Stephen Crane - The Complete Works of Stephen Crane

‘Should I be car-reed tew th’ skies

O-on flow’ry be-eds of ee-ease,

While others fought tew win th’ prize

An’ sailed through blood-ee seas?’

The man in the opposite window was greatly enraged. He continued to swear.

A little old woman was the owner of the voice. In a fourth-story room of the red and black tenement she was trudging on a journey. In her arms she bore pots and pans, and sometimes a broom and dust-pan. She wielded them like weapons. Their weight seemed to have bended her back and crooked her arms until she walked with difficulty. Often she plunged her hands into water at a sink. She splashed about, the dwindled muscles working to and fro under the loose skin of her arms. She came from the sink, steaming and bedraggled as if she had crossed a flooded river.

There was the flurry of a battle in this room. Through the clouded dust or steam one could see the thin figure dealing mighty blows. Always her way seemed beset. Her broom was continually poised, lance-wise, at dust demons. There came clashings and clangings as she strove with her tireless foes.

It was a picture of indomitable courage. And as she went on her way her voice was often raised in a long cry, a strange war-chant, a shout of battle and defiance, that rose and fell in harsh screams, and exasperated the ears of the man with the red, mottled face.

‘Should I be car-reed tew th’ skies

O-on flow’ry be-eds of ee-ease—’

Finally she halted for a moment. Going to the window, she sat down and mopped her face with her apron. It was a lull, a moment of respite. Still it could be seen that she even then was planning skirmishes, charges, campaigns. She gazed thoughtfully about the room, and noted the strength and position of her enemies. She was very alert.

At last she returned to the mantel. ‘Five o’clock,’ she murmured, scrutinizing a little, swaggering, nickel-plated clock.

She looked out at chimneys growing thickly on the roofs. A man at work on one seemed like a bee. In the intricate yards below, vine-like lines had strange leaves of cloth. To her ears there came the howl of the man with the red, mottled face. He was engaged in a furious altercation with the youth who had called attention to his poor aim. They were like animals in a jungle.

In the distance an enormous brewery towered over the other buildings. Great gilt letters advertised a brand of beer. Thick smoke came from funnels and spread near it like vast and powerful wings. The structure seemed a great bird, flying. The letters of the sign made a chain of gold hanging from its neck. The little old woman looked at the brewery. It vaguely interested her, for a moment, as a stupendous affair, a machine of mighty strength.

Presently she sprang from her rest and began to buffet with her shrivelled arms. In a moment the battle was again in full swing. Terrific blows were given and received. There arose the clattering uproar of a new fight. The little intent warrior never hesitated nor faltered. She fought with a strong and relentless will. Beads and lines of perspiration stood upon her forehead.

Three blue plates were leaning in a row on the shelf back of the stove. The little old woman had seen it done somewhere. In front of them swaggered the round nickel-plated clock. Her son had stuck many cigarette pictures in the rim of a looking-glass that hung near. Occasional chromos were tacked upon the yellowed walls of the room. There was one in a gilt frame. It was quite an affair in reds and greens. They all seemed like trophies.

It began to grow dark. A mist came winding. Rain plashed softly upon the window-sill. A lamp had been lighted in the opposite tenement; the strong orange glare revealed the man with a red, mottled face. He was seated by a table, smoking and reflecting.

The little old woman looked at the clock again. ‘Quarter ‘a six.’

She had paused for a moment, but she now hurled herself fiercely at the stove that lurked in the gloom, red-eyed, like a dragon. It hissed, and there was renewed clangour of blows. The little old woman dashed to and fro.

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As it grew toward seven o’clock the little old woman became nervous. She often would drop into a chair and sit staring at the little clock.

‘I wonder why he don’t come,’ she continually repeated. There was a small, curious note of despair in her voice. As she sat thinking and staring at the clock, the expressions of her face changed swiftly. All manner of emotions flickered in her eyes and about her lips. She was evidently perceiving in her imagination the journey of a loved person. She dreamed for him mishaps and obstacles. Something tremendous and irritating was hindering him from coming to her.

She had lighted an oil-lamp. It flooded the room with vivid yellow glare. The table, in its oil-cloth covering, had previously appeared like a bit of bare, brown desert. It now was a white garden, growing the fruits of her labour.

‘Seven o’clock!’ she murmured finally. She was aghast.

Then suddenly she heard a step upon the stair. She sprang up and began to bustle about the room. The little fearful emotions passed at once from her face. She seemed now to be ready to scold.

Young Kelcey entered the room. He gave a sigh of relief, and dropped his pail in a corner. He was evidently greatly wearied by a hard day of toil.

The little old woman hobbled over to him and raised her wrinkled lips. She seemed on the verge of tears and an outburst of reproaches.

‘Hello!’ he cried, in a voice of cheer. ‘Been gettin’ anxious?’

‘Yes,’ she said, hovering about him.

‘Where yeh been, George? What made yeh so late? I’ve been waitin’ th’ longest while. Don’t throw your coat down there. Hang it up behind th’ door.’

The son put his coat on the proper hook, and then went to splatter water in a tin wash-basin at the sink.

‘Well, yeh see, I met Jones—you remember Jones? Ol’ Handyville fellah. An’ we had t’ stop an’ talk over of times. Jones is quite a boy.’

The little old woman’s mouth set in a sudden straight line. ‘Oh, that Jones!’ she said. ‘I don’t like him.’

The youth interrupted a flurry of white towel to give a glance of irritation.

‘Well, now, what’s th’ use of talkin’ that way?’ he said to her. ‘What do yeh know ‘bout ‘im? Ever spoke to ‘im in yer life?’

‘Well, I don’t know as I ever did since he grew up,’ replied the little old woman. But I know he ain’t th’ kind ‘a man I’d like t’ have you go around with. He ain’t a good man. I’m sure he ain’t. He drinks.’

Her son began to laugh. ‘Th’ dickens he does!’

He seemed amazed, but not shocked, at this information.

She nodded her head with the air of one who discloses a dreadful thing. ‘I’m sure of it! Once I saw ‘im comin’ outa Simpson’s Hotel, up in Handyville, an’ he could hardly walk. He drinks! I’m sure he drinks!’

‘Holy smoke!’ said Kelcey.

They sat down at the table and began to wreck the little white garden. The youth leaned back in his chair, in the manner of a man who is paying for things. His mother bended alertly forward, apparently watching each mouthful. She perched on the edge of her chair, ready to spring to her feet and run to the closet or the stove for anything that he might need. She was as anxious as a young mother with a babe. In the careless and comfortable attitude of the son there was denoted a great deal of dignity.

‘Yeh ain’t eatin’ much t’-night, George?’

‘Well, I ain’t very hungry, t’ tell th’ truth.’

‘Don’t yeh like yer supper, dear? Yeh must eat somethin’, chile. Yeh mustn’t go without.’

‘Well, I’m eatin’ somethin’, ain’t I?’