At last the young clergyman spoke at some length. Kelcey was amazed, because, from the young man’s appearance, he would not have suspected him of being so glib; but the speech had no effect on Kelcey, excepting to prove to him again that he was damned.
CHAPTER XII.
KELCEY sometimes wondered whether he liked beer. He had been obliged to cultivate a talent for imbibing it. He was born with an abhorrence which he had steadily battled until it had come to pass that he could drink from ten to twenty glasses of beer without the act of swallowing causing him to shiver. He understood that drink was an essential to joy, to the coveted position of a man of the world and of the streets. The saloons contained the mystery of a street for him. When he knew its saloons he comprehended the street. Drink and its surroundings were the eyes of a superb green dragon to him. He followed a fascinating glitter, and the glitter required no explanation.
Directly after old Bleecker’s party he almost reformed. He was tired and worn from the tumult of it, and he saw it as one might see a skeleton emerged from a crimson cloak. He wished then to turn his face away. Gradually, however, he recovered his mental balance. Then he admitted again by his point of view that the thing was not so terrible. His headache had caused him to exaggerate. A drunk was not the blight which he had once remorsefully named it. On the contrary, it was a mere unpleasant incident. He resolved, however, to be more cautious.
When prayer - meeting night came again his mother approached him hopefully. She smiled like one whose request is already granted. “Well, will yeh go t’ prayer-meetin’ with me t’ night again?”
He turned toward her with eloquent suddenness, and then riveted his eyes upon a corner of the floor. “Well, I guess not,” he said.
His mother tearfully tried to comprehend his state of mind. “What has come over yeh?” she said, tremblingly. “Yeh never used t’ be this way, George. Yeh never used t’ be so cross an’ mean t’ me—”
“Oh, I ain’t cross an’ mean t’ yeh,” he interpolated, exasperated and violent.
“Yes, yeh are, too! I ain’t hardly had a decent word from yeh in ever so long. Yer as cross an’ as mean as yeh can be. I don’t know what t’ make of it. It can’t be—” There came a look in her eyes that told that she was going to shock and alarm him with her heaviest sentence—”it can’t be that yeh’ve got t’ drinkin’.”
Kelcey grunted with disgust at the ridiculous thing. “Why, what an old goose yer gettin’t’ be.”
She was compelled to laugh a little, as a child laughs between tears at a hurt. She had not been serious. She was only trying to display to him how she regarded his horrifying mental state. “Oh, of course, I didn’t mean that, but I think yeh act jest as bad as if yeh did drink. I wish yeh would do better, George!”
She had grown so much less frigid and stern in her censure that Kelcey seized the opportunity to try to make a joke of it. He laughed at her, but she shook her head and continued: “I do wish yeh would do better. I don’t know what’s t’ become ‘a yeh, George. Yeh don’t mind what I say no more’n if I was th’ wind in th’ chimbly. Yeh don’t care about nothin”cept goin’ out nights. I can’t ever get yeh t’ prayer-meetin’ ner church; yeh never go out with me anywheres unless yeh can’t get out of it; yeh swear an’ take on sometimes like everything, yeh never — —”
He gestured wrathfully in interruption. “Say, lookahere, can’t yeh think ‘a something I do?”
She ended her oration then in the old way. “An’ I don’t know what’s goin’t’ become ‘a yeh.”
She put on her bonnet and shawl and then came and stood near him, expectantly. She imparted to her attitude a subtle threat of unchangeableness. He pretended to be engrossed in his newspaper. The little swaggering clock on the mantel became suddenly evident, ticking with loud monotony. Presently she said, firmly: “Well, are yeh comin’?”
He was reading.
“Well, are yeh comin’?”
He threw his paper down, angrily. “Oh, why don’t yeh go on an’ leave me alone?” he demanded in supreme impatience. “What do yeh wanta pester me fer? Ye’d think there was robbers. Why can’t yeh go alone er else stay home? You wanta go an’ I don’t wanta go, an’ yeh keep all time tryin’t’ drag me. Yeh know I don’t wanta go.” He concluded in a last defiant wounding of her. “What do I care ‘bout those ol’ bags-a-wind anyhow? They gimme a pain!”
His mother turned her face and went from him. He sat staring with a mechanical frown. Presently he went and picked up his newspaper.
Jones told him that night that everybody had had such a good time at old Bleecker’s party that they were going to form a club. They waited at the little smiling saloon, and then amid much enthusiasm all signed a membership-roll. Old Bleecker, late that night, was violently elected president. He made speeches of thanks and gratification during the remainder of the meeting. Kelcey went home rejoicing. He felt that at any rate he would have true friends. The dues were a dollar for each week.
He was deeply interested. For a number of evenings he fairly gobbled his supper in order that he might be off to the little smiling saloon to discuss the new organization. All the men were wildly enthusiastic. One night the saloon-keeper announced that he would donate half the rent of quite a large room over his saloon. It was an occasion for great cheering. Kelcey’s legs were like whalebone when he tried to go up-stairs upon his return home, and the edge of each step was moved curiously forward.
His mother’s questions made him snarl. “Oh, nowheres!” At other times he would tell her: “Oh, t’ see some friends ‘a mine! Where d’ yeh s’pose?”
Finally, some of the women of the tenement concluded that the little old mother had a wild son. They came to condole with her. They sat in the kitchen for hours. She told them of his wit, his cleverness, his kind heart.
CHAPTER XIII.
AT a certain time Kelcey discovered that some young men who stood in the cinders between a brick wall and the pavement, and near the side-door of a corner saloon, knew more about life than other people. They used to lean there smoking and chewing, and comment upon events and persons. They knew the neighborhood extremely well. They debated upon small typical things that transpired before them until they had extracted all the information that existence contained. They sometimes inaugurated little fights with foreigners or well-dressed men. It was here that Sapristi Glielmi, the pedler, stabbed Pete Brady to death, for which he got a life-sentence. Each patron of the saloon was closely scrutinized as he entered the place. Sometimes they used to throng upon the heels of a man and in at the bar assert that he had asked them in to drink. When he objected, they would claim with one voice that it was too deep an insult and gather about to thrash him. When they had caught chance customers and absolute strangers, the barkeeper had remained in stolid neutrality, ready to serve one or seven, but two or three times they had encountered the wrong men. Finally, the proprietor had come out one morning and told them, in the fearless way of his class, that their pastime must cease. “ It quits right here! See? Bight here! Th’ nex’ time yeh try t’ work it, I come with th’ bung-starter, an’ th’ mugs I miss with it git pulled. See? It quits!” Infrequently, however, men did ask them in to drink.
The policeman of that beat grew dignified and shrewd whenever he approached this comer. Sometimes he stood with his hands behind his back and cautiously conversed with them. It was understood on both sides that it was a good thing to be civil.
In winter this band, a trifle diminished in numbers, huddled in their old coats and stamped little flat places in the snow, their faces turned always toward the changing life in the streets. In the summer they became more lively. Sometimes, then, they walked out to the curb to look up and down the street. Over in a trampled vacant lot, surrounded by high tenement-houses, there was a sort of a den among some bowlders. An old truck was made to form a shelter. The small hoodlums of that vicinity all avoided the spot. So many of them had been thrashed upon being caught near it. It was the summer-time lo
unging-place of the band from the corner.
They were all too clever to work. Some of them had worked, but these used their experiences as stores from which to draw tales. They were like veterans with their wars. One lad in particular used to recount how he whipped his employer, the proprietor of a large grain and feed establishment. He described his victim’s features and form and clothes with minute exactness. He bragged of his wealth and social position. It had been a proud moment of the lad’s life. He was like a savage who had killed a great chief.
Their feeling for contemporaneous life was one of contempt. Their philosophy taught that in a large part the whole thing was idle and a great bore. With fine scorn they sneered at the futility of it. Work was done by men who had not the courage to stand still and let the skies clap together if they willed.
The vast machinery of the popular law indicated to them that there were people in the world who wished to remain quiet. They awaited the moment when they could prove to them that a riotous upheaval, a cloud-burst of destruction would be a delicious thing. They thought of their fingers buried in the lives of these people. They longed dimly for a time when they could run through decorous streets with crash and roar of war, an army of revenge for pleasures long possessed by others, a wild sweeping compensation for their years without crystal and gilt, women and wine. This thought slumbered in them, as the image of Rome might have lain small in the hearts of the barbarians.
Kelcey respected these youths so much that he ordinarily used the other side of the street. He could not go near to them, because if a passer-by minded his own business he was a disdainful prig and had insulted them; if he showed that he was aware of them they were likely to resent his not minding his own business and prod him into a fight if the opportunity were good. Kelcey longed for their acquaintance and friendship, for with it came social safety and ease; they were respected so universally.
Once in another street Fidsey Corcoran was whipped by a short, heavy man. Fidsey picked himself up, and in the fury of defeat hurled pieces of brick at his opponent. The short man dodged with skill and then pursued Fidsey for over a block. Sometimes he got near enough to punch him. Fidsey raved in maniacal fury. The moment the short man would attempt to resume his own affairs, Fidsey would turn upon him again, tears and blood upon his face, with the lashed rage of a vanquished animal. The short man used to turn about, swear madly, and make little dashes. Fidsey always ran and then returned as pursuit ceased. The short man apparently wondered if this maniac was ever going to allow him to finish whipping him. He looked helplessly up and down the street. People were there who knew Fidsey, and they remonstrated with him; but he continued to confront the short man, gibbering like a wounded ape, using all the eloquence of the street in his wild oaths.
Finally the short man was exasperated to black fury. He decided to end the fight. With low snarls, ominous as death, he plunged at Fidsey.
Kelcey happened there then. He grasped the short man’s shoulder. He cried out in the peculiar whine of the man who interferes. “Oh, hol’ on! Yeh don’t wanta hit ‘im any more! Yeh’ve done enough to ‘im now! Leave ‘im be!”
The short man wrenched and tugged. He turned his face until his teeth were almost at Kelcey’s cheek: “Le’ go me! Le’ go me, you—” The rest of his sentence was screamed curses.
Kelcey’s face grew livid from fear, but he somehow managed to keep his grip. Fidsey, with but an instant’s pause, plunged into the new fray.
They beat the short man. They forced him against a high board-fence where for a few seconds their blows sounded upon his head in swift thuds. A moment later Fidsey descried a running policeman. He made off, fleet as a shadow. Kelcey noted his going. He ran after him.
Three or four blocks away they halted. Fidsey said: “I’d ‘a licked dat big stuff in ‘bout a minute more,” and wiped the blood from his eyes.
At the gang’s comer, they asked: “Who soaked yeh, Fidsey?” His description was burning. Everybody laughed. “Where is ‘e now?” Later they began to question Kelcey. He recited a tale in which he allowed himself to appear prominent and redoubtable. They looked at him then as if they thought he might be quite a man.
Once when the little old woman was going out to buy something for her son’s supper, she discovered him standing at the side-door of the saloon engaged intimately with Fidsey and the others. She slunk away, for she understood that it would be a terrible thing to confront him and his pride there with youths who were superior to mothers.
When he arrived home he threw down his hat with a weary sigh, as if he had worked long hours, but she attacked him before he had time to complete the falsehood. He listened to her harangue with a curled lip. In defence he merely made a gesture of supreme exasperation. She never understood the advanced things in life. He felt the hopelessness of ever making her comprehend. His mother was not modern.
CHAPTER XIV.
The little old woman arose early and bustled in the preparation of breakfast. At times she looked anxiously at the clock. An hour before her son should leave for work she went to his room and called him in the usual tone of sharpness, “George! George!”
A sleepy growl came to her.
“Come, come, it’s time t’ git up,” she continued. “ Come now, git right up!” Later she went again to the door. “George, are yeh gittin’ up?”
“Huh?”
“Are yeh gittin’ up?”
“Yes, I’ll git right up!” He had introduced a valor into his voice which she detected to be false. She went to his bedside and took him by the shoulder. “George — George — git up!” From the mist-lands of sleep he began to protest incoherently. “Oh’ le’ me be, won’ yeh? ‘M sleepy!”
She continued to shake him. “Well, it’s time t’ git up. Come — come — come on, now.”
Her voice, shrill with annoyance, pierced his ears in a slender, piping thread of sound. He turned over on the pillow to bury his head in his arms. When he expostulated, his tones came half-smothered. “Oh le’ me be, can’t yeh? There’s plenty ‘a time! Jest fer ten minutes! ‘M sleepy!”
She was implacable. “No, yeh must git up now! Yeh ain’t got more’n time enough t’ eat yer breakfast an’ git t’ work.”
Eventually he arose, sullen and grumbling. Later he came to his breakfast, blinking his dry eyelids, his stiffened features set in a mechanical scowl.
Each morning his mother went to his room, and fought a battle to arouse him. She was like a soldier. Despite his pleadings, his threats, she remained at her post, imperturbable and unyielding. These affairs assumed large proportions in his life. Sometimes he grew beside himself with a bland, unformulated wrath. The whole thing was a consummate imposition. He felt that he was being cheated of his sleep. It was an injustice to compel him to arise morning after morning with bitter regularity, before the sleep-gods had at all loosened their grasp. He hated that unknown force which directed his life.
One morning he swore a tangled mass of oaths, aimed into the air, as if the injustice poised there. His mother flinched at first; then her mouth set in the little straight line. She saw that the momentous occasion had come. It was the time of the critical battle. She turned upon him valorously. “Stop your swearin’, George Kelcey. I won’t have yeh talk so before me! I won’t have it! Stop this minute! Not another word! Do yeh think I’ll allow yeh t’ swear b’fore me like that? Not another word! I won’t have it! I declare I won’t have it another minute!”
At first her projected words had slid from his mind as if striking against ice, but at last he heeded her. His face grew sour with passion and misery. He spoke in tones dark with dislike. “Th’ ‘ell yeh won’t? Whatter yeh goin’ t’ do ‘bout it?” Then, as if he considered that he had not been sufficiently impressive, he arose and slowly walked over to her. Having arrived at point-blank range he spoke again. “Whatter yeh goin’ t’ do ‘bout it?” He regarded her then with an unaltering scowl, albeit his mien was as dark and cowering as that of a condemned criminal.
For three days they lived in silence. He brooded upon his mother’s agony and felt a singular joy in it. As opportunity offered, he did little despicable things. He was going to make her abject. He was now uncontrolled, ungoverned; he wished to be an emperor. Her suffering was all a sort of compensation for his own dire pains.
She went about with a gray, impassive face. It was as if she had survived a massacre in which all that she loved had been tom from her by the brutality of savages.
One evening at six he entered and stood looking at his mother as she peeled potatoes. She had hearkened to his coming listlessly, without emotion, and at his entrance she did not raise her eyes.
“Well, I’m fired,” he said, suddenly.
It seemed to be the final blow. Her body gave a convulsive movement in the chair. When she finally lifted her eyes, horror possessed her face. Her under jaw had fallen. “Fired? Outa work? Why — George?” He went over to the window and stood with his back to her. He could feel her gray stare upon him.
“Yep! Fired!”
At last she said, “Well — what ter yeh goin’t’ do?”
He tapped the pane with his fingernail. He answered in a tone made hoarse and unnatural by an assumption of gay carelessness, “Oh, nothin’!”
She began, then, her first weeping.
“Oh — George — George — George—”
He looked at her scowling. “Ah, whatter yeh givin’ us? Is this all I git when I come home I’m being fired?
Anybody ‘ud think it was my fault. I couldn’t help it.”
She continued to sob in a dull, shaking way. In the pose of her head there was an expression of her conviction that comprehension of her pain was impossible to the universe. He paused for a moment, and then, with his usual tactics, went out, slamming the door. A pale flood of sunlight, imperturbable at its vocation, streamed upon the little old woman, bowed with pain, forlorn in her chair.
Complete Works of Stephen Crane Page 27
