Complete Works of Stephen Crane

by Stephen Crane

  “Poor soul,” he said.

  Aye, workman, make me a dream,

  A dream for my love.

  Cunningly weave sunlight,

  Breezes, and flowers.

  Let it be of the cloth of meadows.

  And — good workman —

  And let there be a man walking thereon.

  Each small gleam was a voice,

  A lantern voice —

  In little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.

  A chorus of colors came over the water;

  The wondrous leaf-shadow no longer wavered,

  No pines crooned on the hills,

  The blue night was elsewhere a silence,

  When the chorus of colors came over the

  water,

  Little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.

  Small glowing pebbles

  Thrown on the dark plane of evening

  Sing good ballads of God

  And eternity, with soul’s rest.

  Little priests, little holy fathers,

  None can doubt the truth of hour hymning.

  When the marvellous chorus comes over the

  water,

  Songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.

  The trees in the garden rained flowers.

  Children ran there joyously.

  They gathered the flowers

  Each to himself.

  Now there were some

  Who gathered great heaps —

  Having opportunity and skill —

  Until, behold, only chance blossoms

  Remained for the feeble.

  Then a little spindling tutor

  Ran importantly to the father, crying:

  “Pray, come hither!

  “See this unjust thing in your garden!”

  But when the father had surveyed,

  He admonished the tutor:

  “Not so, small sage!

  “This thing is just.

  “For, look you,

  “Are not they who possess the flowers

  “Stronger, bolder, shrewder

  “Than they who have none?

  “Why should the strong —

  “The beautiful strong —

  “Why should they not have the flowers?

  Upon reflection, the tutor bowed to the

  ground.

  “My lord,” he said,

  “The stars are displaced

  “By this towering wisdom.”

  INTRIGUE

  Thou art my love,

  And thou art the peace of sundown

  When the blue shadows soothe,

  And the grasses and the leaves sleep

  To the song of the little brooks,

  Woe is me.

  Thou art my love,

  And thou art a strorm

  That breaks black in the sky,

  And, sweeping headlong,

  Drenches and cowers each tree,

  And at the panting end

  There is no sound

  Save the melancholy cry of a single owl —

  Woe is me!

  Thou are my love,

  And thou art a tinsel thing,

  And I in my play

  Broke thee easily,

  And from the little fragments

  Arose my long sorrow —

  Woe is me.

  Thou art my love,

  And thou art a wary violet,

  Drooping from sun-caresses,

  Answering mine carelessly —

  Woe is me.

  Thou art my love,

  And thou art the ashes of other men’s love,

  And I bury my face in these ashes,

  And I love them —

  Woe is me.

  Thou art my love,

  And thou art the beard

  On another man’s face —

  Woe is me.

  Thou art my love,

  And thou art a temple,

  And in this temple is an altar,

  And on this altar is my heart —

  Woe is me.

  Thou art my love,

  And thou art a wretch.

  Let these sacred love-lies choke thee,

  From I am come to where I know your lies

  as truth

  And you truth as lies —

  Woe is me.

  Thou art my love,

  And thou art a priestess,

  And in they hand is a bloody dagger,

  And my doom comes to me surely —

  Woe is me.

  Thou art my love,

  And thou art a skull with ruby eyes,

  And I love thee —

  Woe is me.

  Thou art my love,

  And I doubt thee.

  And if peace came with thy murder

  Then would I murder —

  Woe is me.

  Thou art my love,

  And thou art death,

  Aye, thou art death

  Black and yet black,

  But I love thee,

  I love thee —

  Woe, welcome woe, to me.

  Love, forgive me if I wish you grief,

  For in your grief

  You huddle to my breast,

  And for it

  Would I pay the price of your grief.

  You walk among men

  And all men do not surrender,

  And thus I understand

  That love reaches his hand

  In mercy to me.

  He had your picture in his room,

  A scurvy traitor picture,

  And he smiled

  — Merely a fat complacence of men who

  know fine women —

  And thus I divided with him

  A part of my love.

  Fool, not to know that thy little shoe

  Can make men weep!

  — Some men weep.

  I weep and I gnash,

  And I love the little shoe,

  The little, little shoe.

  God give me medals,

  God give me loud honors,

  That I may strut before you, sweetheart,

  And be worthy of —

  The love I bear you.

  Now let me crunch you

  With full weight of affrighted love.

  I doubted you

  — I doubted you —

  And in this short doubting

  My love grew like a genie

  For my further undoing.

  Beware of my friends,

  Be not in speech too civil,

  For in all courtesy

  My weak heart sees spectres,

  Mists of desire

  Arising from the lips of my chosen;

  Be not civil.

  The flower I gave thee once

  Was incident to a stride,

  A detail of a gesture,

  But search those pale petals

  And see engraven thereon

  A record of my intention.

  Ah, God, the way your little finger moved,

  As you thrust a bare arm backward

  And made play with your hair

  And a comb, a silly gilt comb

  — Ah, God — that I should suffer

  Because of the way a little finger moved.

  Once I saw thee idly rocking

  — Idly rocking —

  And chattering girlishly to other girls,

  Bell-voiced, happy,

  Careless with the stout heart of unscarred

  womanhood,

  And life to thee was all light melody.

  I thought of the great storms of love as I

  knew it,

  Torn, miserable, and ashamed of my open

  sorrow,

  I thought of the thunders that lived in my

  head,

  And I wish to be an ogre,

  And hale and haul my beloved to a castle,

  And make her mourn with my mourning.

  Tell me why, behind thee,

  I see always the shadow of another love
r?

  Is it real,

  Or is this the thrice damned memory of a

  better happiness?

  Plague on him if he be dead,

  Plague on him if he be alive —

  A swinish numskull

  To intrude his shade

  Always between me and my peace!

  And yet I have seen thee happy with me.

  I am no fool

  To poll stupidly into iron.

  I have heard your quick breaths

  And seen your arms writhe toward me;

  At those times

  — God help us —

  I was impelled to be a grand knight,

  And swagger and snap my fingers,

  And explain my mind finely.

  Oh, lost sweetheart,

  I would that I had not been a grand knight.

  I said: “Sweetheart.”

  Thou said’st: “Sweetheart.”

  And we preserved an admirable mimicry

  Without heeding the drip of the blood

  From my heart.

  I heard thee laugh,

  And in this merriment

  I defined the measure of my pain;

  I knew that I was alone,

  Alone with love,

  Poor shivering love,

  And he, little sprite,

  Came to watch with me,

  And at midnight,

  We were like two creatures by a dead camp-

  fire.

  I wonder if sometimes in the dusk,

  When the brave lights that gild thy

  evenings

  Have not yet been touched with flame,

  I wonder if sometimes in the dusk

  Thou rememberest a time,

  A time when thou loved me

  And our love was to thee thy all?

  Is the memory rubbish now?

  An old gown

  Worn in an age of other fashions?

  Woe is me, oh, lost one,

  For that love is now to me

  A supernal dream,

  White, white, white with many suns.

  Love met me at noonday,

  — Reckless imp,

  To leave his shaded nights

  And brave the glare, —

  And I saw him then plainly

  For a bungler,

  A stupid, simpering, eyeless bungler,

  Breaking the hearts of brave people

  As the snivelling idiot-boy cracks his bowl,

  And I cursed him,

  Cursed him to and fro, back and forth,

  Into all the silly mazes of his mind,

  But in the end

  He laughed and pointed to my breast,

  Where a heart still beat for thee, beloved.

  I have seen thy face aflame

  For love of me,

  Thy fair arms go mad,

  Thy lips tremble and mutter and rave.

  And — surely —

  This should leave a man content?

  Thou lovest not me now,

  But thou didst love me,

  And in loving me once

  Thou gavest me an eternal privilege,

  For I can think of thee.

  The Non-Fiction

  Crane in Greece covering the Greco-Turkish War, 1897

  GREAT BATTLES OF THE WORLD

  Lippincott of Philadelphia and Chapman & Hall of London published Great Battles of the World in 1901, a year after Crane’s death. Each of the sketches describes a major and seminal conflict, ranging from Bunker Hill to the Battle of Vittoria to the siege of Plevna. Reviewers noted a lack of freshness and spontaneity in comparison to Crane’s typically more vivid accounts of battle in his fiction. In fact, although not acknowledged at the time, Kate Frederic, widow of Crane’s friend, Harold Frederic, served as primary researcher for Great Battles of the World, and probably did most of the writing. Typical of contemporary reviews of the collection, The Critic noted: “The accounts... are well enough in their way, but there is nothing notable about them. Any experienced story-teller could have written them, whereas no one but Crane could have written The Red Badge.”

  First edition, published by Lippincott in 1900

  CONTENTS

  NOTE

  VITTORIA

  THE SIEGE OF PLEVNA

  THE STORMING OF BURKERSDORF HEIGHTS

  A SWEDE’S CAMPAIGN IN GERMANY

  THE STORMING OF BADAJOZ

  THE BRIEF CAMPAIGN AGAINST NEW ORLEANS

  THE BATTLE OF SOLFERINO

  THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL

  NOTE

  THESE vigorous pictures were among the very last work done by the lamented pen which gave us “The Red Badge of Courage.”

  We were aroused by that startling drumbeat to the advent of a new literary talent. The commonplace was shattered by a fresh and original force, and every one heard and applauded. Then came the varied fiction, always characteristic and convincing, and then, at the end, this return to the martial strain.

  It was agreed that the battles should be the choice of the author, and he chose them for their picturesque and theatric qualities, not alone for their decisiveness. What he could best assimilate from history was its grandeur and passion and the fire of action. These he loved, and hence the group of glorious battles which forms this volume.

  The talent of Stephen Crane was mellowing under the tutelage of experience. He lost none of his dash and audacity even in the sedater avenues of history. He was a strong and native growth of our wonderful soil, and the fruits of him will last while courage and genius are revered.

  HARRISON S. MORRIS.

  VITTORIA

  THE campaign of 1812, which included the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz and the overwhelming victory of Salamanca, had apparently done so much towards destroying the Napoleonic sway in the Peninsula that the defeat of the Allies at Burgos, in October 1812, came as an embittering disappointment to England; and when Wellington, after his disastrous retreat to Ciudad Rodrigo, reported his losses as amounting to nine thousand, the usual tempest of condemnation against him was raised, and the members of the Cabinet, who were always so free with their oracular advice and so close with the nation’s money, wagged their heads despairingly.

  But as the whole aspect of affairs was revealed, and as Wellington coolly stated his plans for a new campaign, public opinion changed.

  It was a critical juncture: Napoleon had arranged an armistice with Russia, Prussia, and Austria, which was to last until August 16, 1813, and it became known that this armistice might end in peace. Peace on the Continent would mean that Napoleon’s unemployed troops might be poured into Spain in such enormous numbers as to overwhelm the Allies. So, to ensure Wellington’s striking a decisive blow before this could happen, both the English Ministry and the Opposition united in supporting him, and for the first time during the war he felt sure of receiving the supplies for which he had asked.

  The winter and spring were spent by Wellington in preparing for his campaign: his troops needed severe discipline after the disorder into which they had fallen during the retreat from Burgos, and the great chief entered into the matter of their equipment with most painstaking attention to detail, removing unnecessary weight from them, and supplying each infantry soldier with three extra pairs of shoes, besides heels and soles for repairs. He drew large reinforcements from England, and all were drilled to a high state of efficiency.

  It is well to quote here from the letter published by Wellington on the 28th of December 1812. It was addressed to the commanders of divisions and brigades. It created a very pretty storm, as one may readily see. I quote at length, since surely no document could be more illuminative of Wellington’s character, and it seems certain that this fearless letter saved the army from the happy-go-lucky feeling, very common in British field forces, that a man is a thorough soldier so long as he is willing at all times to go into action and charge, if ordered, at even the brass gates of Inferno. But Wellington knew that this was not enough. He wrote as foll
ows:

  “Gentlemen — I have ordered the army into cantonments, in which I hope that circumstances will enable me to keep them for some time, during which the troops will receive their clothing, necessaries, etc., which are already in progress by different lines of communication to the several divisions and brigades.

  “But besides these objects, I must draw your attention in a very particular manner to the state of discipline of the troops. The discipline of every army, after a long and active campaign, becomes in some degree relaxed, and requires the utmost attention on the part of general and other officers to bring it back to the state in which it ought to be for service; but I am concerned to have to observe that the army under my command has fallen off in this respect in the late campaign to a greater degree than any army with which I have ever served, or of which I have ever read.

  “It must be obvious, however, to every officer, that from the moment the troops commenced their retreat from the neighbourhood of Burgos on the one hand, and from Madrid on the other, the officers lost all command over their men.

  “I have no hesitation in attributing these evils to the habitual inattention of the officers of the regiments to their duty as prescribed by the standing regulations of the service and by the orders of this army.

  “I am far from questioning the zeal, still less the gallantry and spirit, of the officers of the army; I am quite certain that if their minds can be convinced of the necessity of minute and constant attention to understand, recollect, and carry into execution the orders which have been issued for the performance of their duty, and that the strict performance of this duty is necessary to enable the army to serve the country as it ought to be served, they will in future give their attention to these points.

  “Unfortunately, the experience of the officers of the army has induced many to consider that the period during which an army is on service is one of relaxation from all rule, instead of being, as it is, the period during which of all others every rule for the regulation and control of the conduct of the soldier, for the inspection and care of his arms, ammunition, accoutrements, necessaries, and field equipments, and his horse and horse appointments, for the receipt and issue and care of his provisions and the regulation of all that belongs to his food and the forage for his horse, must be most strictly attended to by the officer of his company or troop, if it is intended that an army — a British army in particular — shall be brought into the field of battle in a state of efficiency to meet the enemy on the day of trial.