Complete Works of Stephen Crane

by Stephen Crane

  CHAPTER XV.

  KELCEY was standing on the corner next day when three little boys came running. Two halted some distance away, and the other came forward. He halted before Kelcey, and spoke importantly.

  “Hey, your ol’ woman’s sick.”

  “What?”

  “Your ol’ woman’s sick.”

  “Git out!”

  “She is, too!”

  “Who tol’ yeh?”

  “Mis’ Callahan. She said fer me t’ run an’ tell yeh. Dey want yeh.”

  A swift dread struck Kelcey. Like flashes of light little scenes from the past shot through his brain. He had thoughts of a vengeance from the clouds. As he glanced about him the familiar view assumed a meaning that was ominous and dark. There was prophecy of disaster in the street, the buildings, the sky, the people. Something tragic and terrible in the air was known to his nervous, quivering nostrils. He spoke to the little boy in a tone that quavered. “All right!”

  Behind him he felt the sudden contemplative pause of his companions of the gang. They were watching him. As he went rapidly up the street he knew that they had come out to the middle of the walk and were staring after him. He was glad that they could not see his face, his trembling lips, his eyes wavering in fear. He stopped at the door of his home and stared at the panel as if he saw written thereon a word. A moment later he entered. His eye comprehended the room in a frightened glance.

  His mother sat gazing out at the opposite walls and windows. She was leaning her head upon the back of the chair. Her face was overspread with a singular pallor, but the glance of her eyes was strong and the set of her lips was tranquil.

  He felt an unspeakable thrill of thanksgiving at seeing her seated there calmly. “Why, mother, they said yeh was sick,” he cried, going toward her impetuously. “What’s th’ matter?”

  She smiled at him. “Oh, it ain’t nothin’! I on’y got kinda dizzy, that’s all.” Her voice was sober and had the ring of vitality in it.

  He noted her common-place air. There was no alarm or pain in her tones, but the misgivings of the street, the prophetic twinges of his nerves made him still hesitate. “Well — are you sure it ain’t? They scared me ‘bout t’ death.”

  “No, it ain’t anything, o’ny some sorta dizzy feelin’. I fell down b’hind th’ stove. Missis Callahan, she came an’ picked me up. I must ‘a laid there fer quite a while. Th’ docter said he guessed I’d be all right in a couple ‘a hours. I don’t feel nothin’!”

  Kelcey heaved a great sigh of relief. “Lord, I was scared.” He began to beam joyously, since he was escaped from his fright. “Why, I couldn’t think what had happened,” he told her.

  “Well, it ain’t nothin’,” she said.

  He stood about awkwardly, keeping his eyes fastened upon her in a sort of surprise, as if he had expected to discover that she had vanished. The reaction from his panic was a thrill of delicious contentment. He took a chair and sat down near her, but presently he jumped up to ask: “There ain’t nothin’ I can get fer yeh, is ther?” He looked at her eagerly. In his eyes shone love and joy. If it were not for the shame of it he would have called her endearing names.

  “No, ther ain’t nothin’,” she answered. Presently she continued, in a conversational way, “Yeh ain’t found no work yit, have yeh?”

  The shadow of his past fell upon him then and he became suddenly morose. At last he spoke in a sentence that was a vow, a declaration of change. “No, I ain’t, but I’m goin’t’ hunt fer it hard, you bet.”

  She understood from his tone that he was making peace with her. She smiled at him gladly. “Yer a good boy, George!” A radiance from the stars lit her face.

  Presently she asked, “D’ yeh think yer old boss would take yeh on ag’in if I went t’ see him?”

  “No,” said Kelcey, at once. “It wouldn’t do no good! They got all th’ men they want. There ain’t no room there. It wouldn’t do no good.” He ceased to beam for a moment as he thought of certain disclosures. “I’m goin’ t’ try to git work everywheres. I’m goin’t’ make a wild break t’ git a job, an’ if there’s one anywheres I’ll get it.”

  She smiled at him again. “That’s right, George!”

  When it came supper-time he dragged her in her chair over to the table and then scurried to and fro to prepare a meal for her. She laughed gleefully at him. He was awkward and densely ignorant. He exaggerated his helplessness sometimes until she was obliged to lean back in her chair to laugh. Afterward they sat by the window. Her hand rested upon his hair.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  When Kelcey went to borrow money from old Bleecker, Jones and the others, he discovered that he was below them in social position. Old Bleecker said gloomily that he did not see how he could loan money at that time. When Jones asked him to have a drink, his tone was careless. O’Connor recited at length some bewildering financial troubles of his own. In them all he saw that something had been reversed. They remained silent upon many occasions, when they might have grunted in sympathy for him.

  As he passed along the street near his home he perceived Fidsey Corcoran and another of the gang. They made eloquent signs. “Are yeh wid us?”

  He stopped and looked at them. “What’s wrong with yeh?”

  “Are yeh wid us er not,” demanded Fidsey. “New barkeep’! Big can! We got it over in d’ lot. Big can, I tell yell.” He drew a picture in the air, so to speak, with his enthusiastic fingers.

  Kelcey turned dejectedly homeward. “Oh, I guess not, this roun’.”

  “What’s d’ matter wi’che?” said Fidsey. “Yer gittin’ t’ be a reg’lar willie! Come ahn, I tell yeh! Youse gits one smoke at d’ can b’cause yeh b’longs t’ d’ gang, an’ yeh don’t wanta give it up widout er scrap! See? Some udder john’ll git yer smoke. Come ahn!”

  When they arrived at the place among the bowlders in the vacant lot, one of the band had a huge and battered tin-pail tilted afar up. His throat worked convulsively. He was watched keenly and anxiously by five or six others. Their eyes followed carefully each fraction of distance that the pail was lifted. They were very silent.

  Fidsey burst out violently as he perceived what was in progress. “Heh, Tim, yeh big sojer, let go d’ can! What ‘a yeh tink! Wese er in dis! Le’ go dat!”

  He who was drinking made several angry protesting contortions of his throat. Then he put down the pail and swore. “Who’s a big sojer? I ain’t gittin’ more’n me own smoke! Yer too bloomin’ swift! Ye’d tink yeh was d’ on’y mug what owned dis can! Close yer face while I gits me smoke!”

  He took breath for a moment and then returned the pail to its tilted position. Fidsey went to him and worried and clamored. He interfered so seriously with the action of drinking that the other was obliged to release the pail again for fear of choking.

  Fidsey grabbed it and glanced swiftly at the contents. “Dere! Dat’s what I was hollerin’ at! Lookut d’ beer! Not ‘nough t’ wet yer t’roat! Yehs can’t have notin’ on d’ level wid youse damn’ tanks! Youse was a reg’lar resevoiy, Tim Connigan! Look what yeh lef us! Ah, say, youse was a dandy! What ‘a yeh tink we ah? Willies? Don’ we want no smoke?

  Say, lookut dat can! It’s drier’n hell! What ‘a yeh tink?”

  Tim glanced in at the beer. Then he said: “Well, d’ mug what come b’fore me, he on’y lef’ me dat much. Blue Billee, he done d’ swallerin’! I on’y had a tas’e!”

  Blue Billie, from his seat near, called out in wrathful protest: “Yeh lie, Tim. I never had more’n a mouf-ful!” An inspiration evidently came to him then, for his countenance suddenly brightened, and, arising, he went toward the pail. “I ain’t had me reg’lar smoke yit! Guess I come in aheader Fidsey, don’I?”

  Fidsey, with a sardonic smile, swung the pail behind him. “I guess nit! Not dis minnet! Youse hadger smoke. If yeh ain’t, yeh don’t git none. See?”

  Blue Billie confronted Fidsey determinedly. “D’ ‘ell I don’t!”

  “Nit,” said Fidsey.
r />   Billee sat down again.

  Fidsey drank his portion. Then he manoeuvred skilfully before the crowd until Kelcey and the other youth took their shares. “Youse er a mob ‘a tanks,” he told the gang. “Nobody ‘ud git not’in’ if dey wasn’t on t’ yehs!” Blue Billie’s soul had been smouldering in hate against Fidsey. “Ah, shut up! Youse ain’t gota take care ‘a dose two mugs, dough. Youse hadger smoke, ain’t yeh? Den yer tr’u. G’ home!”

  “Well, I hate t’ see er bloke use ‘imself fer a tank,” said Fidsey. “But youse don’t wanta go jollyin”round ‘bout d’ can, Blue, er youse’ll git done.”

  “Who’ll do me?” demanded Blue Billie, casting his eye about him.

  “Kel’ will,” said Fidsey, bravely.

  “D”ell he win?”

  “Dat’s what he will!”

  Blue Billie made the gesture of a warrior. “He never saw d’ day ‘a his life dat he could do me little finger. If ‘e says much t’ me, I’ll push ‘is face all over d’ lot.”

  Fidsey called to Kelcey. “Say, Kel, hear what dis mug is chewin’?”

  Kelcey was apparently deep in other matters. His back was half-turned.

  Blue Billie spoke to Fidsey in a battleful voice. “Did ‘e ever say ‘e could do me?”

  Fidsey said: “Soitenly ‘e did. Youse is dead easy, ‘e says. He says he kin punch holes in you, Blue!”

  “When did ‘e say it?”

  “Oh — any time. Youse is a cinch, Kel’ says.”

  Blue Billie walked over to Kelcey. The others of the band followed him exchanging joyful glances.

  “Did youse say yeh could do me?” Kelcey slowly turned, but he kept his eyes upon the ground. He heard Fidsey darting among the others telling of his prowess, preparing them for the downfall of Blue Billie. He stood heavily on one foot and moved his hands nervously. Finally he said, in a low growl, “Well, what if I did?”

  The sentence sent a happy thrill through the band. It was the formidable question. Blue Billie braced himself. Upon him came the responsibility of the next step. The gang fell back a little upon all sides. They looked expectantly at Blue Billie!

  He walked forward with a deliberate step until his face was close to Kelcey.

  “Well, if you did,” he said, with a snarl between his teeth, “I’m goin’ t’ t’ump d’ life outa yeh right heh!”

  A little boy, wild of eye and puffing, came down the slope as from an explosion. He burst out in a rapid treble, “Is dat Kelcey feller here? Say, yeh ol’ woman’s sick again. Dey want yeh! Yeh’s better run! She’s awful sick!”

  The gang turned with loud growls. “Ah, git outa here!” Fidsey threw a stone at the little boy and chased him a short distance, but he continued to clamor, “Youse better come, Kelcey feller! She’s awful sick! She was hollerin’! Dey been lookin’ fer yeh over’n hour!” In his eagerness he returned part way, regardless of Fidsey!

  Kelsey had moved away from Blue Billie! He said: “I guess I’d better go!” They howled at him. “Well,” he continued, “I can’t — I don’t wanta — I don’t wanta leave me mother be — she—”

  His words were drowned in the chorus of their derision. “Well, looka here” — he would begin and at each time their cries and screams ascended. They dragged at Blue Billie. “Go fer ‘im, Blue! Slug ‘im! Go ahn!”

  Kelcey went slowly away while they were urging Blue Billie to do a decisive thing. Billie stood fuming and blustering and explaining himself. When Kelcey had achieved a considerable distance from him, he stepped forward a few paces and hurled a terrible oath. Kelcey looked back darkly.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  WHEN he entered the chamber of death, he was brooding over the recent encounter and devising extravagant revenges upon Blue Billie and the others.

  The little old woman was stretched upon her bed. Her face and hands were of the hue of the blankets. Her hair, seemingly of a new and wondrous grayness, hung over her temples in whips and tangles. She was sickeningly motionless, save for her eyes, which rolled and swayed in maniacal glances.

  A young doctor had just been administering medicine. “There,” he said, with a great satisfaction, “I guess that’ll do her good!” As he went briskly toward the door he met Kelcey. “Oh,” he said. “Son?”

  Kelcey had that in his throat which was like fur. When he forced his voice, the words came first low and then high as if they had broken through something. “Will she — will she—”

  The doctor glanced back at the bed. She was watching them as she would have watched ghouls, and muttering. “Can’t tell,” he said. “She’s wonderful woman! Got more vitality than you and I together! Can’t tell! May — may not! Good-day! Back in two hours.”

  In the kitchen Mrs. Callahan was feverishly dusting the furniture, polishing this and that. She arranged everything in decorous rows. She was preparing for the coming of death. She looked at the floor as if she longed to scrub it.

  The doctor paused to speak in an undertone to her, glancing at the bed. When he departed she labored with a renewed speed.

  Kelcey approached his mother. From a little distance he called to her. “Mother — mother—” He proceeded with caution lest this mystic being upon the bed should clutch at him.

  “Mother — mother — don’t yeh know me?” He put forth apprehensive, shaking fingers and touched her hand.

  There were two brilliant steel-colored points upon her eyeballs. She was staring off at something sinister.

  Suddenly she turned to her son in a wild babbling appeal. “Help me! Help me! Oh, help me! I see them coming.”

  Kelcey called to her as to a distant place. “Mother! Mother!” She looked at him, and then there began within her a struggle to reach him with her mind. She fought with some implacable power whose fingers were in her brain. She called to Kelcey in stammering, incoherent cries for help.

  Then she again looked away. “Ah, there they come! There they come! Ah, look — look — loo—” She arose to a sitting posture without the use of her arms.

  Kelcey felt himself being choked. When her voice pealed forth in a scream he saw crimson curtains moving before his eyes. “Mother — oh, mother — there’s nothin’ — there’s nothin—”

  She was at a kitchen-door with a dish-cloth in her hand. Within there had just been a clatter of crockery. Down through the trees of the orchard she could see a man in a field ploughing. “Bill — o-o-oh, Bill — have yeh seen Georgie? Is he out there with you? Georgie! Georgie! Come right here this minnet! Right — this — minnet!”

  She began to talk to some people in the room. “I want t’ know what yeh want here! I want yeh t’ git out! I don’t want yeh here! I don’t feel good t’-day, an’ I don’t want yeh here! I don’t feel good t’-day! I want yeh t’ git out!” Her voice became peevish. “Go away! Go away! Go away!”

  Kelcey lay in a chair. His nerveless arms allowed his fingers to sweep the floor. He became so that he could not hear the chatter from the bed, but he was always conscious of the ticking of the little clock out on the kitchen shelf.

  When he aroused, the pale-faced but plump young clergyman was before him.

  “My poor lad” — began this latter.

  The little old woman lay still with her eyes closed. On the table at the head of the bed was a glass containing a water-like medicine. The reflected lights made a silver star on its side. The two men sat side by side, waiting. Out in the kitchen Mrs. Callahan had taken a chair by the stove and was waiting.

  Kelcey began to stare at the wallpaper. The pattern was clusters of brown roses. He felt them like hideous crabs crawling upon his brain.

  Through the door-way he saw the oilcloth covering of the table catching a glimmer from the warm afternoon sun. The window disclosed a fair, soft sky, like blue enamel, and a fringe of chimneys and roofs, resplendent here and there. An endless roar, the eternal trample of the marching city, came mingled with vague cries. At intervals the woman out by the stove moved restlessly and coughed.

  Over
the transom from the hall-way came two voices.

  “Johnnie!”

  “Wot!”

  “You come right here t’ me! I want yehs t’ go t’d’ store fer me!”

  “Ah, ma, send Sally!”

  “No, I will not! You come right here!”

  “All right, in a minnet!”

  “Johnnie!”

  “In a minnet, I tell yeh!”

  “Johnnie—” There was the sound of a heavy tread, and later a boy squealed. Suddenly the clergyman started to his feet. He rushed forward and peered. The little old woman was dead.

  THE END

  THE THIRD VIOLET

  The Third Violet was Stephen Crane’s fourth novel, completed in 1895 and published in 1897 by D. Appleton & Co. in New York and Heinemann in London. In this comedy of manners, Crane attempted literary realism based on his own experiences, although influenced by the work of his mentor, William Dean Howells. A story of courtship, The Third Violet features the impressionist painter, Billy Hawker, who falls in love with Grace Fanhall, a New York socialite. Crane was not happy with the novel, describing it to a friend as “pretty rotten work. I used myself up in the accursed ‘Red Badge.’” The New York Times concurred, calling The Third Violet “Crane’s superficial romance,” complaining that “Mr. Crane deliberately tells a story that is no story at all.”

  However, despite a decidedly mixed reception overall, some reviewers praised the novel. An unsigned review in The Athenaeum liked its “vividness of portraiture” and compared it favorably to the work of Henry James. The Spectator commented on the novel’s “remarkably spirited and genial pictures of Bohemian life” and found Crane’s characterisation of Hawker’s Irish setter, Stanley, enchanting – “quite one of the most delightful animals we have encountered in recent fiction.”