The man turned appealing eyes to the woman of brilliance and audacity. He felt that if he could be convicted of a contemptible action he would die.
“Shay, Nell, damn it, I allus trea’s yehs shquare, didn’ I? I allus been goo’ f’ler wi’ yehs, ain’t I, Nell?”
“Sure you have, Pete,” assented the woman. She delivered an oration to her companions. “Yessir, that’s a fact. Pete’s a square fellah, he is. He never goes back on a friend. He’s the right kind an’ we stay by him, don’t we, girls?”
“Sure,” they exclaimed. Looking lovingly at him they raised their glasses and drank his health.
“Girlsh,” said the man, beseechingly, “I allus trea’s yehs ri’, didn’ I? I’m goo’ f’ler, ain’ I, girlsh?”
“Sure,” again they chorused.
“Well,” said he finally, “le’s have nozzer drink, zen.”
“That’s right,” hailed a woman, “that’s right. Yer no bloomin’ jay! Yer spends yer money like a man. Dat’s right.”
The man pounded the table with his quivering fists.
“Yessir,” he cried, with deep earnestness, as if someone disputed him. “I’m damn goo’ f’ler, an’ w’en anyone trea’s me ri’, I allus trea’s — le’s have nozzer drink.”
He began to beat the wood with his glass.
“Shay,” howled he, growing suddenly impatient. As the waiter did not then come, the man swelled with wrath.
“Shay,” howled he again.
The waiter appeared at the door.
“Bringsh drinksh,” said the man.
The waiter disappeared with the orders.
“Zat f’ler damn fool,” cried the man. “He insul’ me! I’m ge’man! Can’ stan’ be insul’! I’m goin’ lickim when comes!”
“No, no,” cried the women, crowding about and trying to subdue him. “He’s all right! He didn’t mean anything! Let it go! He’s a good fellah!”
“Din’ he insul’ me?” asked the man earnestly.
“No,” said they. “Of course he didn’t! He’s all right!”
“Sure he didn’ insul’ me?” demanded the man, with deep anxiety in his voice.
“No, no! We know him! He’s a good fellah. He didn’t mean anything.”
“Well, zen,” said the man, resolutely, “I’m go’ ‘pol’gize!”
When the waiter came, the man struggled to the middle of the floor.
“Girlsh shed you insul’ me! I shay damn lie! I ‘pol’gize!”
“All right,” said the waiter.
The man sat down. He felt a sleepy but strong desire to straighten things out and have a perfect understanding with everybody.
“Nell, I allus trea’s yeh shquare, din’ I? Yeh likes me, don’ yehs, Nell? I’m goo’ f’ler?”
“Sure,” said the woman of brilliance and audacity.
“Yeh knows I’m stuck on yehs, don’ yehs, Nell?”
“Sure,” she repeated, carelessly.
Overwhelmed by a spasm of drunken adoration, he drew two or three bills from his pocket, and, with the trembling fingers of an offering priest, laid them on the table before the woman.
“Yehs knows, damn it, yehs kin have all got, ‘cause I’m stuck on yehs, Nell, damn’t, I — I’m stuck on yehs, Nell — buy drinksh — damn’t — we’re havin’ heluva time — w’en anyone trea’s me ri’ — I — damn’t, Nell — we’re havin’ heluva — time.”
Shortly he went to sleep with his swollen face fallen forward on his chest.
The women drank and laughed, not heeding the slumbering man in the corner. Finally he lurched forward and fell groaning to the floor.
The women screamed in disgust and drew back their skirts.
“Come ahn,” cried one, starting up angrily, “let’s get out of here.”
The woman of brilliance and audacity stayed behind, taking up the bills and stuffing them into a deep, irregularly-shaped pocket. A guttural snore from the recumbent man caused her to turn and look down at him.
She laughed. “What a damn fool,” she said, and went.
The smoke from the lamps settled heavily down in the little compartment, obscuring the way out. The smell of oil, stifling in its intensity, pervaded the air. The wine from an overturned glass dripped softly down upon the blotches on the man’s neck.
Chapter XIX
In a room a woman sat at a table eating like a fat monk in a picture.
A soiled, unshaven man pushed open the door and entered.
“Well,” said he, “Mag’s dead.”
“What?” said the woman, her mouth filled with bread.
“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 t’umb, 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 chil’.”
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 t’umb 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 it’s fer deh bes’. Yeh’ll fergive her now, Mary, won’t yehs, dear, all her disobed’ence? All her t’ankless 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 take
s 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!”
THE RED BADGE OF COURAGE
The Red Badge of Courage was Stephen Crane’s second published novel and by far his most famous and controversial. He began writing it in 1893, inspired by vivid accounts of the Civil War published in earlier magazines and books. Crane initially published a shortened version of the novel as a serial in the Philadelphia Press. Picked up by hundreds of newspapers across the United States, the story established Crane’s reputation and brought his attention to D. Appleton & Co. which published an altered version of The Red Badge of Courage in October 1895. Heinemann in Great Britain published the novel in 1896 within its Pioneer series.
Critics and readers both praised and damned The Red Badge of Courage for its graphic, realistic depictions of the Civil War battlefield by an author born in 1871, six years after the war ended. Its hero, 18-year-old Henry Fleming, is a private in the Union Army. Like so many of his generation he begins serving with romantic notions of battlefield glory. The harsh reality during his regiment’s first battle causes him to flee, much to his shame. He determines to face the enemy again and yearns for a wound, a “red badge of courage” to offset his previous panic. The following scenes take Henry through a gripping trial by fire and explore themes of war, youth and the nature of courage and fear.
The Red Badge of Courage provided much food for thought and literary debate, inspiring angry letters to the editor from veterans outraged by Crane’s depiction of war and equally vehement defenses by other veterans. Readers in the United States and Great Britain devoured the novel, establishing it quickly as a bestseller. Critics praised or decried Crane’s often radical use of the English language, which some found fresh and modern, while others found it crude and unliterary. A reviewer in The Atlantic Monthly remarked on Crane’s literary prescience: “This picture, so vivid as to produce almost the effect of a personal experience, is not made by any finished excellence of literary workmanship, but by the sheer power of an imaginative description. The style is as rough as it is direct. The sentences never flow; they are shot forth in sharp volleys. But the original power of the book is great enough to set a new fashion in literature.” Writing for The New Review, British politician and man of letters, George Wyndham, concurred: “Mr. Stephen Crane…is a great artist, with something new to say, and consequently, with a new way of saying it. His theme, indeed, is an old one, but old themes re-handled anew in the light of novel experience, are the stuff out of which masterpieces are made, and in The Red Badge of Courage Mr. Crane has surely contrived a masterpiece.” Others disagreed, including a reviewer in Punch, who wrote: “…the book does fall short — very far short — of the high level to which most of the critics assign it, and that it falls short for very obvious reasons, which cannot fail to suggest themselves to anyone who reads it with a desire to estimate it impartially according to those standards which are generally accepted amongst students of literature.” Contemporary magazine headlines blared, “Red Badge of Hysteria” and “Red Badge of Bad English” – ultimately it was up to readers to decide how they felt about this groundbreaking, controversial book.
The Red Badge of Courage has never gone out of print. Filmmakers have attempted several versions for the cinema and television, beginning in 1951 with an adaptation by famed director, John Huston, and starring Audie Murphy as “The Youth.” A 1974 television version starred Richard Thomas, best known for his role as John-Boy in The Waltons. Tobruk, a 2008 Czech film, adapted Crane’s plot, but set the story in North Africa during World War Two.
A first edition copy published by Appleton in 1895
Crane, c. 1895
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
A Classics Illustrated edition, 1952
A Classics Illustrated editon, 1968
A Marvel Comics edition, 1976
The film poster for the 1951 film adaptation
The opening title of the 1951 film adaptation, directed by John Huston
A scene from the 1951 film adaptation
A scene from the 1951 film adaptation
Audie Murphy in the 1951 film adaptation
Richard Thomas in the 1974 television adaptation.
CHAPTER I.
The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting. As the landscape changed from brown to green, the army awakened, and began to tremble with eagerness at the noise of rumors. It cast its eyes upon the roads, which were growing from long troughs of liquid mud to proper thoroughfares. A river, amber-tinted in the shadow of its banks, purled at the army’s feet; and at night, when the stream had become of a sorrowful blackness, one could see across it the red, eyelike gleam of hostile camp-fires set in the low brows of distant hills.
Once a certain tall soldier developed virtues and went resolutely to wash a shirt. He came flying back from a brook waving his garment bannerlike. He was swelled with a tale he had heard from a reliable friend, who had heard it from a truthful cavalryman, who had heard it from his trustworthy brother, one of the orderlies at division headquarters. He adopted the important air of a herald in red and gold. “We’re goin’ t’ move t’morrah — sure,” he said pompously to a group in the company street. “We’re goin’ ‘way up the river, cut across, an’ come around in behint ‘em.”
To his attentive audience he drew a loud and elaborate plan of a very brilliant campaign. When he had finished, the blue-clothed men scattered into small arguing groups between the rows of squat brown huts. A negro teamster who had been dancing upon a cracker box with the hilarious encouragement of twoscore soldiers was deserted. He sat mournfully down. Smoke drifted lazily from a multitude of quaint chimneys.
“It’s a lie! that’s all it is — a thunderin’ lie!” said another private loudly. His smooth face was flushed, and his hands were thrust sulkily into his trousers’ pockets. He took the matter as an affront to him. “I don’t believe the derned old army’s ever going to move. We’re set. I’ve got ready to move eight times in the last two weeks, and we ain’t moved yet.”
The tall soldier felt called upon to defend the truth of a rumor he himself had introduced. He and the loud one came near to fighting over it.
A corporal began to swear before the assemblage. He had just put a costly board floor in his house, he said. During the early spring he had refrained from adding extensively to the comfort of his environment because he had felt that the army might start on the march at any moment. Of late, however, he had been impressed that they were in a sort of eternal camp.
Many of the men engaged in a spirited debate. One outlined in a peculiarly lucid manner all the plans of the commanding general. He was opposed by men who advocated that there were other plans of campaign. They clamored at each other, numbers making futile bids for the popular attention. Meanwhile, the soldier who had fetched the rumor bustled about with much importance. He was continually assailed by questions.
“What’s up, Jim?”
“Th’ army’s goin’ t
’ move.”
“Ah, what yeh talkin’ about? How yeh know it is?”
“Well, yeh kin b’lieve me er not, jest as yeh like. I don’t care a hang.”
There was much food for thought in the manner in which he replied. He came near to convincing them by disdaining to produce proofs. They grew excited over it.
There was a youthful private who listened with eager ears to the words of the tall soldier and to the varied comments of his comrades. After receiving a fill of discussions concerning marches and attacks, he went to his hut and crawled through an intricate hole that served it as a door. He wished to be alone with some new thoughts that had lately come to him.
He lay down on a wide bank that stretched across the end of the room. In the other end, cracker boxes were made to serve as furniture. They were grouped about the fireplace. A picture from an illustrated weekly was upon the log walls, and three rifles were paralleled on pegs. Equipments hunt on handy projections, and some tin dishes lay upon a small pile of firewood. A folded tent was serving as a roof. The sunlight, without, beating upon it, made it glow a light yellow shade. A small window shot an oblique square of whiter light upon the cluttered floor. The smoke from the fire at times neglected the clay chimney and wreathed into the room, and this flimsy chimney of clay and sticks made endless threats to set ablaze the whole establishment.
The youth was in a little trance of astonishment. So they were at last going to fight. On the morrow, perhaps, there would be a battle, and he would be in it. For a time he was obliged to labor to make himself believe. He could not accept with assurance an omen that he was about to mingle in one of those great affairs of the earth.
He had, of course, dreamed of battles all his life — of vague and bloody conflicts that had thrilled him with their sweep and fire. In visions he had seen himself in many struggles. He had imagined peoples secure in the shadow of his eagle-eyed prowess. But awake he had regarded battles as crimson blotches on the pages of the past. He had put them as things of the bygone with his thought-images of heavy crowns and high castles. There was a portion of the world’s history which he had regarded as the time of wars, but it, he thought, had been long gone over the horizon and had disappeared forever.
Complete Works of Stephen Crane Page 8
