper mode of missionaries. He would have fraternized with obscure Hottentots. And above all, he was overwhelmed in tenderness for his friends, who were all illustrious.
“An’t’ing yehs wants, damn it,” repeated he, waving his hands with beneficent recklessness. “I’m good f’ler, girls, an’ if an’body treats me right I — here,” called he through an open door to a waiter, “bring girls drinks, damn it. What ‘ill yehs have, girls? An’t’ing yehs wants, damn it!”
The waiter glanced in with the disgusted look of the man who serves intoxicants for the man who takes too much of them. He nodded his head shortly at the order from each individual, and went.
“Damn it,” said the man, “we’re havin’ heluva time. I like you girls! Damn’d if I don’t! Yer right sort! See?”
He spoke at length and with feeling, concerning
the excellencies of his assembled friends.
“Don’ try pull man’s leg, but have a heluva time! Das right! Das way teh do! Now, if I sawght yehs tryin’ work me fer drinks, wouldn’ buy damn t’ing! But yer right sort, damn it! Yehs know how ter treat a f’ler, an’ I stays by yehs ‘til spen’ las’ cent! Das right! I’m good f’ler an’ I knows when an’body treats me right!”
Between the times of the arrival and departure of the waiter, the man discoursed to the women on the tender regard he felt for all living things. He laid stress upon the purity of his motives in all dealings with men in the world and spoke of the fervor of his friendship for those who were amiable. Tears welled slowly from his eyes. His voice quavered when he spoke to them.
Once when the waiter was about to depart with an empty tray, the man drew a coin from his pocket and held it forth.
“Here,” said he, quite magnificently, “here’s quar’.”
The waiter kept his hands on his tray.
“I don’ want yer money,” he said.
The other put forth the coin with tearful insistence.
“Here, damn it,” cried he, “tak’t! Yer damn goo’ f’ler an’ I wan’ yehs tak’t!”
“Come, come, now,” said the waiter, with the sullen air of a man who is forced into giving advice. “Put yer mon in yer pocket! Yer loaded an’ yehs on’y makes a damn fool of yerself.”
As the latter passed out of the door the man turned pathetically to the women.
“He don’ know I’m damn goo’ f’ler,” cried he, dismally.
“Never you mind, Pete, dear,” said a woman of brilliance and audacity, laying her hand with great affection upon his arm. “Never you mind, old boy! We’ll stay by you, dear!”
“Das ri’,” cried the man, his face lighting up at the soothing tones of the woman’s voice. “Das ri’, I’m damn goo’ f’ler an’ w’en anyone trea’s me ri’, I treats zem ri’! Shee!”
“Sure!” cried the women. “And we’re not goin’ back on you, old man.”
Complete Works of Stephen Crane Page 7
