 Chapter 1 of MAGGI, A GIRL OF THE STREETS A very little boy stood upon a heap of gravel for the honour 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, Jimmy, run, they'll getches screamed a retreating Rum Alley child. Nah, responded Jimmy, with a valiant roar. There's me mix, can't make me run. Howls of renewed wrath went up from Devil's Row throats, tattered gammons 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 wane 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 a mid-squat, ignorant stables, they leaned a curious woman. Some labourers 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 grey, ominous building and crawled slowly along the river's bank. As stone had smashed into Jimmy's mouth blood was bubbling over his chin and down upon his ragged shirt. Tears made furrows on his dirt stone cheeks. His thin legs had begun to tremble and turn weak, causing his small body to reel. His roaring curses at the first part of the fight had changed to a blasphemous chatter. In the yells of the whirling mob of devil-throw children there were notes of joy like songs of triumph 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 at the shoulders which appalled the timid. He glanced over into the vacant lot in which the little rabing boys from devil-throw sieved 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-throw children. Ah! what the 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 horse tremendous howl. He scrambled to his feet, and perceiving evidently the size of his assailant ran quickly off, shouting alarms. The entire devil-throw 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 the hell, Jimmy! he asked of the small champion. Jimmy wiped his blood wet features with his sleeve. Well, it was this way, Pete. See, I was going to lick that Riley kid, and they all pitched on me. Some rum alley children now came forward. The party stood for a moment, exchanging vain glorious remarks with devil-throw. 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 hurtle with infinite accuracy. Vallow grew strong again, and the little boys began to swear with great spirit. Ah, we blokeys can lick the hell damn row, said a child swaggering. Little Jimmy was striving to stanch the flow of blood from his cut lips. Scowling, he turned upon the speaker. Ah, where the hell was ya when I was doin' all the fighting? he demanded. Use kids makes me tired. Ah, go on, replied the other argumentedly. Jimmy replied with heavy contempt. Ah, you's can't fight, Blue Billy, I can lick ya with one hand. Ah, go on, replied Billy again. Ah, said Jimmy threateningly. Ah, said the other in the same tone. They struck at each other, clinched and rolled over on the cobbled stones. Kick the damned guts out of him, yelled Peter, 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. Cheez it, Jimmy, cheez it, he comes your father, 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 they plotted 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 drove, he regarded them listlessly. But suddenly he ruled an oath and advanced upon the rolling fighters. Here you, Jim, get up now. While I belt your life out, you damned disorderly brat. He began to kick into the chaotic mass on the ground. Poor Billy felt a heavy boot stroke his head. He made a furious effort and disentangled himself from Jimmy. He tottered away, damning. Jimmy arose painfully from the ground and confronting his father began to curse him. His parent kicked him. Come home now, he cried. And stop your jarring or I'll blame the everlasting head office. They departed. The man paced pleasantly along with the apple wood emblem of serenity between his teeth. The boy followed a dozen feet in the rear. He swore luridly that 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. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 of Maggie, A Girl of the Streets This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Maggie, A Girl of the Streets by Stephen Crane Chapter 2 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 and hundred windows. Long streamers of garments flooded 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. Feminable women with uncombed hair and disordered dress gossiped while leaning on railings Screamed in frantic quarrels, withered persons in curious postures of submission to something set smoking pipes in obscure corners. A thousand orders 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, balling infant along the crowded ways. He was hanging back, babylike, bracing his wrinkle bare legs. The little girl cried out, Ah Tommy, come on, there's Jimmy and Father, don't be a pulling me back. She jerked the baby's arm impatiently. He fell on his face, roaring. The second jerk she pulled into his feet and they went on. With the obstinacy of his order he protested against being dragged in a chosen direction. He made heroic endeavours to keep on his legs, denounce his sister and consume a bit of orange peeling, which he chewed between the times of his infantile or rations. As the sullen eyed man followed by the blood-covered boy drew near, the little girl burst into reproachful cries. Ah Jimmy, you've been fighting again. The urchins swelled disdainfully. Ah, what the hell Meg, see? The little girl upbraided him. You're always fighting Jimmy and you know it's put Mother out when you come home half dead. Ain't it like we'll all get a pounding. She began to weep, the babe threw back his head and roared at his prospects. Ah, what the hell cried Jimmy? Shut up or I'll smack you mouth, 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 cups. The father heard and turned about. Stop that, Jim, dear. Leave your sister alone on the street. It's like I can never beat any sense into your damn 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 maneuvers he was dragged by the arm. Finally the procession plunged into one at 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 receiving stove to a pan-covered table. As the father and children filed in she peered at them. Ah, what you been fighting again by God? She threw herself upon Jimmy. The urchin tried to dart behind the others and in the scuffle the babe, Tommy, 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 teemed with anger grasping the urchin by the neck and shoulders she shook him until he rattled. She dragged him to an unholy sink and soaking a rag in water began to scrub his laterated face with it. Jimmy 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 laden pipe in his mouth crouched on a backless chair near the stove. Jimmy's cries annoyed him. He turned about and bellowed at his wife. Let the damn kid alone for a minute, will you, Mary? You're always pounding him. When I come nights I can't get no rest because you're always pounding a kid. Let up, dear. Don't be always pounding 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 cheap tan like stride approached her husband. Hope, she said, with a great grunt of contempt. And what in the devil are you sticking 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 to help, 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 impertibly at his pipe for a time, but finally arose and began to look out at the window into the darkened chaos of backyards. You'd been drinking, Mary, he said. You'd better let up on the bot, old woman, or you'll get done. You're a liar. I ain't had a drop, she ruled in reply. They had a lurid altercation in which they damned each other's souls with frequency. 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. I was hurted much, Jimmy, she whispered timidly. Not a damn bit, see? growled the little boy. Will I wash the blood? Nah, will I? When I catch that Riley kid I'll break his face. That'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 downstairs. She returned and stirred up the room until her children were bobbing about like bubbles. Get out the 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 to your sufferers now, she cried, with sudden exasperation. Hurry up now, or I'll help you. The children scrambled hastily. With prodigious clutter they arranged themselves at table. The babe sat with his feet dangling high from a precarious infant chair, and gorged his small stomach. Jimmy 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 tyress. The mother sat blinking at them. She delivered reproaches, swallowed potatoes, and drunk from a yellow-brown bottle. After a time her mood changed, and she wept as she carried little Tommy 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 your father, damn his soul. The little girl plotted between the table and the chair with a dishpan on it. She tottered on her small legs beneath burdens of dishes. Jimmy sat nursing his various wombs. 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 it propelled. Good God! 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 the door, a light behind her through a flare on the urchin's quivering face. Ah, good child! What is it this time? Is your father beating your mother, or your mother beating your father? End of Chapter 2 Jimmy 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 a varied horse shouting in the street, and the rattling of wheels over cowels. They heard the screams of the child, and the roars of the mother die away to a feeble moaning in 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-blessers 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 a daily small sum and 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, damm'em. Hey, Jimmy, it's cursed shame, she said. Go now, like a deer, and buy me a can. And if your mother raises hell all night, just can sleep here. Jimmy 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 the can, see? said the man, threateningly. Ah, come off, I got this can for that old woman, and it'd be dirt to swipe it, see? cried Jimmy. 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 hid his son on the head with the empty pail. As it rolled, clanging into the street, Jimmy began to scream and kick repeatedly at his father's shins. Look at the dirt, what you've done me, he yelled. The old woman will be raised in hell. He retreated to the middle of the street, but the man did not pursue. He staggered toward the door. I'll club hell out of you when I catch you. He shouted and disappeared. During the evening he had been standing against the bar, drinking whiskeys and declaring to welcomeers, confidentially, my home, regular live-in hell, damnedest place, regular hell. Why do I come and drink whiskey here this way, cause home, regular live-in hell? Jimmy 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 Jimmy judged, had sunk down on the floor or in a corner. Why the blazes don't you try to keep Jim from fighting? I'll break her jaw, she suddenly bellowed. The man mumbled with drunken indifference. What the hell? What's odds? Because he tears his clothes. Your damn fool cried the woman in supreme wrath. The husband seemed to become aroused. Go to hell, you thundered fiercely in reply. There was a crash against the door and something broke into a clattering fragments. Jimmy partially suppressed the 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. Well, Johnson's raisin' howl again. Jimmy 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, his 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. Jimmy paused and looked down at her. Her face was inflamed and swollen from drinking. Her yellow brows shaded eyelids 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 the positions of exhaustion. Something may happen 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 prepare 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 followed 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. Jimmy 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 groveled in the gloom. The eyes from out his drawn face riveted upon the intervening door. He heard it creak. No voice came to him. Jimmy! Jimmy! Are you there? It whispered. The urchin started. The thin white face of his sister looked at him from the doorway 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 the floret 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, but 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. End of chapter 3 Chapter 4 of Maggie, A Girl of the Streets This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org recording by Ernie Bob. Maggie, A Girl of the Streets by Stephen Crane Chapter 4 The babe Tommy 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. He and Jimmy lived. The inexperienced fibers 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 use. 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 dialogue passed to him between the Exoter 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? Jimmy and a companion sat in the rare 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, Jimmy 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. Jimmy's occupation for a long time was to stand on street corners 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 off life. The world was going on and he was there to perceive it. He maintained a belligerent attitude toward all welder's men. To him, fine raiment was allied to weakness and all good courts 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 buttonholes. He considered himself above both of these classes. He was afraid of neither the devil nor the leader of society. When he had a dollar in his pocket, his satisfaction with existence was the greatest thing in the world. So, eventually, he felt obliged to work. His father died and his mother's years were divided up into periods of 30 days. He became a truck driver. He was given the charge of a painstaking pair of horses in a large, rattling truck. He invaded the turmoil and tumble of the downtown streets and learned to breathe melodic tree defiance at the police occasional used to climb up, drag him from his perch and beat him. In the lower part of the city, he daily involved himself in hideous tangles. If he and his team chanced to be in the rear, he preserved a demeanor of serenity, crossing his legs and bursting forth into yells when foot passengers took dangerous dives beneath the noses of his champion horses. He smoked his pipe calmly for he knew that his pay was marching on. If in the front of the chaos, he entered terrifically into the quarrel that was raging to and for among the drivers on the high seats and sometimes roared out and violently got himself arrested. After a time, Hussein grew so that it turned its glare upon all things. He became so sharp that he believed in nothing. To him the police were always actuated by malignant impulses and the rest of the world was composed, for the moist part, of the creatures who were all trying to take advantage of him and with whom in defense he was obliged to quarrel on all possible occasions. He himself occupied a downtrodden position that had a private but distinct element of grandeur in his isolation. The most complete cases of aggravated idiocy were to his mind rampant upon the front platforms of all the street cars. At first his tongue strove with these beings as if he was superior. He became immured like an African cow. In him grew a majestic contempt for these strings of street cars that followed him like intent bugs. He fell into the habit when starting on a long journey of fixing his eye on high and distant object, commanding his horses to begin and then going into a sort of trance of observation. Multitude of drivers might howl in his rare and his passengers might arrive with oppribrium. But he would not awaken unless some blue policeman turned red and began to frenziedly tear bridles and beat the soft noises of the responsible horses. When he paused to contemplate the attitude of the police toward himself and his fellows, he believed that they were the only men in the city who had no rights. When driving about he felt that he was held liable by the police for anything that might occur in the streets and was a common prey of all energetic officials. In revenge he resolved never to move out of the way of anything until formed of circumstances or a much larger man than himself forced into it. Foot passengers were mere pestering flies with an insane disregard for their legs and his convenience. He could not conceive their maniacal desires to cross the streets. Their madness moist him with eternal amazement. He was continually storming at them from his throne. He sat aloft and denounced their frantic leaps, plunges, dives, and straddles. When they were thrust at or perried the noises of his champion horses, making them swing their heads and move their feet, disturbing a solid dreamy repose, he swore at the men as fools for he himself could perceive that providence had caused it clearly to be written that he and his team had an inlinable right to stand in the proper path of the sun-chariot and, if they so minded, obstructed its mission or take a wheel off. And perhaps if the God-driver had ungovernable desire to step down, put up his flame-colored fists and manfully dispute the right-of-way, he would have probably been immediately opposed by a scowling mortal with two sets of very hard knuckles. It is possible, perhaps, that this young man would have derided, in an axle-wide alley, the approach of a flying ferry-boat. Yet, he achieved a respect for a fire engine. As one charged toward his truck, he would fearfully drive upon a sidewalk, threatening untold people with annihilation. When an engine would strike a mass of blocked trucks, splitting it into fragments as a blow annihilates a cake of ice, Jimmy's team could usually be served high and safe, with whole wheels, on the sidewalk. The fearful coming of the engine could break up the most intricate muddle of heavy vehicles, at which the police had been swearing for the half of an hour. Our fire engine was enshrined in his heart as an appalling thing that he loved with a distant, dog-like devotion. They had been known to overturn street cars. Those leaping horses, striking sparks from the cobbles of forward lunch were creatures to be ineffably admired. The clang of the gong pierced his breast like a noise of remembered war. When Jimmy was a little boy, he began to be arrested. Before he reached a great age, he had a fair record. He developed too great a tendency to climb down from his truck and fight with other drivers. He had been in quite a number of miscellaneous fights, in some general baroom rows that had become known to the police. Once he had been arrested for assaulting a Chinaman. Two women in different parts of the city, entirely unknown to each other, caused him considerable annoyance by breaking forth, simultaneously, at fateful intervals, into valings about marriage and support and infants. Nevertheless, he had, on a certain style at evening, said wanderingly and quite reverently. Demoon looks like hell, don't it? End of chapter 4 Recording by Ernie Bob Chapter 5 Of Maggie, a girl of the streets This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Shwenderman Maggie, a girl of the streets by Stephen Crane Chapter 5 The girl, Maggie, blossomed in a mud puddle. She grew to be a most rare and wonderful production of a tenement district. A pretty girl. None of the dirt of Rum Alley seemed to be in her veins. The philosophers upstairs, downstairs, and on the same floor puzzled over it. The child, playing and fighting with gammons in the street, dirt disguised her. Attired in tatters and grime, she went unseen. There came a time, however, when the young men of the vicinity said, that Johnson-goyle is a pretty good looker. About this period, her brother remarked to her, Mag, I'll tell you this, see, you've either got to go to hell or go to work. Whereupon she went to work, having the feminine version of going to hell. By chance, she got a position in an establishment, where they made collars and cuffs. She received a stool and a machine in a room where sat twenty girls of various shades of yellow discontent. She perched on the stool and treadled at her machine all day, turning out collars. The name of whose brand could be noted in relevancy to anything in connection with collars. At night, she returned home to her mother. Jimmy grew large enough to take the vague position of head of the family. As incumbent of that office, he stumbled upstairs late at night as his father had done before him. He reeled about the room swearing at his relations or went to sleep on the floor. The mother had gradually arisen to that degree of fame that she could bandy words with her acquaintances among the police. Justices. Court officials called her by her first name. When she appeared, they pursued a course which had been theirs for months. They invariably grinned and cried out, �Hello, Mary, you here again?� Her gray head wagged in many a court. She always besieged a bench with valuable excuses, explanations, apologies, and prayers. Her flaming face and rolling eyes were a sort of familiar sight on the island. She measured time by means of sprees and was eternally swollen and disheveled. One day the young man, Pete, who as a lad had smitten the devil's row urchin in the back of the head and put to flight the antagonists of his friend Jimmy strutted upon the scene. He met Jimmy one day on the street, promised to take him to a boxing match in Williamsburg and called for him in the evening. Maggie observed Pete. He sat on a table in the Johnson home and dangled his checked legs with an enticing nonchalance. His hair was curled down over his forehead in an oiled bang. His rather pug nose seemed to revolt from contact with a bristling mustache of short, wire-like hairs. His blue double-breasted coat edged with black braid buttoned close to a red-puff tie, and his patent leather shoes looked like murder-fitted weapons. His mannerism stamped him as a man who had a correct sense of his personal superiority. There was valor and contempt for circumstances in the glance of his eye. He waved his hands like a man of the world, who dismisses religion and philosophy and says fudge. He had certainly seen everything, and with each curl of his lip he declared that it amounted to nothing. Maggie thought he must be a very elegant and graceful bartender. He was telling tales to Jimmy. Maggie watched him furtively with half-closed eyes, lit with a vague interest. Holy G, they makes me tired, he said. Today some farmer comes in and tries to run the shop, see? But they get trod right out. I jolt them right out in the street before they know where they is, see? Sure, said Jimmy. There was a mug come into place the other day with an idea he was going to own the place. Holy G, he was going to own the place? I see he had a still on, and I didn't want to give him no stuff. So I says, get the hell out of here, and don't make no trouble. I says like that, see? Get the hell out of here, and don't make no trouble, like that. Get the hell out of here, I says. See? Jimmy nodded understandingly. Over his features played an eager desire to state the amount of his valor in a similar crisis, but the narrator proceeded. Well, the blokey he says, he ain't looking for no scrap, he says. See? But he says, I'm a spectable citizen, and I want to drink and pretty damn soon, too, see? The hell I says, like that. The hell I says, see? Don't make no trouble, I says. Like that. Don't make no trouble, see? Then the mug he squared off and said he was fine as silk with his duke, see? And he wanted to drink, damn quick. That's what he said, see? Sure, repeated, Jimmy. Pete continued. Say, I just jumped the bar and the way I plunked, that blokey was great, see? That's right, in the jar, see? Holy gee. He throwed a spittoon through the front windy. Say, I thought I'd dropped dead. But the boss, he comes in after and he says, Pete, he has done just right. You've got to keep order, and it's all right, see? It's all right, he says. That's what he said. The two held a technical discussion. That bloke was a dandy, said Pete, in conclusion. But he hadn't know it and made no trouble. That's what I says to them. Don't come in here and make no trouble, I says, like that. Don't make no trouble, see? As Jimmy and his friend exchanged tales descriptive of their prowess, Maggie leaned back in the shadow. Her eyes dwelt wonderingly and rather wistfully upon Pete's face. The broken furniture, grimy walls and general disorder and dirt of her home of a sudden appeared before her and began to take a potential aspect. Pete's aristocratic person looked as if it might soil. She looked keenly at him, occasionally wondering if he was feeling contempt. But Pete seemed to be enveloped in reminiscence. Holy gee, said he. Those mugs can't faze me. They knows I can wipe up the street with any tree of them. When he said, Ah, what the hell? His voice was burdened with disdain for the inevitable and contempt for anything that fate might compel him to endure. Maggie perceived that here was the bow-ideal of a man. Her dim thoughts were often searching faraway lands where, as God says, the little hills sing together in the morning. Under the trees of her dream gardens there had always walked a lover. End of Chapter 5 Recording by Jack Schwenderman, Flemington, New Jersey Chapter 6 Of Maggie, a girl of the streets This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Maggie, a girl of the streets by Stephen Crane Chapter 6 Pete took note of Maggie. Say, Meg, I'm stuck on your shape. It's out of sight. He said, parenthetically, with an affable grin. As he became aware that she was listening closely, he grew still more eloquent in his descriptions of various happenings in his career. It appeared that he was invincible in fights. Why, he said, referring to a man with whom he had had a misunderstanding. Dat mug scrapped like a damn dago. Dat's right, he was dead easy. See? He thought he was a scrapper, but he found out different. Holy gee! He walked to and fro in the small room, which seemed then to grow even smaller and unfit to hold his dignity, the attribute of a supreme warrior. Dat swing of the shoulders that had frozen the timid when he was but a lad, had increased with his growth in education at the ratio of ten to one. It, combined with the sneer upon his mouth, told mankind that there was nothing in space which could appall him. Maggie marveled at him and surrounded him with greatness. He went to calculate the altitude of the pinnacle from which he must have looked down upon her. I met a chump the other day way up into city, he said. I was going to see a friend of mine. When I was across in the street the chump run'd plump into me and then he turns round and says you're insolent ruffian. He says like Dat. Oh gee! I says. Oh gee! Go to hell and get off to earth. Like Dat, see? Go to hell and get off to earth like Dat. Then the bloke he got wild. He says I was a contemptible scoundrel or something like Dat, and he says I was doomed to ever less in petition and all like Dat. Gee, I says. Gee, the hell I am, I says. The hell I am, like Dat. And then I slugged him, see? With Jimmy and his company he started in a sort of a blaze of glory from the Johnson home. Maggie, leaning from the window watched him as he walked down the street. Here was a formidable man who disdained the strength of a world full of fists. Here was one who had contempt for brass-clothed power, one whose knuckles could defiantly ring against the granite of law. He was a knight. The two men went from under the glimmering streetlamp into shadows. Turning, Maggie contemplated the dark, dust-stained walls and the scant and crude furniture of her home. A clock in a splintered and battered oblong box of varnished wood she suddenly regarded as an abomination. She noted that it ticked raspingly. The almost vanished flowers in the carpet pattern she conceived to be newly hideous. Some faint attempts she had made to freshen the appearance of a dingy curtain she now saw to be piteous. She wondered what Pete dined on. She reflected upon the collar and cuff factory. It began to appear to her mind as a dreary place of endless grinding. Pete's elegant occupation brought him, no doubt, into contact with people who had money and manners. It was probable that he had a large acquaintance of pretty girls. He must have great sums of money to spend. To her the earth was composed of hardships and insults. She felt instant admiration for a man who openly defied it. She thought that if the grim angel of death should clutch his heart, Pete would shrug his shoulders and say, Oh, everything goes. She anticipated that he would come again shortly. She spent some of her weeks' pay in the purchase of flowered creton in the Lamberkin. She made it with infinite care and hung it to the slightly careening mantel over the stove in the kitchen. She studied it with painful anxiety from different points in the room. She wanted it to look well on Sunday night when, perhaps, Jimmy's friend would come. On Sunday night, however, Pete did not appear. Afterward the girl looked at it with a sense of humiliation. She was now convinced that he was superior to admiration for Lamberkins. A few evenings later, Pete entered with fascinating innovations in his apparel. As she had seen him twice and he had different suits on each time, Maggie had a dim impression that his wardrobe was prodigiously extensive. Say, Meg, he said, Put on your best duds Friday night and I'll take you to the show, see? He spent a few moments in flourishing his clothes and then vanished without having glanced at the Lamberkin. Over the eternal collars and cuffs in the factory, Maggie spent the most of three days in making imaginary sketches of Pete and his daily environment. She imagined some half-dozen women in love with him and thought he must lean dangerously toward an indefinite one, whom she pictured with great charms of person but with an altogether acceptable disposition. She thought he must live in a blare of pleasure. He had friends and people who were afraid of him. She saw the golden glitter of the place where Pete was to take her, an entertainment of many hues and many melodies where she was afraid she might appear small and mouse-colored. Her mother drank whiskey all Friday morning. With lurid face and tossing hair all Friday afternoon. When Maggie came home at half past six, her mother lay asleep amidst the wreck of chairs and a table. Fragments of various household utensils were scattered about the floor. She had vented some phase of drunken fury upon the Lamberkin. It lay in a bedraggled heap in the corner. Ha! She snorted, sitting up suddenly. Where the hell you been? Why the hell don't you come home earlier? Been loafing round the streets. You're getting to be a regular devil. When Pete arrived, Maggie in a worn black dress was waiting for him in the midst of a floor strewn with wreckage. The curtain at the window had been pulled by a heavy hand and hung by one tack, dangling to and fro in the draft through the cracks at the sash. The knots of blue ribbons appeared like violated flowers. The fire in the stove had gone out. The displaced lids and open doors showed heaps of sullen gray ashes. The remnants of a meal ghastly, like dead flesh, lay in a corner. Maggie's red mother stretched on the floor, blasphemed and gave her daughter a bad name. End of chapter 6 Chapter 7 of Maggie A Girl of the Streets This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by B.G. Oxford Maggie, A Girl of the Streets by Stephen Crane Chapter 7 An orchestra of yellow silk women and bald-headed men on an elevated stage near the center of a great green-hued hall played a popular waltz. The place was crowded with people grouped about little tables. A battalion of waiters slid among the throng, carrying trays of beer glasses and making change from the inexhaustible vaults of their trouser pockets. Little boys in the costumes of French chefs paraded up and down the irregular aisles vending fancy cakes. There was a low rumble of conversation and a subdued clinking of glasses. Clouds of tobacco smoke rolled and wavered high in air about the dull guilt of the chandeliers. The vast crowd had an air throughout of having just quitted labor. Men with calloused hands and attired in garments that showed the wear of an endless trudge for a living smoked their pipes contentedly and spent five, ten, or perhaps fifteen cents for a beer. There was a mere sprinkling of naked, gloved men who smoked cigars purchased elsewhere. The great body of the crowd was composed of people who showed that all day they strove with their hands. Quiet Germans, with maybe their wives and two or three children sat listening to the music with the expression of happy cows. An occasional party of sailors from a warship, their faces, pictures of sturdy health spent the earlier hours of the evening on small round tables. Very infrequent tipsy men swollen with the value of their opinions engaged their companions in earnest and confidential conversation. In the balcony and here and there below shown the impassive faces of women. The nationalities of the Bowery beamed upon the stage from all directions. Pete aggressively walked up a side aisle and took seats with Maggie at a table beneath the balcony. Two beers. Leaning back, he regarded with eyes of superiority the scene before them. This attitude affected Maggie strongly. A man who could regard such a sight with indifference must be accustomed to very great things. It was obvious that Pete had been to this place many times before and was very familiar with it. A knowledge of this fact made Maggie feel little and new. He was extremely gracious and attentive. He displayed the consideration of a cultured gentleman who knew what was due. Say, what the hell? Bring the lady a big glass. What the hell uses that pony? Don't be fresh now, said the waiter with some warmth as he departed. Get off the cot, said Pete after the other's retreating form. Maggie perceived that Pete brought forth all his elegance and all his knowledge of high class customs for her benefit. She reflected upon his condescension. The orchestra of yellow silk women and bald-headed men gave vent to a few bars of anticipatory music and a girl in a pink dress with short skirts galloped upon the stage. She smiled upon the throng as if an acknowledgement of a warm welcome and began to walk to and fro making profuse gesticulations and singing in brazen soprano tones a song the words of which were inaudible. When she broke into the swift rattling measures of a chorus some half tipsy men near the stage joined in the rollicking refrain and glasses were pounded rhythmically upon the tables. People leaned forward to watch her and to try to catch the words of the song. When she vanished there were long rollings of applause. Obedient to more anticipatory bars she reappeared amidst the half suppressed cheering of the tipsy men. The orchestra plunged into dance music and the laces of the dancer fluttered and flew in the glare of gas jets. She divulged the fact that she was attired in some half dozen skirts. It was patent that any one of them would have proved adequate for the purpose for which skirts are intended. An occasional man bent forward intent upon the pink stockings. Maggie wondered at the splendor and lost herself in calculations of the cost of the silks and laces. The dancer's smile of stereotyped enthusiasm was turned for ten minutes upon the faces of her audience. In the finale she fell into some of those grotesque attitudes which were at the time popular among the dancers in the theater's uptown. Giving to the Bowery public the fantasies of the aristocratic theater-going public seats. Say Pete! said Maggie leaning forward. This is great! Sure, said Pete, with proper complacence. A ventriloquist followed the dancer. He held two fantastic dolls on his knees. He made them sing mournful ditties and say funny things about geography and Ireland. Do those little men talk? asked Maggie. Nah, said Pete. It's some damn fake, see? Two girls on the bills of sisters came forth and sang a duet that is heard occasionally at concerts given under church auspices. They supplemented it with a dance which of course can never be seen at concerts given under church auspices. After the duetist had retired a woman of debatable age sang a negro melody. The chorus necessitated some grotesque waddlings supposed to be an imitation of a plantation darky under the influence probably of music and the moon. The audience was just enthusiastic enough over it to have her return and sing a sorrowful lay whose lines told of a mother's love and a sweetheart who waited and a young man who was lost at sea under the most harrowing circumstances. From the faces of a score or so in the crowd the self-contained look faded. Many heads were bent forward to witness and sympathy. As the last distressing sentiment of the piece was brought forth it was greeted by that kind of applause which rings as sincere. As a final effort the singer rendered some verses which described a vision of Britain being annihilated by America and Ireland bursting her bonds. A carefully prepared crisis was reached in the last line of the verse where the singer threw out her arms and cried in a far spangled banner. Instantly a great cheer swelled from the throats of the assemblage of the masses. There was a heavy rumble of booted feet thumping the floor. Eyes gleamed with sudden fire and calloused hands waved frantically in the air. After a few moments rest the orchestra played crashingly and a small fat man burst out upon the stage. He began to roar a song and stamp back and forth in the light's wildly waving a glossy silk hat and throwing leers or smiles broadcast. He made his face into fantastic grimaces until he looked like a pictured devil on a Japanese kite. The crowd laughed gleefully. His short fat legs were never still a moment. He shouted and roared and bobbed his shock of red wig until the audience broke out and excited applause. When the orchestra crashed, finally they jostled their way to the sidewalk with the crowd. Pete took Maggie's arm and pushed away for her offering to fight with a man or two. They reached Maggie's home at a late hour in the early morning. In the early morning the orchestra gathered and began to sing a song. In the early morning they reached Maggie's home at a late hour and stood for a moment in front of the gruesome doorway. Say, Mag, said Pete, give us a kiss for taking you to the show, will ya? Maggie laughed as if startled and drew away from him. Nah, Pete, she said, that wasn't in it. Ah, what the hell urged Pete. The girl retreated nervously. Ah, what the hell repeated he. She started into the hall and up the stairs. She turned and smiled at him then disappeared. Pete walked slowly down the street. He had something of an astonished expression upon his features. He paused under a lamppost and breathed a low breath of surprise. God, he said, I wonder if I've been played for a duffer. End of Chapter 7 Recording by B.G. Oxford December 2008 Chapter 8 of Maggie, A Girl of the Streets This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Maggie, A Girl of the Streets by Stephen Crane Chapter 8 As thoughts of Pete came to Maggie's mind, she began to have an intense dislike for all of her dresses. What the hell ales you? What makes you be all as fixin' and fussin'? Good God! Her mother would frequently roar at her. She began to note with more interest the well-dressed women she met on the avenues. She envied elegance and soft palms. She craved those adornments of person which she saw every day on the street conceiving them to be allies of vast importance to women. Studying faces she thought many of the women and girls she chanced to meet smiled with serenity as though forever cherished and watched over by those they loved. The air in the collar and cuff establishment strangled her. She knew she was gradually and surely shriveling in the hot, stuffy room. The begrimed windows rattled incessantly from the passing of elevated trains. The place was filled with a whirl of noises and odours. She wondered as she regarded some of the grizzled women in the room. Mere mechanical contrivances sewing seams and grinding out with heads bendin' over their work. Tales of imagined or real girlhood happiness past drunks, the baby at home and unpaid wages. She speculated how long her youth would endure. She began to see the bloom upon her cheeks as valuable. She imagined herself in an exasperating future as a scrawny woman with an eternal grievance. Two, she thought Pete to be a very fastidious person concerning the appearance of women. She felt she would love to see somebody entangle their fingers in the oily beard of the fat foreigner who owned the establishment. He was a detestable creature. He wore white socks with low shoes. He sat all day delivering orations in the depths of a cushion chair. His pocketbook deprived them of the power of retort. What in hell do you think I pay five dollars a week for? Play? No, by dumb. Maggie was anxious for a friend to whom she could talk about Pete. She would have liked to discuss his admirable mannerisms with a reliable mutual friend. At home, she found her mother often drunk and always raving. It seems that the world had treated this woman very badly and she took a deep revenge upon such portions of it as came within her reach. She wrote furniture as if she were at last getting her rights. She swelled with virtuous and carried the lighter articles of household use one by one under the shadows of the three guilt balls where Hebrews chained them with chains of interest. Jimmy came when he was obliged to by circumstances of which he had no control. His well-trained legs brought him staggering home and put him to bed some nights when he would rather have gone elsewhere. Swaggering Pete loomed like a golden son to Maggie. He took her to a dime museum where rows of meek freaks astonished her. She contemplated their deformities with awe and thought them as sort of chosen tribe. Pete, raking his brains for amusement, discovered the central park menagerie in the Museum of Arts. Sunday afternoons would sometimes find them at these places. Pete did not appear to be particularly interested in what he saw. He stood around looking heavy while Maggie giggled in glee. Once at the menagerie he went into a trance of admiration before the spectacle of a very small monkey threatening to thrash a cage full because one of them had pulled his tail and he had not wheeled about quickly enough to discover who did it. Ever after, Pete knew that monkey by sight and winked at him trying to induce fight with other and larger monkeys. At the museum Maggie said this is that a sight. Oh hell, said Pete, wait till next summer and I'll take you to a picnic. While the girl wandered in the vaulted rooms, Pete occupied himself in returning stony stair for stony stair the appalling scrutiny of the watchdogs of the treasures. Occasionally he would remark in loud tones. Did Jay's got glass eyes and sentences of the sort. When he tired of this amusement he would go to the mummies and moralize over them. Usually he submitted with silent dignity to all which he had to go through but at times he was goaded into comment. What the hell? He demanded once look at all these little jugs 100 jugs in a row 10 rows in a case and about a thousand cases. What the blaze as use is then? Evening during the week he took her to see plays in which the brain clutching heroine was rescued from the palatial home of her guardian who was cruelly after her bonds by the hero with the beautiful sentiments. The latter spent most of his time out at soak in pale green snowstorms busy with a nickel-plated revolver rescuing aged strangers from villains. Maggie lost herself in sympathy with the wanderers swooning in snowstorms beneath happy huge church windows and a choir within singing Joy to the World. To Maggie and the rest of the audience this was transcendental realism. Joy always within and they like the actor inevitably without. Viewing it they hug themselves an ecstatic pity of their imagined or real condition. The girl thought the arrogance and granite heartedness of the magnate of the play was very accurately drawn. She echoed the maledictions that the occupants of the gallery showered on this individual when his lines compelled him to expose his extreme selfishness. Shady persons in the audience revolted from the pictured villainy at the drama. With untiring zeal they hissed vice and applauded virtue. Unmistakably bad men evinced an apparently sincere admiration for virtue. The loud gallery was overwhelmingly with the unfortunate and the oppressed. They encouraged the struggling hero with cries and jeered the villain hooting and calling to his whiskers. When anybody died in the pale green snowstorms the gallery mourned. They sought out the painted misery and hugged it as akin. In the hero's erratic march from poverty in the first act to wealth and triumph in the final one in which he forgives all the enemies that he has left he was assisted by the gallery which applauded his generous and noble sentiments and confounded the speeches of his opponents by making irrelevant but very sharp remarks. Those actors who were cursed with villainy parts were confronted at every turn by the gallery. If one of them rendered lines containing the most subtle distinctions between right and wrong the gallery was immediately aware if the actor meant wickedness and denounced him accordingly. The last act was a triumph of the hero, poor of the masses, the representative of the audience over the villain and the rich man his pockets stuffed with bonds and his heart packed with tyrannical purposes imperturbable amid suffering. Maggie always departed with raised spirits from the showing places of the melodrama. She rejoiced at the way in which the poor and virtuous eventually surmounted the wealthy the theatre made her think. She wondered if the culture and refinement she had seen imitated perhaps grotesquely by the heroine on the stage could be acquired by a girl who lived in a tenement house and worked in a shirt factory. End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 of Maggie A Girl of the Streets This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org this reading by Allison Hester of Athens, Georgia. Maggie, A Girl of the Streets by Stephen Crane Chapter 9 A group of urchins were intent upon the side door of a saloon expectancy gleamed from their eyes they were twisting their fingers in excitement here she comes yelled one of them suddenly a group of urchins burst instantly asunder and its individual fragments were spread in a wide respectable half circle about the point of interest the saloon door opened with a crash and the figure of a woman appeared upon the threshold her grey hair fell and knotted masses about her shoulders her face was crimsoned and wet with perspiration her eyes had a rolling glare not a damn cent more of me will ye's ever get not a damn cent I spent me money here for three years and now ye's tell me y'all sell me no more stuff they'll with ya Johnny muckerel disturbance disturbance be damned the hell with ya Johnny the door received a kick of exasperation from within and the woman lurched heavily out on the sidewalk the gammons in the half circle came violently agitated they began to dance about and hoot and yell and jeer wide dirty grins spread over each face the woman made a furious dash at a particularly outrageous cluster of little boys they laughed delightedly and scampered off a short distance calling out over their shoulders to her she stood tottering on the curb stone and thundered at them yeah devils kids howled shaking red fists the little boys whooped in glee as she started up the street they fell in behind and marched up roriously occasionally she wheeled about and made charges on them they ran nimbly out of reach and taunted her in the frame of a gruesome doorway she stood for a moment cursing them her hair straggled giving her crimson features a look of insanity squibbered as she shook them madly in the air the urchins made terrific noises until she turned and disappeared then they filed quietly in the way they had come the woman floundered about in the lower hall of the tenement house and finally stumbled up the stairs on an upper hall a door was open and a collection of heads peered curiously out watching her with a wrathful snort she confronted the door but it was slammed hastily in her face and the key was turned she stood for a few minutes delivering a frenzied challenge at the panels come out into hall mary murphy damn ya if ya's want a row come on ya overgrown terrier come on she began to kick the door with her great feet she shrilly defied the universe to appear in due battle her cursing troubles brought heads and doors saved the ones she threatened her eyes glared in every direction the air was full of her tossing fists come on to hell damn ganga ya's come on she roared at the spectators an oath or two cat calls jeers and bits of facetious advice were given in reply missiles clattered about her feet what the hell's the matter with ya said a voice in the gathered gloom and jimmy came forward he carried a tin dinner pail in his hand and under his arm a brown truckman's apron done in a bundle what the hell's wrong he demanded come out all ya's come out his mother was howling come on and I'll stamp her damn brains under my feet shut your face and come home ya damned old fool jimmy at her she strided up to him and twirled her fingers in his face her eyes were darting flames of unreasoning rage and her frame trembled with eagerness for a fight the hell witch's and who the hell are ya's I ain't givin' a snap of me fingers for ya's she bawled at him she turned her huge back in tremendous disdain and climbed the stairs to the next floor jimmy followed cursing blackly at the top of the flight he seized his mother's arm and started to drag her toward the door of their room come home damn ya he gritted between his teeth take your hands off me take your hands off me shrieked his mother she raised her arm and whirled her great fist at her son's face jimmy dodged his head and the blow struck him in the back of the neck damn ya he gritted again he threw out his left hand and writhed his fingers about her middle arm the mother and the son began to sway and struggle like gladiators whoop said the rum alley tenement house the hall filled with interested spectators how old lady that was a dandy tree to one on the red stop your damn scrappin the door of the johnson home opened and maggie looked out jimmy made a supreme cursing effort and hurled his mother into the room he quickly followed and closed the door the rum alley tenement swore it disappointedly and retired the mother slowly gathered herself up from the floor her eyes glittered menacingly upon her children here now said jimmy we've had enough of this sit down and don't make no trouble he grasped her arm and twisting it forced her into a creaking chair keep your hands off me roared his mother again damn your old hide yelled jimmy madly maggie shrieked and ran into the other room to her there came the sound of a storm of crashes and curses there was a great final thump and jimmy's voice cried dear dammy stay still maggie opened the door now and went warily out oh jimmy he was leaning against the wall and swearing blood stood upon bruises on his naughty forearms where they had scraped against the floor or the walls in the scuffle the mother lay screeching on the floor the tears running down her furrowed face maggie standing in the middle of the room amazed about her the usual upheaval of the tables and chairs had taken place crockery was strung broadcast in fragments the stove had been disturbed on its legs and now leaned idiotically to the side a pail had been upset and water spread in all directions the door opened and pete appeared he shrugged his shoulders oh god he observed he walked over to maggie here what the hell mag come on we'll have a hell of a time the mother in the corner upreared her head and shook her tangled locks the hell with him and you she said glowering at her daughter in the gloom her eyes seemed to burn balefully you've gone to the devil mag johnson his nose you've gone to the devil you're a disgrace to your people damya and now get out and go on with that dope face jude of yours go to hell with him damya and good riddance go to hell and see how you likes it maggie gazed long at her mother go to hell now and see how you likes it get out I won't have such as you in my house get out do you hear damya get out the girl began to tremble at this instant peep came forward oh what the hell mag see whispered he softly in her ear this all blows over see the old woman will be all right in the morning come on out with me we'll have a hell of a time the woman on the floor cursed jimmy was intent upon his bruised forearms the girl cast a glance about the room filled with a chaotic massive debris and at the red writhing body of her mother go to hell and good riddance she went end of chapter 9 chapter 10 of maggie a girl of the streets this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org maggie a girl of the streets by Steven Crane chapter 10 jimmy had an idea it wasn't common courtesy for a friend to come to one's home and ruin one's sister but he was not sure how much peep knew about the rules of politeness the following night he returned home from work at rather a late hour in the evening in passing through the halls he came upon the gnarled and leathery old woman who possessed the music box she was grinning in the dim light she was drifted through dust-stained pains she beckoned to him with a smudged forefinger ah jimmy what do you think I got on to last night it was the funniest thing I ever saw she cried coming close to him and leering she was trembling with eagerness to tell her tale I was by me door last night when your sister and her dudefeller came in late oh very late she the deer was a cryin as if her heart would break she was it was the funniest thing I ever saw and right out here by me door she asked him did he love her did he and she was a cryin as if her heart would break poor ting and him I could see by the way that he said it that she had been askin often he says oh hell yes he says says he oh hell yes storm cloud swept over jimmy's face but he turned from the leathery old woman and plotted on upstairs oh hell yes called she after him she laughed a laugh that was like a prophetic croak oh hell yes he says says he oh hell yes there was no one in at home the room showed that attempts had been made at tidying them parts of the wreckage of the day before was carried by an unskillful hand a chair or two and the table stood uncertainly upon legs the floor had been newly swept two the blue ribbons had been restored to the curtains and the lambrican with its immense sheaves of yellow wheat and red roses of equal size had been returned in a worn and sorry state to its position at the mantle Maggie's jacket and hat were gone from the nail behind the door jimmy walked to the window and began to look through the blurred glass it occurred to him to vaguely wonder for an instant if some of the women of his acquaintance had brothers suddenly however he began to swear but he was my friend I brought him here that's the hell of it he fumed about the room his anger gradually rising to a furious pitch I'll kill the J that's what I'll do kill the J he clutched his hat and sprang toward the door but it opened and his mother's great form blocked the passage what the hell's the matter with ya exclaimed she coming into the rooms jimmy gave vent to a sardonic curse and then laughed heavily well Maggie's gone to the devil that's what see eh said his mother Maggie's gone to the devil his death roared jimmy impatiently the hell she has murmured the mother astounded jimmy grunted and then began to stare out at the window his mother sat down in a chair but a moment later spring erect and delivered a maddened whirl of oaths her son turned to look at her as she reeled and swayed in the middle of the room her fierce face convulsed with passion her blotched arms raised high with passion may God curse her forever she shrieked may she eat nothing but stones and a dirt into street may she sleep into gutter and never see the sun shine again did damn here now said her son take a drop on yourself the mother raised lamenting eyes to the ceiling she's the devil's own child jimmy she whispered open our family jimmy, my son many to hour I've spent in talk with that girl and told her if she ever went on to streets I'd see her damned and after all her bringing up and what I told her and talked with her she goes to the bed like a duck to water the tears rolled down her furrowed face her hands trembled and then when that Sadie McAllister next door to us was sent to the devil by that feller that worked into the factory didn't I tell our mag that if she ah that's another story interrupted the brother of course that Sadie was nice and all that but see it ain't the same as if well Maggie was different see she was different he was trying to formulate a theory that he had always unconsciously held that all sisters accepting his own could advisedly be ruined he suddenly broke out again I'll go tump hell out of the mug what did her to harm I'll kill him he thinks he can scrap but when he gets me a chase in him he'll find out where he's wrong to damn duffer I'll wipe up the street with him in a fury he plunged out of the doorway as he vanished the mother raised her head and lifted both hands in treating may God curse her forever she cried in the darkness of the hallway Jimmy discerned a knot of women talking volubly when he strode by they paid no attention to him she always was a bold thing she heard one of them cry in an eager voice there wasn't a feller come to the house but she tried to mash him my Annie says the shameless ting tried to catch her feller her own feller when we used to know his father I coulda told you this two years ago said a woman in a key of triumph yes sir it was over two years ago did I says to my old man I says dad johnson girl ain't straight I says oh hell he says oh hell dad's all right I says but I know what I knows I says and it'll come out later you wait and see I says you see anybody what had eyes could see that there was something wrong with that girl actions on the street Jimmy met a friend what the hell asked the ladder Jimmy explained and I'll tump him till he can't stand oh what the hell said the friend what's the use you'll get pulled in everybody'll be onto it and ten plunks gee Jimmy was determined he thinks he can scrap but he'll find out different gee remonstrated the friend what the hell end of chapter ten chapter eleven of Maggie a girl of the streets this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Maggie a girl of the streets by Stephen Crane chapter eleven a glass-fronted building shed a yellow glare upon the pavements the open mouth of a saloon called seductively to passengers to enter and annihilate sorrow or create rage the interior of the place was papered in olive and bronze tints of imitation leather a shining bar of counterfeit massiveness extended down the side of the room behind it a great mahogany appearing sideboard reached the ceiling upon its shelves rested pyramids of shimmering glasses that were never disturbed mirrors set in the face of the sideboard multiplied them lemons, oranges and paper napkins arranged with mathematical precision sat among the glasses many huge decanters of liquor perched at regular intervals on the lower shelves a nickel plated cash register occupied a position in the exact center of the general effect the elementary senses of it all seemed to be opulence and geometrical accuracy across from the bar a smaller counter held a collection of plates upon which swarmed frayed fragments of crackers slices of boiled ham disheveled bits of cheese and pickles swimming in vinegar an odor of grasping begrimed hands and munching mouths pervaded Pete in a white jacket at the bar bending expectantly toward a quiet stranger a bee said the man Pete drew a foam-topped glass full and set it dripping upon the bar at this moment the light bamboo doors at the entrance swung open and crashed against the siding Jimmy and a companion entered they swaggered unsteadily but belligerently toward the bar and looked at Pete with bleared and blinking eyes said Jimmy Jin said the companion Pete slid a bottle in two glasses along the bar he bended his head sideways as he assiduously polished away with a napkin at the gleaming wood he had a look of watchfulness upon his features Jimmy and his companion kept their eyes upon the bartender and conversed loudly in tones of contempt he's a dandy masher ain't he by God laughed Jimmy oh hell yes said the companion sneering widely he's great he is get on to the mug on the block that's enough to make a feller turn handsprings in his sleep the quiet stranger moved himself and his glass a trifle further away and maintained an attitude of oblivion gee ain't he hot stuff get on to his shape great God hey cried Jimmy in tones of command Pete came along slowly with a sullen dropping of the underlip well he growled what's eatin' ya's Jin said Jimmy Jin said the companion as Pete confronted them with the bottle in the glasses they laughed in his face Jimmy's companion evidently overcome with merriment a grimy forefinger in Pete's direction say Jimmy demanded he what the hell is that behind a bar damn defy knows replied Jimmy they laughed loudly Pete put down a bottle with a bang and turned a formidable face toward them he disclosed his teeth and his shoulders heaved restlessly you fellers can't guy me he said drink your stuff and get out and don't make no trouble instantly the laughter faded from the faces of the two men and expressions of offended dignity immediately came who the hell has said anything to you cried they in the same breath the quiet stranger looked at the door calculatingly ah come off said Pete to the two men don't pick me up for no Jay drink your rum and get out oh the hell early cried Jimmy oh the hell early repeated his companion we goes when we get ready see continued Jimmy well said Pete in a threatening voice don't make no trouble Jimmy suddenly leaned forward with his head on one side he snarled like a wild animal well what if we does see said he the blood flushed into Pete's face and he shot a lurid glance at Jimmy well then we'll see who's the best man you or me he said the quiet stranger moved modestly towards the door Jimmy began to swell with valor don't pick me up for no tenderfoot when you tackles me you tackles one of the best men in the city see I'm a scrapper I am ain't dat right Billy Mike responded his companion in tones of conviction oh hell said Pete easily go fall on yourself the two men again began to laugh what the hell is dat talkin cried the companion damned if I knows replied Jimmy with exaggerated contempt Pete made a furious gesture get out of here now and don't make no trouble see use fellers are looking at a scrap and it's damn likely you'll find one if he keeps on shooting off your mouths I know you see I can lick better men than you's ever saw in your lives dat's right see don't pick me up for no stuff or you might be jolted out into street before you knows where you is when I comes from behind this bar I chose you both in the street see oh hell cried the two men in chorus the glare of a panther came into Pete's eyes dat's what I said understand he came through a passage at the end of the bar and swelled down upon the two men they stepped promptly forward and crowded close to him they bristled like three roosters they moved their heads pugnaciously and kept their shoulders braced the nervous muscles about each mouth twitched with a forced smile of mockery well what the hell you're going to do gritted Jimmy Pete stepped warily back waving his hands before him to keep the men from coming too near well what the hell you're going to do repeated Jimmy's ally they kept close to him taunting and leering they strove to make him attempt the initial blow keep back now don't crowd me ominously said Pete again they chorused in contempt oh hell in a small tossing group the three men edged for positions like frigates contemplating battle well why the hell don't you try to throw us out cried Jimmy and his ally with copious sneers the bravery of bulldogs sat upon the faces of the men their clenched fists moved like eager weapons the allied two jostled the bartender's elbows glaring at him with feverish eyes enforcing him toward the wall suddenly Pete swore redly the flash of action gleamed from his eyes he threw back his arm and aimed a tremendous lightning like blow at Jimmy's face his foot swung a step forward and the weight of his body was behind his fist Jimmy ducked his head bowery like with the quickness of a cat the fierce answering blows of him and his ally crushed on Pete's bowed head the quiet stranger vanished the arms of the combatants whirled in the air like flails the faces of the men at first flushed to flame colored anger now began to fade to the pallor of warriors in the blood and heat of a battle their lips curled back and stretched tightly over the gums in ghoul-like grins through their white gripped teeth struggled horse whisperings of oaths their eyes glittered with murderous fire each head was huddled between its owner's shoulders and arms were swinging with marvelous rapidity feet scraped to and fro with a loud scratching sound upon the sanded floor blows left crimson blotches upon pale skin the curses of the first quarter minute of the fight died away the breaths of the fighters came wheezingly from their lips and the three chests were straining and heaving the intervals gave vent to low labored hisses that sounded like a desire to kill Jimmy's ally gibbered at times like a wounded maniac Jimmy was silent fighting with the face of a sacrificial priest the rage of fear shown in all their eyes and their blood colored fists swirled at a tottering moment a blow from Pete's hand struck the ally and he crashed to the floor he wriggled instantly to his feet and grasping the quiet stranger's beer glass from the bar hurled it at Pete's head high on the wall it burst like a bomb shivering fragments flying in all directions then missiles came to every man's hand the place had heretofore appeared free of things to throw but suddenly glass and bottles went singing through the air they were thrown point blank at bobbing heads the pyramid of shimmering glasses that had never been disturbed changed to cascades as heavy bottles were flung into them mirrors splintered into nothing the three frothing creatures on the floor buried themselves in a frenzy for blood there followed in the wake of missiles and fists some unknown prayers perhaps for death the quiet stranger had sprawled very pyrotechnically out on the sidewalk a laugh ran up and down the avenue for the half of a block Dave Trota bloke into the street people heard the sound of breaking glass and shuffling feet within the saloon and came running a small group bending down to look under the bamboo doors watching the fall of glass and three pairs of violent legs changed in a moment to a crowd a policeman came charging down the sidewalk and bounced through the doors into the saloon the crowd bended and surged in absorbing anxiety to see Jimmy caught first sight of the oncoming interruption on his feet he had the same regard for a policeman that went on his truck he had for a fire engine he howled and ran for the side door the officer made a terrific advance club in hand one comprehensive sweep of the long night stick through the ally to the floor and forced Pete to a corner with his disengaged hand he made this effort at Jimmy's coattails then he regained his balance and paused well well you are a pair of pictures what in hell you been up to Jimmy with his face drenched in blood escaped up a side street pursued a short distance by some of the more law-loving or excited individuals of the crowd later from a corner safely dark he saw the policeman the ally and the bartender emerged from the saloon Pete locked the doors and then followed up the avenue in the rear of the crowd encompassed policeman and his charge on first thoughts Jimmy with his heart throbbing at battle heat started to go desperately to the rescue of his friend but he halted ah what the hell he demanded of himself end of chapter 11 Chapter 12 of Maggie in the Hall of Irregular Shape said Pete and Maggie drinking beer a submissive orchestra dictated to by a spectacled man with frowsy hair and a dress suit industriously followed the buffs of his head and walking in the hall of irregular shape said Pete and Maggie drinking beer a submissive orchestra dictated to by a spectacled man with frowsy hair and a dress and a dress a submissive orchestra dictated to by a spectacled man with frowsy hair and a dress and a dress and a dress and a dress and a dress and a dress and a dress and a couple of glasses and clapping of hands that followed her exit indicator in an overwhelming desire to have her come on for the fourth time but the curiosity of the audience was not gratified. Maggie was pale from her eyes had been plucked all look of self reliance she leaned with the dependent Through woods companion was timid as if fearing his anger or displeasure waller, had grown upon him, until it threatened to bend his dimensions. He was indefinitely gracious to the girl. It was apparent to her that his condescension was a marvel. He could appear to strut even while sitting still, and he showed that he was a lion of lordly characteristics by the air of which he spat. With Maggie gazing at him, wonderingly, he took pride in commanding the waiters, who were, however, indifferent or deaf, how you, with the rustle on his, what the hell are you looking at to my beers to hear? He leaned back and critically regarded the person of a girl with a straw-colored wig, who upon the stage was flinging her heels in somewhat awkward imitation of a well-known dancer's. At times Maggie told Pete long, confidential tales of her former home life, dwelling upon the escapades of the other members of the family, and the difficulties she had to combat, in order to obtain a degree of comfort. He responded in tones of philanthropy. He pressed her arm with an air of reassuring proprietorship. They was stem-j, he said, denouncing the mother and brother. The sound of the music, which, by the efforts of the frowsy-headed leader, drifted to her ears to the smoke-filled atmosphere, made the girl dream. She thought of her former Rome Alley environment, and turned to regard Pete strong, protecting fists. She thought of the color-and-cuff-manufactory, and the eternal moan of the proprietor. What in hell do you think I pay five dollars a week for? Play, no pie-dump. She contemplated Pete's mensive-doing eyes, and noted that wells and prosperity were indicated by his clothes. She imagined the future, rose-tinted, because of its distance from all that she previously had experienced. As to the present, she perceived only vague reasons to be miserable. Her life was Pete's, and she considered him worthy of the charge. She would be disturbed by no particular apprehensions, so long as Pete adored her, as he now said he did. She did not feel like a bad woman. To her knowledge, she had never seen any better. At times, men at other tables regarded the girl furtively. Pete, aware of it, nodded at her, and grinned. He felt proud. Mac, your blue-man good-looker, he remarked, studying her face through the haze. The men made Maggie fear, but she blushed at Pete's words, as it became apparent to her that she was the apple of his eye. Gray-headed men, wonderfully pathetic in their dissipation, stared at her through the clouds. Smooth cheeked boys, some of them with faces of stone and mouths of sin, not nearly so pathetic as the gray-heads tried to find the girl's eyes in the smoke-wreath. Maggie considered she was not what they sought her. She confined her glances to Pete and the stage. The orchestra played negro melodies, a worse attire drama pounded, whacked, clattered, and scratched on a dozen machines to make noise. Those glances of the men, shuddered Maggie from under half-closed lids, made her tremble. She thought them all to be worse men than Pete. Come, let's go, she said. As they went out, Maggie perceived two women, seated at a table with some men. They were painted, and their cheeks had lost their roundness. As she passed them, the girl with the shrinking movement drew back her skirts. Chapter 13 of Maggie, A Girl of the Streets. Jimmy did not return home for a number of days after the fight with Pete in the saloon. When he did, he approached with extreme caution. He found his mother raving. Maggie had not returned home. The parent continually wondered how her daughter could come to such a pass. She had never considered Maggie as a pearl dropped unstained into rum alley from heaven, but she could not conceive how it was possible for her daughter to fall so low as to bring disgrace upon her family. She was terrific in denunciation of the girl's wickedness. The fact that the neighbors talked of it maddened her. When women came in, and in the course of their conversation casually asked, Where's Maggie these days? The mother shook her fuzzy head at them and appalled them with curses, cunning hints inviting confidence she rebuffed with violence. In Waddall to bring an up she had, how could she? Moningly she asked of her son. Waddall to talk with her, I did, and to things I told her to remember. When a girl is bring up to way, I bring up Maggie. How can she go to the devil? Jimmy was transfixed by these questions. He could not conceive how, under the circumstances, his mother's daughter and his sister could have been so wicked. His mother took a drink from a squelchy bottle that sat on the table. She continued her lament. She had a bad heart that girl did, Jimmy. She was wicked to the heart, and we never noted. Jimmy nodded, admitting the fact. We lived in the same house with her, and I brought her up and we never know how bad she was. Jimmy nodded again. With a home like this and a mother like me, she went to de-bad, cried the mother raising her eyes. One day Jimmy came home, sat down in a chair, and began to wriggle about with a new and strange nervousness. At last he spoke shame-facedly. Well, look a here. This ting queers us. See? We're queered. And maybe it be be better if I think I can look her up, and maybe it be better if I fetched her home, and the mother started from her chair, and broke forth into a storm of passionate anger. What? Let her come and sleep under the same roof with her mother again? Oh, yes, I will, won't I? Sure. Shame on you, Jimmy Johnson, for saying such a ting to your own mother. To your own mother. Little did I think, when yours was a baby playing about me feet, that you'd grow up to say such a ting to your mother, your own mother. I'd never taught. Sobs choked her and interrupted her approaches. There ain't nothing to raise such hell about, said Jimmy. I only says it, but I'd be better if we keep this ting dark. See? It queers us. See? His mother laughed a laugh that seemed to ring through the city and be echoed and re-echoed by countless other laughs. Oh, yes, I will, won't I? Sure. Well, you must take me for a damn fool, said Jimmy, indignant at his mother for mocking him. I didn't say we'd make her into a little tin angel, nor nothing. But the way it is now, she can queer us. Don't you see? I shall get tired of the laugh after a while, and then she'll be wanting to be coming home, won't she? The beast. I'll let her in then, won't I? Well, I didn't mean none of this prodigal business anyway, explained Jimmy. It wasn't no prodigal daughter, you damn fool, said the mother. It was prodigal son anyhow. I know that, said Jimmy. For a long time they sat in silence. The mother's eyes gloated on a scene her imagination could call before her. Her lips were set in a vindictive smile. I shall cry, won't she, and carry on, and tell how Pete, or some other fellow, beats her, and she'll say she sighed and all that, and she ain't happy, she ain't, and she wants to come home again, she does. With grim humor the mother imitated the possible wailing notes of the daughter's voice. Then I'll take her in, won't I, the beast? She'll cry her eyes out on the stones of the street before I'll dirty to place with her. She abused and ill-treated her own mother, her own mother, what loved her and she'll never get another chance to decide a hell. Jimmy thought he had a great idea of women's frailty. But he could not understand why any of his kin should be victims. Damn her, he fervently said. Again he wondered vaguely if some of the women of his acquaintance had brothers. Nevertheless his mind did not, for an instant, confuse himself with those brothers nor his sister with theirs. After the mother had, with great difficulty, suppressed the neighbors, she went among them and proclaimed her grief. May God forgive that girl was her continual cry. To attend of ears she recited the whole length and breadth of her woes. I bring her up to wait a daughter ought to be bring up and this is how she served me. She went to the devil the first chance she got. May God forgive her. When arrested for drunkenness she used the story of her daughter's downfall with telling effect upon the police justices. Finally one of them said to her peering down over his spectacles, Mary the records of this and other courts show that you are the mother of forty-two daughters who have been ruined. The case is unparalleled in the annals of this court. And this court thinks the mother went through life shedding large tears of sorrow. Her red face was a picture of agony. Of course Jimmy publicly damned his sister that he might appear on a higher social plane, but arguing with himself, stumbling about in ways that he knew not, he once almost came to a conclusion that his sister would have been more firmly good had she better known why. However he felt that he could not hold such a view. He threw it hastily aside. End of chapter 13 recording by Alana Jordan in St. Louis, Missouri.