Maggie, a Girl of the Streets and Other New York Writings

by Stephen Crane

  The street was lined with two rows of austere and solemn trees. In one way it was like parading between the plumes on an immense hearse. These trees, lowly sighing in a breath-like wind, oppressed one with a sense of melancholy and dreariness. Back from the road, behind flower beds, controlled by box-wood borders, the houses were asleep in the drowsy air. Between them one could get views of the fields lying in a splendor of gold and green. A monotonous humming song of insects came from the regions of sunshine, and from some hidden barnyard a hen suddenly burst forth in a sustained cackle of alarm. The tranquillity of the scene contained a meaning of peace and virtue that was incredibly monotonous to the warriors from the metropolis. The sense of a city is battle. The Binkses were vaguely irritated and astonished at the placidity of this little town. This life spoke to them of no absorbing nor even interesting thing. There was something unbearable about it. “I should go crazy if I had to live here,” said Mrs. Binks. A warrior in the flood-tide of his blood, going from the hot business of war to a place of utter quiet, might have felt that there was an insipidity in peace. And thus felt the Binkses from New York. They had always named the clash of the swords of commerce as sin, crime, but now they began to imagine something admirable in it. It was high wisdom. They put aside their favorite expressions: “The curse of gold,” “A mad passion to get rich,” “The rush for the spoils.” In the light of their contempt for this stillness, the conflicts of the city were exalted. They were at any rate wondrously clever.

  But what they did feel was the fragrance of the air, the radiance of the sunshine, the glory of the fields and the hills. With their ears still clogged by the tempest and fury of city uproars, they heard the song of the universal religion, the mighty and mystic hymn of nature, whose melody is in each landscape. It appealed to their elemental selves. It was as if the earth had called recreant and heedless children and the mother word, of vast might and significance, brought them to sudden meekness. It was the universal thing whose power no one escapes. When a man hears it he usually remains silent. He understands then the sacrilege of speech.

  When they came to the third house, the white one, with the green blinds, they perceived a woman, in a plaid sun bonnet, walking slowly down a path. Around her was a riot of shrubbery and flowers. From the long and tangled grass of the lawn grew a number of cherry trees. Their dark green foliage was thickly sprinkled with bright red fruit. Some sparrows were scuffling among the branches. The little Binkses began to whoop at sight of the woman in the plaid sun bonnet.

  “Hay-oh, Aunt Sarah, hay-oh!” they shouted.

  The woman shaded her eyes with her hand. “Well, good gracious, if it ain’t Marg’ret Binks! An’ Phil, too! Well, I am surprised!”

  She came jovially to meet them. “Why, how are yeh all? I’m awful glad t’ see yeh!”

  The children, filled with great excitement, babbled questions and ejaculations while she greeted the others.

  “Say, Aunt Sarah, gimme some cherries!”

  “Look at th’ man over there!”

  “Look at th’ flowers!”

  “Gimme some flowers, Aunt Sarah!”

  And little Tommie, red faced from the value of his information, bawled out: “Aunt Sah-wee, dey have horse tars where I live!” Later he shouted: “We come on a twain of steam tars!”

  Aunt Sarah fairly bristled with the most enthusiastic hospitality. She beamed upon them like a sun. She made desperate attempts to gain possession of everybody’s bundles that she might carry them to the house. There was a sort of a little fight over the baggage. The children clamored questions at her; she tried heroically to answer them. Tommie, at times, deluged her with news.

  The curtains of the dining room were pulled down to keep out the flies. This made a deep, cool gloom in which corners of the old furniture caught wandering rays of light and shone with a mild luster. Everything was arranged with an unspeakable neatness that was the opposite of comfort. A branch of an apple tree moved by the gentle wind, brushed softly against the closed blinds.

  “Take off yer things,” said Aunt Sarah.

  Binks and his wife remained talking to Aunt Sarah, but the children speedily swarmed out over the farm, raiding in countless directions. It was only a matter of seconds before Jimmie discovered the brook behind the barn. Little Margaret roamed among the flowers, bursting into little cries at sight of new blossoms, new glories. Tommie gazed at the cherry trees for a few moments in profound silence. Then he went and procured a pole. It was very heavy, relatively. He could hardly stagger under it, but with infinite toil he dragged it to the proper place and somehow managed to push it erect. Then with a deep earnestness of demeanor he began a little onslaught upon the trees. Very often his blow missed the entire tree and the pole thumped on the ground. This necessitated the most extraordinary labor. But then at other times he would get two or three cherries at one wild swing of his weapon.

  Binks and his wife spent the larger part of the afternoon out under the apple trees at the side of the house. Binks lay down on his back, with his head in the long lush grass. Mrs. Binks moved lazily to and fro in a rocking chair that had been brought from the house. Aunt Sarah, sometimes appearing, was strenuous in an account of relatives, and the Binkses had only to listen. They were glad of it, for this warm, sleepy air, pulsating with the sounds of insects, had enchained them in a great indolence.

  It was to this place that Jimmie ran after he had fallen into the brook and scrambled out again. Holding his arms out carefully from his dripping person, he was roaring tremendously. His new sailor suit was a sight. Little Margaret came often to describe the wonders of her journeys, and Tommie, after a frightful struggle with the cherry trees, toddled over and went to sleep in the midst of a long explanation of his operations. The breeze stirred the locks on his baby forehead. His breath came in long sighs of content. Presently he turned his head to cuddle deeper into the grass. One arm was thrown in childish abandon over his head. Mrs. Binks stopped rocking to gaze at him. Presently she bended and noiselessly brushed away a spear of grass that was troubling the baby’s temple. When she straightened up she saw that Binks, too, was absorbed in a contemplation of Tommie. They looked at each other presently, exchanging a vague smile. Through the silence came the voice of a plowing farmer berating his horses in a distant field.

  The peace of the hills and the fields came upon the Binkses. They allowed Jimmie to sit up in bed and eat cake while his clothes were drying. Uncle Daniel returned from a wagon journey and recited them a ponderous tale of a pig that he had sold to a man with a red beard. They had no difficulty in feeling much interest in the story.

  Binks began to expand with enormous appreciations. He would not go into the house until they compelled him. And as soon as the evening meal was finished he dragged his wife forth on a trip to the top of the hill behind the house. There was a great view from there, Uncle Daniel said.

  The path, gray with little stones in the dusk, extended above them like a pillar. The pines were beginning to croon in a mournful key, inspired by the evening winds. Mrs. Binks had great difficulty in climbing this upright road. Binks was obliged to assist her, which he did with a considerable care and tenderness. In it there was a sort of a reminiscence of their courtship. It was a repetition of old days. Both enjoyed it because of this fact, although they subtly gave each other to understand that they disdained this emotion as an altogether un-American thing, for she, as a woman, was proud, and he had great esteem for himself as a man.

  At the summit they seated themselves upon a fallen tree, near the edge of a cliff. The evening silence was upon the earth below them. Far in the west the sun lay behind masses of corn colored clouds, tumbled and heaved into crags, peaks and canyons. On either hand stood the purple hills in motionless array. The valley lay wreathed in somber shadows. Slowly there went on the mystic process of the closing of the day. The corn colored clouds faded to yellow and finally to a faint luminous green, inexpressibly vague. The rim of the hills was then an edge of crimson. T
he mountains became a profound blue. From the night, approaching in the east, came a wind. The trees of the mountain raised plaintive voices, bending toward the faded splendors of the day.

  This song of the trees arose in low, sighing melody into the still air. It was filled with an infinite sorrow—a sorrow for birth, slavery, death. It was a wail telling the griefs, the pains of all ages. It was the symbol of agonies. It celebrated all suffering. Each man finds in this sound the expression of his own grief. It is the universal voice raised in lamentations.

  As the trees huddled and bended as if to hide from their eyes a certain sight the green tints became blue. A faint suggestion of yellow replaced the crimson. The sun was dead.

  The Binkses had been silent. These songs of the trees awe. They had remained motionless during this ceremony, their eyes fixed upon the mighty and indefinable changes which spoke to them of the final thing—the inevitable end. Their eyes had an impersonal expression. They were purified, chastened by this sermon, this voice calling to them from the sky. The hills had spoken and the trees had crooned their song. Binks finally stretched forth his arm in a wondering gesture.

  “I wonder why,” he said; “I wonder why the dickens it—why it—why——”

  Tangled in his tongue was the unformulated question of the centuries, but Mrs. Binks had stolen forth her arm and linked it with his. Her head leaned softly against his shoulder.

  STORIES TOLD BY AN ARTIST

  A TALE ABOUT HOW “GREAT GRIEF” GOT HIS HOLIDAY DINNER

  Wrinkles had been peering into the little drygoods box that acted as a cupboard. “There is only two eggs and a half of a loaf of bread left,” he announced brutally.

  “Heavens!” said Warwickson from where he lay smoking on the bed. He spoke in his usual dismal voice. By it he had earned his popular name of Great Grief.

  Wrinkles was a thrifty soul. A sight of an almost bare cupboard maddened him. Even when he was not hungry, the ghosts of his careful ancestors caused him to rebel against it. He sat down with a virtuous air. “Well, what are we going to do?” he demanded of the others. It is good to be the thrifty man in a crowd of unsuccessful artists, for then you can keep the others from starving peacefully. “What are we going to do?”

  “Oh, shut up, Wrinkles,” said Grief from the bed. “You make me think.”

  Little Pennoyer, with head bended afar down, had been busily scratching away at a pen and ink drawing. He looked up from his board to utter his plaintive optimism.

  “The Monthly Amazement may pay me to-morrow. They ought to. I’ve waited over three months now. I’m going down there tomorrow, and perhaps I’ll get it.”

  His friends listened to him tolerantly, but at last Wrinkles could not omit a scornful giggle. He was such an old man, almost twenty-eight, and he had seen so many little boys be brave. “Oh, no doubt, Penny, old man.” Over on the bed, Grief croaked deep down in his throat. Nothing was said for a long time thereafter.

  The crash of the New York streets came faintly. Occasionally one could hear the tramp of feet in the intricate corridors of this begrimed building that squatted, slumbering and aged between two exalted commercial structures that would have had to bend afar down to perceive it. The light snow beat pattering into the window corners and made vague and grey the vista of chimneys and roofs. Often, the wind scurried swiftly and raised a long cry.

  Great Grief leaned upon his elbow. “See to the fire, will you, Wrinkles?”

  Wrinkles pulled the coal box out from under the bed and threw open the stove door preparatory to shoveling some fuel. A red glare plunged at the first faint shadows of dusk. Little Pennoyer threw down his pen and tossed his drawing over on the wonderful heap of stuff that hid the table. “It’s too dark to work.” He lit his pipe and walked about, stretching his shoulders like a man whose labor was valuable.

  When the dusk came it saddened these youths. The solemnity of darkness always caused them to ponder. “Light the gas, Wrinkles,” said Grief.

  The flood of orange light showed clearly the dull walls lined with sketches, the tousled bed in one corner, the mass of boxes and trunks in another, the little fierce stove and the wonderful table. Moreover, there were some wine colored draperies flung in some places, and on a shelf, high up, there was a plaster cast dark with dust in the creases. A long stovepipe wandered off in the wrong direction and then twined impulsively toward a hole in the wall. There were some extensive cobwebs on the ceiling.

  “Well, let’s eat,” said Grief.

  Later there came a sad knock at the door. Wrinkles, arranging a tin pail on the stove, little Pennoyer busy at slicing the bread, and Great Grief, affixing the rubber tube to the gas stove, yelled: “Come in!”

  The door opened and Corinson entered dejectedly. His overcoat was very new. Wrinkles flashed an envious glance at it, but almost immediately he cried: “Hello, Corrie, old boy!”

  Corinson sat down and felt around among the pipes until he found a good one. Great Grief had fixed the coffee to boil on the gas stove, but he had to watch it closely, for the rubber tube was short, and a chair was balanced on a trunk and then the gas stove was balanced on the chair. Coffee making was a feat.

  “Well,” said Grief, with his back turned, “how goes it, Corrie? How’s Art, hey?” He fastened a terrible emphasis upon the word.

  “Crayon portraits,” said Corinson.

  “What?” They turned toward him with one movement, as if from a lever connection. Little Pennoyer dropped his knife.

  “Crayon portraits,” repeated Corinson. He smoked away in profound cynicism. “Fifteen dollars a week, or more, this time of year, you know.” He smiled at them calmly like a man of courage.

  Little Pennoyer picked up his knife again. “Well, I’ll be blowed,” said Wrinkles. Feeling it incumbent upon him to think, he dropped into a chair and began to play serenades on his guitar and watch to see when the water for the eggs would boil. It was a habitual pose.

  Great Grief, however, seemed to observe something bitter in the affair. “When did you discover that you couldn’t draw?” he said, stiffly.

  “I haven’t discovered it yet,” replied Corinson, with a serene air. “I merely discovered that I would rather eat.”

  “Oh!” said Grief.

  “Hand me the eggs, Grief,” said Wrinkles. “The water’s boiling.”

  Little Pennoyer burst into the conversation. “We’d ask you to dinner, Corrie, but there’s only three of us and there’s two eggs. I dropped a piece of bread on the floor, too. I’m shy one.”

  “That’s all right, Penny,” said the other, “don’t trouble yourself. You artists should never be hospitable. I’m going, anyway. I’ve got to make a call. Well, good night, boys. I’ve got to make a call. Drop in and see me.”

  When the door closed upon him, Grief said: “The coffee’s done. I hate that fellow. That overcoat cost thirty dollars, if it cost a red. His egotism is so tranquil. It isn’t like yours, Wrinkles. He——”

  The door opened again and Corinson thrust in his head. “Say, you fellows, you know it’s Thanksgiving to-morrow.”

  “Well, what of it?” demanded Grief.

  Little Pennoyer said: “Yes, I know it is, Corrie, I thought of it this morning.”

  “Well, come out and have a table d’hote with me to-morrow night. I’ll blow you off in good style.”

  While Wrinkles played an exuberant air on his guitar, little Pennoyer did part of a ballet. They cried ecstatically: “Will we? Well, I guess yes!”

  When they were alone again Grief said: “I’m not going, anyhow. I hate that fellow.”

  “Oh, fiddle,” said Wrinkles. “You’re an infernal crank. And, besides, where’s your dinner coming from to-morrow night if you don’t go? Tell me that.”

  Little Pennoyer said: “Yes, that’s so, Grief. Where’s your dinner coming from if you don’t go?”

  Grief said: “Well, I hate him, anyhow.”

  AS TO PAYMENT OF THE RENT

  Little Pennoyer’s fou
r dollars could not last forever. When he received it he and Wrinkles and Great Grief went to a table d’hote. Afterward little Pennoyer discovered that only two dollars and a half remained. A small magazine away down town had accepted one out of the six drawings that he had taken them, and later had given him four dollars for it. Penny was so disheartened when he saw that his money was not going to last forever that, even with two dollars and a half in his pockets, he felt much worse then he had when he was penniless, for at that time he anticipated twenty-four. Wrinkles lectured upon “Finance.”

  Great Grief said nothing, for it was established that when he received six dollar checks from comic weeklies he dreamed of renting studios at seventy-five dollars per month, and was likely to go out and buy five dollars’ worth of second hand curtains and plaster casts.

  When he had money Penny always hated the cluttered den in the old building. He desired then to go out and breathe boastfully like a man. But he obeyed Wrinkles, the elder and the wise, and if you had visited that room about ten o’clock of a morning or about seven of an evening you would have thought that rye bread, frankfurters and potato salad from Second avenue were the only foods in the world.

  Purple Sanderson lived there, too, but then he really ate. He had learned parts of the gasfitter’s trade before he came to be such a great artist, and when his opinions disagreed with that of every art manager in New York he went to see a plumber, a friend of his, for whose opinion he had a great deal of respect. In consequence he frequented a very neat restaurant on Twenty-third street and sometimes on Saturday nights he openly scorned his companions.

  Purple was a good fellow, Grief said, but one of his singularly bad traits was that he always remembered everything. One night, not long after little Pennoyer’s great discovery, Purple came in and as he was neatly hanging up his coat, said: “Well, the rent will be due in four days.”