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Stephen Crane - Ultimate Collection: 200+ Novels, Short Stories & Poems. Stephen Crane
Читать онлайн.Название Stephen Crane - Ultimate Collection: 200+ Novels, Short Stories & Poems
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isbn 4064066388362
Автор произведения Stephen Crane
Жанр Языкознание
Издательство Bookwire
His mother was not at home. In his little room he mechanically undressed and bathed his head, arms and shoulders. When he crawled between the two white sheets he felt a first lifting of his misery. His pillow was soothingly soft. There was an effect that was like the music of tender voices.
When he awoke again his mother was bending over him giving vent to alternate cries of grief and joy. Her hands trembled so that they were useless to her. ‘Oh, George, George, where have yeh been? What has happened t’ yeh? Oh, George, I’ve been so worried! I didn’t sleep a wink all night!’
Kelcey was instantly wide awake. With a moan of suffering he turned his face to the wall before he spoke. ‘Never mind, mother, I’m all right. Don’t fret now! I was knocked down by a truck last night in th’ street, an’ they took me t’ th’ hospital; but it’s all right now. I got out jest a little while ago. They told me I’d better go home an’ rest up.’
His mother screamed in pity, horror, joy and self-reproach for something unknown. She frenziedly demanded the details. He sighed with unutterable weariness. ‘Oh—wait—wait—wait!’ he said, shutting his eyes as from the merciless monotony of a pain. ‘Wait—wait—please wait! I can’t talk now. I want t’ rest.’
His mother condemned herself with a little cry. She adjusted his pillow, her hands shaking with love and tenderness.
‘There, there, don’t mind, dearie! But yeh can’t think how worried I was—an’ crazy. I was near frantic. I went down t’ th’ shop, an’ they said they hadn’t seen anything ‘a yeh there. The foreman was awful good t’ me. He said he’d come up this atternoon t’ see if yeh had come home yet. He tol’ me not t’ worry. Are yeh sure yer all right? Ain’t there anythin’ I kin git fer yeh? What did th’ doctor say?’
Kelcey’s patience was worn. He gestured, and then spoke querulously. ‘Now—now—mother, it’s all right, I tell yeh! All I need is a little rest, an’ I’ll be as well as ever. But it makes it all th’ worse if yeh stand there an’ ask me questions an’ make me think. Jest leave me alone fer a little while, an’ I’ll be as well as ever. Can’t yeh do that?’
The little old woman puckered her lips funnily. ‘My, what an old bear th’ boy is!’ She kissed him blithely. Presently she went out, upon her face a bright and glad smile that must have been a reminiscence of some arming girlhood.
CHAPTER XI
At one time Kelcey had a friend who was struck in the head by the pole of a truck and knocked senseless. He was taken to the hospital, from which he emerged in the morning an astonished man, with rather a dim recollection of the accident. He used to hold an old brierwood pipe in his teeth in a manner peculiar to himself, and, with a brown derby hat tilted back on his head, recount his strange sensations. Kelcey had always remembered it as a bit of curious history. When his mother cross-examined him in regard to the accident, he told this story with barely a variation. Its truthfulness was incontestable.
At the shop he was welcomed on the following day with considerable enthusiasm. The foreman had told the story, and there were already jokes created concerning it. Mike O’Donnell, whose wit was famous, had planned a humorous campaign, in which he made charges against Kelcey which were, as a matter of fact, almost the exact truth. Upon hearing it, Kelcey looked at him suddenly from the corners of his eyes, but otherwise remained imperturbable. O’Donnell eventually despaired. ‘Yez can’t goiy that kid! He tekes ut all loike mate an’ dhrink.’ Kelcey often told the story, his pipe held in his teeth peculiarly, and his derby tilted back on his head.
He remained at home for several evenings, content to read the papers and talk with his mother. She began to look around for the tremendous reason for it. She suspected that his nearness to death in the recent accident had sobered his senses and made him think of high things. She mused upon it continually. When he sat moodily pondering she watched him. She said to herself that she saw the light breaking in upon his spirit. She felt that it was a very critical period of his existence. She resolved to use all her power and skill to turn his eyes toward the lights in the sky. Accordingly, she addressed him one evening:
‘Come, go t’ prayer-meetin’ t’-night with me, will yeh, George?’ It sounded more blunt than she intended.
He glanced at her in sudden surprise. ‘Huh?’
As she repeated her request, her voice quavered. She felt that it was a supreme moment.
‘Come, go t’ prayer-meetin’ t’-night, won’t yeh?’
He seemed amazed.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he began. He was fumbling in his mind for a reason for refusing. ‘I don’t wanta go. I’m tired as the dickens!’
His obedient shoulders sank down languidly. His head mildly drooped.
The little old woman, with a quick perception of her helplessness, felt a motherly rage at her son. It was intolerable that she could not impart motion to him in a chosen direction. The waves of her desires were puny against the rocks of his indolence. She had a great wish to beat him.
‘I don’t know what I’m ever goin’ t’ do with yeh,’ she told him in a choking voice. ‘Yeh won’t do anything I ask yeh to. Yeh never pay th’ least bit ‘a attention t’ what I say. Yeh don’t mind me any more than yeh would a fly. Whatever am I goin’ t’ do with yeh?’
She faced him in a battleful way, her eyes blazing with a sombre light of despairing rage.
He looked up at her ironically. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, with calmness. ‘What are yeh?’ He had traced her emotions and seen her fear of his rebellion. He thrust out his legs in the easy scorn of a rapier-bravo. ‘What are yeh?’
The little old woman began to weep. They were tears without a shame of grief. She allowed them to run unheeded down her cheeks. As she stared into space her son saw her regarding there the powers and influences that she had held in her younger life. She was in some way acknowledging to fate that she was now but withered grass, with no power but the power to feel the winds. He was smitten with a sudden shame. Besides, in the last few days he had gained quite a character for amiability. He saw something grand in relenting at this point. ‘Well,’ he said, trying to remove a sulky quality from his voice, ‘well, if yer bound t’ have me go, I s’pose I’ll have t’ go.’
His mother, with strange, immobile face, went to him and kissed him on the brow. ‘All right, George!’ There was in her wet eyes an emotion which he could not fathom.
She put on her bonnet and shawl, and they went out together. She was unusually silent, and made him wonder why she did not appear gleeful at his coming. He was resentful because she did not display more appreciation of his sacrifice. Several times he thought of halting and refusing to go further, to see if that would not wring from her some acknowledgment.
In a dark street the little chapel sat humbly between two towering apartment-houses. A red street-lamp stood in front. It threw a. marvellous reflection upon the wet pavements. It was like the death-stain of a spirit. Further up the brilliant lights of an avenue made a span of gold across the black street. A roar of wheels and a clang of bells came from this point, interwoven into a sound emblematic of the life of the city. It seemed somehow to affront this solemn and austere little edifice. It suggested an approaching barbaric invasion. The little church, pierced, would die with a fine, illimitable scorn for its slayers.
When Kelcey entered with his mother he felt a sudden quaking. His knees shook. It was an awesome place to him. There was a menace in the red padded carpet and the leather doors, studded with little brass tacks that penetrated his soul with their pitiless glances. As for his mother, she had acquired such a new