Books: Maggie: A Girl of the Streets
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Stephen Crane >> Maggie: A Girl of the Streets
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MAGGIE: A GIRL OF THE STREETS
BY STEPHEN CRANE
Chapter I
A very little boy stood upon a heap of gravel for the honor of
Rum Alley. He was throwing stones at howling urchins from Devil's
Row who were circling madly about the heap and pelting at him.
His infantile countenance was livid with fury. His small body
was writhing in the delivery of great, crimson oaths.
"Run, Jimmie, run! Dey'll get yehs," screamed a retreating
Rum Alley child.
"Naw," responded Jimmie with a valiant roar, "dese micks can't
make me run."
Howls of renewed wrath went up from Devil's Row throats.
Tattered gamins on the right made a furious assault on the gravel
heap. On their small, convulsed faces there shone the grins of
true assassins. As they charged, they threw stones and cursed in
shrill chorus.
The little champion of Rum Alley stumbled precipitately down
the other side. His coat had been torn to shreds in a scuffle, and
his hat was gone. He had bruises on twenty parts of his body, and
blood was dripping from a cut in his head. His wan features wore
a look of a tiny, insane demon.
On the ground, children from Devil's Row closed in on their
antagonist. He crooked his left arm defensively about his head and
fought with cursing fury. The little boys ran to and fro, dodging,
hurling stones and swearing in barbaric trebles.
From a window of an apartment house that upreared its form
from amid squat, ignorant stables, there leaned a curious woman.
Some laborers, unloading a scow at a dock at the river, paused for
a moment and regarded the fight. The engineer of a passive tugboat
hung lazily to a railing and watched. Over on the Island, a worm
of yellow convicts came from the shadow of a building and crawled
slowly along the river's bank.
A stone had smashed into Jimmie's mouth. Blood was bubbling
over his chin and down upon his ragged shirt. Tears made furrows
on his dirt-stained cheeks. His thin legs had begun to tremble and
turn weak, causing his small body to reel. His roaring curses of
the first part of the fight had changed to a blasphemous chatter.
In the yells of the whirling mob of Devil's Row children
there were notes of joy like songs of triumphant savagery.
The little boys seemed to leer gloatingly at the blood upon
the other child's face.
Down the avenue came boastfully sauntering a lad of sixteen
years, although the chronic sneer of an ideal manhood already sat
upon his lips. His hat was tipped with an air of challenge over
his eye. Between his teeth, a cigar stump was tilted at the angle
of defiance. He walked with a certain swing of the shoulders which
appalled the timid. He glanced over into the vacant lot in which
the little raving boys from Devil's Row seethed about the shrieking
and tearful child from Rum Alley.
"Gee!" he murmured with interest. "A scrap. Gee!"
He strode over to the cursing circle, swinging his shoulders
in a manner which denoted that he held victory in his fists.
He approached at the back of one of the most deeply engaged
of the Devil's Row children.
"Ah, what deh hell," he said, and smote the deeply-engaged one
on the back of the head. The little boy fell to the ground and
gave a hoarse, tremendous howl. He scrambled to his feet, and
perceiving, evidently, the size of his assailant, ran quickly off,
shouting alarms. The entire Devil's Row party followed him. They
came to a stand a short distance away and yelled taunting oaths at
the boy with the chronic sneer. The latter, momentarily, paid no
attention to them.
"What deh hell, Jimmie?" he asked of the small champion.
Jimmie wiped his blood-wet features with his sleeve.
"Well, it was dis way, Pete, see! I was goin' teh lick dat
Riley kid and dey all pitched on me."
Some Rum Alley children now came forward. The party stood for
a moment exchanging vainglorious remarks with Devil's Row. A few
stones were thrown at long distances, and words of challenge passed
between small warriors. Then the Rum Alley contingent turned
slowly in the direction of their home street. They began to give,
each to each, distorted versions of the fight. Causes of retreat
in particular cases were magnified. Blows dealt in the fight were
enlarged to catapultian power, and stones thrown were alleged to
have hurtled with infinite accuracy. Valor grew strong again,
and the little boys began to swear with great spirit.
"Ah, we blokies kin lick deh hull damn Row," said a child, swaggering.
Little Jimmie was striving to stanch the flow of blood from
his cut lips. Scowling, he turned upon the speaker.
"Ah, where deh hell was yeh when I was doin' all deh fightin?"
he demanded. "Youse kids makes me tired."
"Ah, go ahn," replied the other argumentatively.
Jimmie replied with heavy contempt. "Ah, youse can't fight,
Blue Billie! I kin lick yeh wid one han'."
"Ah, go ahn," replied Billie again.
"Ah," said Jimmie threateningly.
"Ah," said the other in the same tone.
They struck at each other, clinched, and rolled over on the
cobble stones.
"Smash 'im, Jimmie, kick deh damn guts out of 'im," yelled Pete,
the lad with the chronic sneer, in tones of delight.
The small combatants pounded and kicked, scratched and tore.
They began to weep and their curses struggled in their throats with
sobs. The other little boys clasped their hands and wriggled their
legs in excitement. They formed a bobbing circle about the pair.
A tiny spectator was suddenly agitated.
"Cheese it, Jimmie, cheese it! Here comes yer fader," he yelled.
The circle of little boys instantly parted. They drew away
and waited in ecstatic awe for that which was about to happen.
The two little boys fighting in the modes of four thousand years ago,
did not hear the warning.
Up the avenue there plodded slowly a man with sullen eyes.
He was carrying a dinner pail and smoking an apple-wood pipe.
As he neared the spot where the little boys strove, he
regarded them listlessly. But suddenly he roared an oath and
advanced upon the rolling fighters.
"Here, you Jim, git up, now, while I belt yer life out,
you damned disorderly brat."
He began to kick into the chaotic mass on the ground. The boy
Billie felt a heavy boot strike his head. He made a furious effort
and disentangled himself from Jimmie. He tottered away, damning.
Jimmie arose painfully from the ground and confronting his
father, began to curse him. His parent kicked him. "Come home,
now," he cried, "an' stop yer jawin', er I'll lam the everlasting
head off yehs."
They departed. The man paced placidly along with the apple-
wood emblem of serenity between his teeth. The boy followed a
dozen feet in the rear. He swore luridly, for he felt that it was
degradation for one who aimed to be some vague soldier, or a man of
blood with a sort of sublime license, to be taken home by a father.
Chapter II
Eventually they entered into a dark region where, from a
careening building, a dozen gruesome doorways gave up loads of
babies to the street and the gutter. A wind of early autumn raised
yellow dust from cobbles and swirled it against an hundred windows.
Long streamers of garments fluttered from fire-escapes. In all
unhandy places there were buckets, brooms, rags and bottles. In
the street infants played or fought with other infants or sat
stupidly in the way of vehicles. Formidable women, with uncombed
hair and disordered dress, gossiped while leaning on railings, or
screamed in frantic quarrels. Withered persons, in curious
postures of submission to something, sat smoking pipes in obscure
corners. A thousand odors of cooking food came forth to the
street. The building quivered and creaked from the weight of
humanity stamping about in its bowels.
A small ragged girl dragged a red, bawling infant along the
crowded ways. He was hanging back, baby-like, bracing his
wrinkled, bare legs.
The little girl cried out: "Ah, Tommie, come ahn.
Dere's Jimmie and fader. Don't be a-pullin' me back."
She jerked the baby's arm impatiently. He fell on his face,
roaring. With a second jerk she pulled him to his feet, and they
went on. With the obstinacy of his order, he protested against
being dragged in a chosen direction. He made heroic endeavors to
keep on his legs, denounce his sister and consume a bit of orange
peeling which he chewed between the times of his infantile
orations.
As the sullen-eyed man, followed by the blood-covered boy,
drew near, the little girl burst into reproachful cries.
"Ah, Jimmie, youse bin fightin' agin."
The urchin swelled disdainfully.
"Ah, what deh hell, Mag. See?"
The little girl upbraided him, "Youse allus fightin', Jimmie,
an' yeh knows it puts mudder out when yehs come home half dead,
an' it's like we'll all get a poundin'."
She began to weep. The babe threw back his head and roared at
his prospects.
"Ah, what deh hell!" cried Jimmie. "Shut up er I'll smack yer mout'.
See?"
As his sister continued her lamentations, he suddenly swore
and struck her. The little girl reeled and, recovering herself,
burst into tears and quaveringly cursed him. As she slowly
retreated her brother advanced dealing her cuffs. The father heard
and turned about.
"Stop that, Jim, d'yeh hear? Leave yer sister alone on the
street. It's like I can never beat any sense into yer damned
wooden head."
The urchin raised his voice in defiance to his parent and
continued his attacks. The babe bawled tremendously, protesting
with great violence. During his sister's hasty manoeuvres, he was
dragged by the arm.
Finally the procession plunged into one of the gruesome doorways.
They crawled up dark stairways and along cold, gloomy halls.
At last the father pushed open a door and they entered a lighted room
in which a large woman was rampant.
She stopped in a career from a seething stove to a pan-covered table.
As the father and children filed in she peered at them.
"Eh, what? Been fightin' agin, by Gawd!" She threw herself
upon Jimmie. The urchin tried to dart behind the others and in the
scuffle the babe, Tommie, was knocked down. He protested with his
usual vehemence, because they had bruised his tender shins against
a table leg.
The mother's massive shoulders heaved with anger. Grasping the
urchin by the neck and shoulder she shook him until he rattled.
She dragged him to an unholy sink, and, soaking a rag in water,
began to scrub his lacerated face with it. Jimmie screamed in pain
and tried to twist his shoulders out of the clasp of the huge arms.
The babe sat on the floor watching the scene, his face in contortions
like that of a woman at a tragedy. The father, with a newly-ladened
pipe in his mouth, crouched on a backless chair near the stove.
Jimmie's cries annoyed him. He turned about and bellowed at his wife:
"Let the damned kid alone for a minute, will yeh, Mary? Yer allus
poundin' 'im. When I come nights I can't git no rest 'cause
yer allus poundin' a kid. Let up, d'yeh hear? Don't be allus
poundin' a kid."
The woman's operations on the urchin instantly increased in violence.
At last she tossed him to a corner where he limply lay cursing and weeping.
The wife put her immense hands on her hips and with a
chieftain-like stride approached her husband.
"Ho," she said, with a great grunt of contempt. "An' what in
the devil are you stickin' your nose for?"
The babe crawled under the table and, turning, peered out
cautiously. The ragged girl retreated and the urchin in the corner
drew his legs carefully beneath him.
The man puffed his pipe calmly and put his great mudded boots
on the back part of the stove.
"Go teh hell," he murmured, tranquilly.
The woman screamed and shook her fists before her husband's
eyes. The rough yellow of her face and neck flared suddenly
crimson. She began to howl.
He puffed imperturbably at his pipe for a time, but finally
arose and began to look out at the window into the darkening chaos
of back yards.
"You've been drinkin', Mary," he said. "You'd better let up
on the bot', ol' woman, or you'll git done."
"You're a liar. I ain't had a drop," she roared in reply.
They had a lurid altercation, in which they damned each
other's souls with frequence.
The babe was staring out from under the table, his small face
working in his excitement.
The ragged girl went stealthily over to the corner where the
urchin lay.
"Are yehs hurted much, Jimmie?" she whispered timidly.
"Not a damn bit! See?" growled the little boy.
"Will I wash deh blood?"
"Naw!"
"Will I--"
"When I catch dat Riley kid I'll break 'is face! Dat's right! See?"
He turned his face to the wall as if resolved to grimly bide
his time.
In the quarrel between husband and wife, the woman was victor.
The man grabbed his hat and rushed from the room, apparently
determined upon a vengeful drunk. She followed to the door and
thundered at him as he made his way down stairs.
She returned and stirred up the room until her children were
bobbing about like bubbles.
"Git outa deh way," she persistently bawled, waving feet
with their dishevelled shoes near the heads of her children.
She shrouded herself, puffing and snorting, in a cloud of steam
at the stove, and eventually extracted a frying-pan full of potatoes
that hissed.
She flourished it. "Come teh yer suppers, now," she cried
with sudden exasperation. "Hurry up, now, er I'll help yeh!"
The children scrambled hastily. With prodigious clatter they
arranged themselves at table. The babe sat with his feet dangling
high from a precarious infant chair and gorged his small stomach.
Jimmie forced, with feverish rapidity, the grease-enveloped pieces
between his wounded lips. Maggie, with side glances of fear of
interruption, ate like a small pursued tigress.
The mother sat blinking at them. She delivered reproaches,
swallowed potatoes and drank from a yellow-brown bottle.
After a time her mood changed and she wept as she carried
little Tommie into another room and laid him to sleep
with his fists doubled in an old quilt of faded red
and green grandeur. Then she came and moaned by the stove.
She rocked to and fro upon a chair, shedding tears
and crooning miserably to the two children about their
"poor mother" and "yer fader, damn 'is soul."
The little girl plodded between the table and the chair with
a dish-pan on it. She tottered on her small legs beneath burdens
of dishes.
Jimmie sat nursing his various wounds. He cast furtive glances
at his mother. His practised eye perceived her gradually emerge
from a muddled mist of sentiment until her brain burned in
drunken heat. He sat breathless.
Maggie broke a plate.
The mother started to her feet as if propelled.
"Good Gawd," she howled. Her eyes glittered on her child with
sudden hatred. The fervent red of her face turned almost to
purple. The little boy ran to the halls, shrieking like a monk in
an earthquake.
He floundered about in darkness until he found the stairs. He stumbled,
panic-stricken, to the next floor. An old woman opened a door.
A light behind her threw a flare on the urchin's quivering face.
"Eh, Gawd, child, what is it dis time? Is yer fader beatin'
yer mudder, or yer mudder beatin' yer fader?"
Chapter III
Jimmie and the old woman listened long in the hall. Above the
muffled roar of conversation, the dismal wailings of babies at
night, the thumping of feet in unseen corridors and rooms, mingled
with the sound of varied hoarse shoutings in the street and the
rattling of wheels over cobbles, they heard the screams of the
child and the roars of the mother die away to a feeble moaning and
a subdued bass muttering.
The old woman was a gnarled and leathery personage who could
don, at will, an expression of great virtue. She possessed a small
music-box capable of one tune, and a collection of "God bless yehs"
pitched in assorted keys of fervency. Each day she took a position
upon the stones of Fifth Avenue, where she crooked her legs under
her and crouched immovable and hideous, like an idol. She received
daily a small sum in pennies. It was contributed, for the most
part, by persons who did not make their homes in that vicinity.
Once, when a lady had dropped her purse on the sidewalk, the
gnarled woman had grabbed it and smuggled it with great dexterity
beneath her cloak. When she was arrested she had cursed the lady
into a partial swoon, and with her aged limbs, twisted from
rheumatism, had almost kicked the stomach out of a huge policeman
whose conduct upon that occasion she referred to when she said:
"The police, damn 'em."
"Eh, Jimmie, it's cursed shame," she said. "Go, now, like a dear
an' buy me a can, an' if yer mudder raises 'ell all night yehs
can sleep here."
Jimmie took a tendered tin-pail and seven pennies and departed.
He passed into the side door of a saloon and went to the bar.
Straining up on his toes he raised the pail and pennies as high
as his arms would let him. He saw two hands thrust down and take them.
Directly the same hands let down the filled pail and he left.
In front of the gruesome doorway he met a lurching figure.
It was his father, swaying about on uncertain legs.
"Give me deh can. See?" said the man, threateningly.
"Ah, come off! I got dis can fer dat ol' woman an' it 'ud be
dirt teh swipe it. See?" cried Jimmie.
The father wrenched the pail from the urchin. He grasped it
in both hands and lifted it to his mouth. He glued his lips to the
under edge and tilted his head. His hairy throat swelled until it
seemed to grow near his chin. There was a tremendous gulping
movement and the beer was gone.
The man caught his breath and laughed. He hit his son on the
head with the empty pail. As it rolled clanging into the street,
Jimmie began to scream and kicked repeatedly at his father's shins.
"Look at deh dirt what yeh done me," he yelled. "Deh ol'
woman 'ill be raisin' hell."
He retreated to the middle of the street, but the man did not
pursue. He staggered toward the door.
"I'll club hell outa yeh when I ketch yeh," he shouted, and
disappeared.
During the evening he had been standing against a bar drinking
whiskies and declaring to all comers, confidentially: "My home
reg'lar livin' hell! Damndes' place! Reg'lar hell! Why do I come
an' drin' whisk' here thish way? 'Cause home reg'lar livin' hell!"
Jimmie waited a long time in the street and then crept warily
up through the building. He passed with great caution the door of
the gnarled woman, and finally stopped outside his home and listened.
He could hear his mother moving heavily about among the
furniture of the room. She was chanting in a mournful voice,
occasionally interjecting bursts of volcanic wrath at the father,
who, Jimmie judged, had sunk down on the floor or in a corner.
"Why deh blazes don' chere try teh keep Jim from fightin'?
I'll break her jaw," she suddenly bellowed.
The man mumbled with drunken indifference. "Ah, wha' deh
hell. W'a's odds? Wha' makes kick?"
"Because he tears 'is clothes, yeh damn fool," cried the woman
in supreme wrath.
The husband seemed to become aroused. "Go teh hell," he
thundered fiercely in reply. There was a crash against the door
and something broke into clattering fragments. Jimmie partially
suppressed a howl and darted down the stairway. Below he paused
and listened. He heard howls and curses, groans and shrieks,
confusingly in chorus as if a battle were raging. With all was the
crash of splintering furniture. The eyes of the urchin glared in
fear that one of them would discover him.
Curious faces appeared in doorways, and whispered comments
passed to and fro. "Ol' Johnson's raisin' hell agin."
Jimmie stood until the noises ceased and the other inhabitants
of the tenement had all yawned and shut their doors. Then he
crawled upstairs with the caution of an invader of a panther den.
Sounds of labored breathing came through the broken door-panels.
He pushed the door open and entered, quaking.
A glow from the fire threw red hues over the bare floor, the cracked
and soiled plastering, and the overturned and broken furniture.
In the middle of the floor lay his mother asleep. In one
corner of the room his father's limp body hung across the seat
of a chair.
The urchin stole forward. He began to shiver in dread of
awakening his parents. His mother's great chest was heaving
painfully. Jimmie paused and looked down at her. Her face was
inflamed and swollen from drinking. Her yellow brows shaded eye-
lids that had brown blue. Her tangled hair tossed in waves over
her forehead. Her mouth was set in the same lines of vindictive
hatred that it had, perhaps, borne during the fight. Her bare,
red arms were thrown out above her head in positions of exhaustion,
something, mayhap, like those of a sated villain.
The urchin bended over his mother. He was fearful lest she
should open her eyes, and the dread within him was so strong,
that he could not forbear to stare, but hung as if fascinated
over the woman's grim face.
Suddenly her eyes opened. The urchin found himself looking
straight into that expression, which, it would seem, had the power
to change his blood to salt. He howled piercingly and fell
backward.
The woman floundered for a moment, tossed her arms about her
head as if in combat, and again began to snore.
Jimmie crawled back in the shadows and waited. A noise in the
next room had followed his cry at the discovery that his mother was
awake. He grovelled in the gloom, the eyes from out his drawn face
riveted upon the intervening door.
He heard it creak, and then the sound of a small voice came to
him. "Jimmie! Jimmie! Are yehs dere?" it whispered. The urchin
started. The thin, white face of his sister looked at him from the
door-way of the other room. She crept to him across the floor.
The father had not moved, but lay in the same death-like
sleep. The mother writhed in uneasy slumber, her chest wheezing as
if she were in the agonies of strangulation. Out at the window a
florid moon was peering over dark roofs, and in the distance the
waters of a river glimmered pallidly.
The small frame of the ragged girl was quivering. Her
features were haggard from weeping, and her eyes gleamed from fear.
She grasped the urchin's arm in her little trembling hands and they
huddled in a corner. The eyes of both were drawn, by some force,
to stare at the woman's face, for they thought she need only to
awake and all fiends would come from below.
They crouched until the ghost-mists of dawn appeared at the
window, drawing close to the panes, and looking in at the
prostrate, heaving body of the mother.
Chapter IV
The babe, Tommie, died. He went away in a white,
insignificant coffin, his small waxen hand clutching a flower that
the girl, Maggie, had stolen from an Italian.
She and Jimmie lived.
The inexperienced fibres of the boy's eyes were hardened at an
early age. He became a young man of leather. He lived some red
years without laboring. During that time his sneer became chronic.
He studied human nature in the gutter, and found it no worse than
he thought he had reason to believe it. He never conceived a
respect for the world, because he had begun with no idols that it
had smashed.
He clad his soul in armor by means of happening hilariously in
at a mission church where a man composed his sermons of "yous."
While they got warm at the stove, he told his hearers just where he
calculated they stood with the Lord. Many of the sinners were
impatient over the pictured depths of their degradation. They were
waiting for soup-tickets.
A reader of words of wind-demons might have been able to see
the portions of a dialogue pass to and fro between the exhorter and
his hearers.
"You are damned," said the preacher. And the reader of sounds
might have seen the reply go forth from the ragged people: "Where's
our soup?"
Jimmie and a companion sat in a rear seat and commented upon
the things that didn't concern them, with all the freedom of
English gentlemen. When they grew thirsty and went out their minds
confused the speaker with Christ.
Momentarily, Jimmie was sullen with thoughts of a hopeless
altitude where grew fruit. His companion said that if he
should ever meet God he would ask for a million dollars and a
bottle of beer.
Jimmie's occupation for a long time was to stand on streetcorners
and watch the world go by, dreaming blood-red dreams at the passing
of pretty women. He menaced mankind at the intersections of streets.
On the corners he was in life and of life. The world was
going on and he was there to perceive it.
He maintained a belligerent attitude toward all well-dressed
men. To him fine raiment was allied to weakness, and all good
coats covered faint hearts. He and his order were kings, to a
certain extent, over the men of untarnished clothes, because these
latter dreaded, perhaps, to be either killed or laughed at.
Above all things he despised obvious Christians and ciphers
with the chrysanthemums of aristocracy in their button-holes. He
considered himself above both of these classes. He was afraid of
neither the devil nor the leader of society.
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