Complete Works of Stephen Crane

by Stephen Crane

  The following stanzas have been not only execrated by the Bohemian element, but also praised, and that nearly as much as the “War is Kind” poem. That has been held up to scathing ridicule if ever verse was. Listen to these lines:

  To the maiden

  The sea was blue meadow

  Alive with little Froth People

  Singing.

  To the sailor, wrecked,

  The sea was dead gray walls,

  Superlative in vacancy,

  Upon which, nevertheless, at fateful time

  Was written

  The grim hatred of nature.

  But O, the wonder as to what the Twentieth Century poetry will be, that such forms are with us now!

  From: Book News, V. XV, No. 169, September 1896, p.10-11

  STEPHEN CRANE. (Book News, V. XV, No. 169, September 1896)

  Born in Newark, N. J., in the year 1870, now at the age of twenty-six Stephen Crane is the author of three novels, a book of verse or “lines” as he has called them, and of a series of six or seven short stories. ‘‘ Maggie, a Girl of the Streets” was his first novel, privately printed by the author in 1891, and recently re-issued; “The Red Badge of Courage,” his second, was published by D. Apple ton & Co., in the autumn of 1895; “George’s Mother,” his third, was published by Edward Arnold, in the spring of the present year. “The Black Riders and Other Lines,” the little volume of verse alluded to, was published by Copeland and Day in the spring of 1895.

  “The Red Badge,” as the book is popularly termed, was Mr. Crane’s first really popular success. “The Black Riders,” because of its form and tenor, was caviare to the general reader, although it had attracted the vehement approval of an ultra-literary circle, and had been fairly successful judging from the standpoint of the bookseller. Now however, “The Red Badge,” having attracted the notice of the critics to the man’s earlier work, “The Black Riders” has been vituperated into six editions, and finds a steady sale.

  It was not until an article appeared in The New Review over the name of George Wyndham, M. P., calling attention to the unique excellencies of “The Red Badge,” and the innumerable reviews and comments that appeared in other English and Scottish literary organs, that America awoke to the realization that a new literary force had come to the fore.

  The little volume is now in its ninth edition with hardly a sign that public interest is flagging. Even now, almost a year after the publication, the literary organs are discussing it and printing long communications from that class of curious persons who read books as a proof-reader, to find how many grammatical and typographical errors they can find, and who find in anything new nothing but what is reprehensible and crude.

  Taking “ The Red Badge “ as the author’s chef-d’auvre, one finds that Mr. Crane has a keen observation of nature, as expressed in the fields and woods, of human nature in its most subtle moods and tenses; also a trenchant power of analysis, and a sympathy that is as yet tentative, but in all things ultimately dominates. In his style one finds much that as an admirer one should deplore. One finds a lack of finish, a slovenly grammatical construction, and a frequent over-estimated trust in adjectives of color. But these faults, mainly those of education, time and a better appreciation of his tools, should eradicate. Yet, after all objections have been made, one returns to be swept irresistably onward by the power that is of the mental poise of the narrator who paints with so confident and swift a hand the imagined deeds and sensations of his hero, but the painting of which is truer to the spirit of reality than the personal testimony of those who have lived through such things. Mr. Crane has rendered the type of the modern fighting soldier.

  Personally, Mr. Crane is of medium height, weighs hardly more than one hundred and thirty pounds, is a decided blonde, with blue eyes that have that greenish tinge in them which Paul Bourget assures us is indicative of men of power and initiative.

  In manner, at first, one finds him rather shy and reserved yet perfectly self-possessed. When assured of a real interest, however, he is singularly frank, and at all times comfortably unconventional.

  His mental attitude towards all things in life is that of the man who is confident that the world holds few surprises for him, yet many things that are interesting. The man feels that he can ‘‘ do good work,’’ that there are greater things to come, and to the mystery of that future he turns eagerly. He seems at times to fail to realize the importance of his work, but when an amused twinkle gathers about his eyes as he reads the eulogies of those critics who at first welcomed him with Billingsgate, one is assured the man is observant of all things, even of himself. He writes when he “has the fit on him,” so to speak. In the quiet of solitary rambles he “gets close to things and thinks.” Then he goes home and writes, with the whole story in his head, always knowing the end from the beginning, playing no tricks as he goes with his characters, springing no surprises wantonly, but working out with relentless logic what to him is the inevitable ending of the tale. Once finished, as I have said before, there is no word added or subtracted. The story is put aside, and for that time that phrase of human nature is interpreted.

  In his youth, nineteen, I believe, Mr. Crane attended Lafayette College for a term or so. There the professors and pupil found things mutually disagreeable, and the pupil left, leaving behind him a reputation for belligerancy, if not for studious habits. Then he entered Syracuse University, where he added to the reputation for belligerancy by displaying a marked prowess on the base-ball diamond and the foot-ball field. Even Syracuse, however, had no charms that could hold him, and he gave up his college career and went to New York where he reported for a time on the Herald and other papers of Gotham. Since those days he has become one of the foremost problems of our American letters, and from that enviable altitude he is now writing short stories for our magazines and the leading newspaper syndicates. In the autumn he will publish a new series of stories, or a long story, he has not definitely decided which, in which will be ‘‘ presented the life of the metropolitan policeman.” This is apart from a volume of stories that may appear just prior to Christmas.

  E. St. Elmo Lewis.

  From: The Chautauquan, V. XXXI, No. 4, July 1900, p.323

  The Chautauquan, V. XXXI, No. 4, July 1900

  The late Stephen Crane’s first literary success was paradoxical in that he graphically described scenes of war and carnage, in which he had had no personal experience. “The Red Badge of Courage” won plaudits from veterans in military technique for its accuracy of description, which goes to prove that the clairvoyance of the imagination is sometimes a very good substitute for the actual experience of an author. The later stories of Mr. Crane showed that he was getting back to nature and to the memories of his boyhood — a fine symptom. As a war correspondent in the field his work was handicapped by facts, and lacked that quality of spontaneity and perspective which made his fiction so delightful. He had a remarkable metonymical gift, as effective in its way as the archaic talent of Stanley J. Weyman. Mr. Crane employed this gift with less felicity in his verse, where it usually makes the most distinguished showing, than in his magnetic prose. In fact, Mr. Crane’s genius was not strictly of a poetic order. In striving for strength he evolved hybrid and amorphous meters destitute of rhythm and melody. In other words, he did not have the poet’s ear for music. Yet he left some of the most drastic and picturesque prose that has been penned within the last decade. It is more than pathetic that so promising a career in letters should have been cut off in its prime.

  From: The Academy, No. 1466, June 9, 1900, p.491

  STEPHEN CRANE. (The Academy, No. 1466, June 9, 1900)

  As he had seen two wars; he had been wrecked; he had written eleven books, two still in MS., and when he died last Wednesday his years did not number thirty. He was the type of the nervous, nimbleminded American, slight in figure, shy and kind in manner, speaking little, with a great power of work, a fine memory, and an imagination of astonishing psychological insight. Latterly his
health had been bad, partly constitutional, and partly through malarial fever contracted in the Cuban campaign. The last two years of his life were spent in the old, huge, fascinating house in Sussex, Brede Place, which he made his home. There he lived, many miles from the nearest railway station, a quiet, domesticated life, welcoming his friends, and writing — always writing. He battled bravely against ill-health; but the disease gained ground, and a few weeks ago he was ordered to the Black Forest. It was a forlorn hope, and, although many days were given to the journey, he succumbed at the end to exhaustion.

  The Red Badge of Courage was published when he was twenty-five. This study of the psychological side of war, of its effect on a private soldier, justly won for him immediate recognition. Critics of all schools united in praise of that remarkable book, and the more wonderful did the performance appear when it became known that he had never seen a battle, that the whole was evolved from his imagination, fed by a long and minute study of military history. It is said that when he returned from the Graeco-Turkish war he remarked to a friend: “The Red Badge is all right.” It was all right.

  The same swift and unerring characterisation, the same keen vision into the springs of motives, the same vivid phrasing, marked George’s Mother. Here, as in most of his other stories, and in all his episodes, the environment grows round the characters. He takes them at some period of emotional or physical stress, and, working from within outwards, with quick, firm touches, vivifies them into life. Nowhere is this more evident than in the short sketches and studies that wore, probably, after The Red Badge of Courage, the real expression of his genius. His longer novels, though not wanting in passages that show him at his best, suggest that in time he would have returned to the earlier instinct that prompted him to work upon a small canvas.

  As a writer he was very modern. He troubled himself little about style or literary art. But — rare gift — he saw for himself, and, like Mr. Steevens, he knew in a flash just what was essential to bring the picture vividly to the reader. His books are full of images and similes that not only fulfil their purpose of the moment, but live in the memory afterwards. A super-refined literary taste might object to some of his phrases — to such a sentence as this, for example: “By the very last star of truth, it is easier to steal eggs from under a hen than it was to change seats in the dingey,” to his colloquialisms, to the slang with which he peppers the talk of his men — but that was the man, who looked at things with his own eyes, and was unafraid of his prepossessions.

  His gift of presenting the critical or dramatic moments in the lives of men and women was supreme. We could give a hundred examples, and though the sketch we take the liberty of quoting is not by any means the best of its kind, it is complete in itself, and shows how neat, how to the point, how sympathetic without being sentimental, his work was. It is called “A Detail,” and is included in the volume of stories and sketches called The Open Boat (Heinemann), the title of that remarkable account of the escape of himself and three companions from the wreck of the steamer Commodore:

  The tiny old lady in the black dress and curious little black bonnet had at first seemed alarmed at the sound made by her feet upon the stone pavements. But later she forgot about it, for she suddenly came into the tempest of the Sixth Avenue shopping district, where from the streams of people and vehicles went up a roar like that from headlong mountain torrents.

  She seemed then like a chip that catches, recoils, turns and wheels, a reluctant thing in the clutch of the impetuous river. She hesitated, faltered, debated with herself. Frequently she seemed about to address people; then of a sudden she would evidently lose her courage. Meanwhile the torrent jostled her, swung her this and that way.

  At last, however, she saw two young women gazing in at a shop-window. They were well-dressed girls; they wore gowns with enormous sleeves that made them look like full-rigged ships with all sails set. They seemed to have plenty of time; they leisurely scanned the goods in the window. Other people had made the tiny old woman much afraid because obviously they were speeding to keep such tremendously important engagements. She went close to the girls and peered in at the same window. She watched them furtively for a time. Then finally she said:

  “Excuse me!”

  The girls looked down at this old face with its two large eyes turned towards them.

  “Excuse me, can you tell me where I can get any work?”

  For an instant the two girls stared. Then they seemed about to exchange a smile, but, at the last moment, they checked it. The tiny old lady’s eyes were upon them. She was quaintly serious, silently expectant. She made one marvel that in that face the wrinkles showed no trace of experience, knowledge; they were simply little, soft, innocent creases. As for her glance, it had the trustfulness of ignorance and the candour of babyhood.

  “I want to get something to do, because I need the money,” she continued since, in their astonishment, they had not replied to her first question. “Of course I’m not strong and I couldn’t do very much, but I can sew we l; and in a house where there was a good many men folks I could do all the mending. Do you know any place where they would like me to come?”

  The young women did then exchange a smile, but it was a subtle, tender smile, the edge of personal grief.

  “Well, no, madame,” hesitatingly said one of them at last; “I don’t think I know anyone.”

  A shade passed over the tiny old lady’s face, a shadow of the wing of disappointment.

  “Don’t you?” she said, with a little struggle to be brave in her voice.

  Then the girl hastily continued: “But if you will give me your address, I may find someone, and if I do, I will surely let you know of it.”

  The tiny old lady dictated her address, bending over to watch the girl write on a visiting card with a little silver pencil. Then she said:

  “I thank you very much.” She bowed to them, smiling, and went on down the avenue.

  As for the two girls, they walked to the curb and watched this aged figure, small and frail, in its black gown and curious black bonnet At last the crowd, the innumerable wagons, intermingling and changing with uproar and riot, suddenly engulfed it.

  This youth wandered much over the world in his brief, brilliant life. As we write, his last journey is beginning. He is being taken to his home in America.

  From: The Bookman, V. II, No. 6, February 1896, p.468-470

  The Bookman, V. II, No. 6, February 1896

  No one may ask now ‘‘ Who is Stephen Crane, and what has he done?” Has he not written The Black Riders and The Red Badge of Courage, and been dined by the Philistines? Mr. Stephen Crane is the first guest to be introduced to the Society of the Philistines, and the dinner given by them in his honour at Buffalo, on December 19th, was no myth, but a very hilarious affair, at which he made a speech, a regular Black Rider poem that scintillated with flashes of wit, to the merriment of all. “Since he had recovered from College,” he had thrown off the sophomoric yoke, and was doing what he could to give to the world the best that he had. “I write what is in me,” said he, “and it will be enough to follow with obedience the promptings of that inspiration, if it be worthy of so dignified a name.” In introducing the guest of honour, Mr. Elbert Hubbard spoke of the “strong voice now heard in America, the voice of Stephen Crane.” The Philistines had had a hard time from the beginning, when driven out of their country by a tribe of invaders who had been slaves in Egypt, and had “the pull with the publishers!” Mr. Harry P. Taber, the editor of the “periodical of protest,” presided gracefully as toastmaster.

  Many regretted that they could not assist at the “Hanging of the Crane.” Maurice Thompson would have been given “great pleasure to sit over against Stephen Crane at an eating bout.” Miss Louise Imogen Guiney was

  “Eyeless in Gaza, at the mill with slaves,

  Herself in bonds (not) under Philistine yoke.”

  Others doted on Stephen Crane, though they didn’t “understand his poetry any more than they
understood the inscription on the monolith in Central Park.” In a happy spirit of parody, Mr. Hayden Carruth wrote to the Society:

  “I saw a man reading an invitation.

  Anon he chortled like a bull-frog —

  Like a billy-be-dasted bull-frog.

  It was a dinner invitation.

  Which accounted for the chortle.

  ‘They will have Grub,’ quoth the

  Man.

  ‘Better yet, Grape Juice; I will go!’

  The red chortle died on his white lips.

  His ashy hand shot into his black

  Pocket.

  A gray wail burst from his parched,

  Brown throat

  Like the scarlet yowl of a yellow

  Tom Cat —

  The Man didn’t have the price!

  Which accounted for the wail.

  I left him cursing the Railroad

  Company, with great, jagged,

  Crimson curses.”

  It is gratifying to record the immense success which Mr. Crane’s new novel, The Red Badge of Courage, is having in England. Since our last issue, in which we stated that Mr. Heinemann had launched Mr. Crane’s book with enthusiasm on the English market, we have had successive reports of its warm reception, and the critics seem vying with one another in singing its praises until we understand that Mr. Crane bids fair to be the author of the hour in London. The New Review, of which Mr. W. E. Henley is the editor, has a criticism of Mr. Crane’s work written by Mr. George Wyndham in its January number, and the same magazine promises to publish a new story of a warlike character by Mr. Crane in February.

  Why is it, we might ask again, that in America critics are less sure and readers slower to discover a good book in spite of the genius in it? Except for a review of his Maggie, a Girl of the Streets, in The Arena, printed a few years ago, in which Mr. Hamlin Garland solitarily hailed the author as one to be reckoned with, The Bookman was the first, if we are not mistaken, to call attention to Mr. Stephen Crane and his work. This was done in an article which was widely copied throughout the States, printed in the May number of The Bookman, on the appearance of The Black Riders, and Other Lines. Yet he has not received the recognition in his own country which his recent novel at least should evoke — whatever dissentient voices may say about his “Lines” — and which they across the sea have been so quick to award him. The book has its defects — what book by a youth of twenty-four could be without them ? — but let us be generous to the genius that has been applied to an experience common to every novice in war so as to make it glow and tingle with a tremendous force of reality. The narrative is stamped with truth. The youth’s mind as well as the field of active service in which he is a recruit is a battleground. The dark, fearful, and inglorious moments leading up to his acquittal in the end mark the genuine development of the untried civilian into the capable and daring soldier. Exactly what military courage means for the average man you will learn here. Here also are pictures of war that are masterly. The book is marked throughout by the quiet power that war had proved the hero of it to possess.