I am thinking, for instance, of a long, lean faced, unkempt and bedraggled woman, not exceptionally old, but roughened and hardened by what circumstances I know not into a kind of horse, whom once of an early winter’s morning I encountered at Broadway and Fourteenth Street pushing a great rattletrap of a cart in which was piled old rags, sacks, a chair, a box and what else I know not, and all this with long, lean strides and a kind of determined12 titan energy toward the North River. Her body was clad in a mere13 semblance14 of clothing, rags which hung limp and dirty and close to her form and seemingly wholly insufficient15 for the bitter weather prevailing16 at the time. Her hair was coarse and iron-gray, done in a shapeless knot and surmounted17 by something in the shape of a small hat which might have been rescued from an ashheap. Her eyes were fixed18, glassy almost, and seemingly unseeing. Here she came, vigorous, stern, pushing this tatterdemalion cart, and158 going God knows where. I followed to see and saw her enter, finally, a wretched, degraded west side slum, in a rear yard of which, in a wretched tumble-down tenement20, which occupied a part of it, she appeared to have a room or floor. But what days and years of chaffering, think you, were back of this eventual21 result, what years of shabby dodging22 amid the giant legs of circumstances? To grow out of childhood—once really soft, innocent childhood—into a thing like this, an alley-scraping horse—good God!
And then the men. What a curious company they are, just those few who stand out in my memory, whom, from a mere passing opportunity to look upon, I have never been able to forget.
Thus, when I first came to New York and was on The World there came into the reportorial room one cold winter’s night a messenger-boy, looking for a certain reporter, for whom he had a message, a youth who positively23 was the most awkward and misshapen vehicle for the task in hand that I have ever seen. I should say here that whatever the rate of pay now, there are many who will recall how little they were paid and how poorly they were equipped—a tall youth, for instance, with a uniform and cap for one two-thirds his size; a short one with trousers six inches too long and gathered in plenteous folds above his shoes, and a cap that wobbled loosely over his ears; or a fat boy with a tight suit, or a lean boy with a loose one. Parsimony24 and indifference25 were the outstanding characteristics of the two most plethoric26 organizations serving the public in that field.
But this one. He was eighteen or nineteen (as contrasted159 with others of this same craft who were in the room at this very time, and who were not more than twelve or thirteen; that was before the child-labor laws), and his face was too large, and misshapen, a grotesquerie of the worst invention, a natural joke. His ears were too big and red, his mouth too large and twisted, his nose too humped and protruding27, and his square jaw28 stood out too far, and yet by no means forcefully or aggressively. In addition, his hair needed cutting and stuck out from underneath29 his small, ill-fitting cap, which sat far up on the crown of his head. At the same time, his pants and coat being small, revealed extra lengths of naked red wrist and hands and made his feet seem even larger than they were.
In those days, as at present, it was almost a universal practice to kid the messenger-boy, large or small, whoever and wherever he was—unless, as at times he proved to be, too old or weary or down on his luck; and even then he was not always spared. In this instance it chanced that the reporter for whom this youth was looking was seated at a desk with myself and some others. We were chatting and laughing, when suddenly this apparition30 appeared.
“Why, hello Johnnie!” called the one addressed, turning and taking the message yet finding time to turn on the moss-covered line of messenger-boy humor. “Just in from the snow, are you? The best thing is never to get a hair-cut in winter. Positively, the neck should be protected from these inclement31 breezes.”
“A little short on the pants there, James,” chipped in a second, “but I presume the company figures that160 the less the baggage or equipment the greater the speed, eh?”
“In the matter of these suits,” went on a third, “style and fit are necessarily secondary to sterling32 spiritual worth.”
Being new to New York and rather hard-pressed myself, I was throughout this scene studying this amazing figure and wondering how any corporation could be so parsimonious34 as to dress a starveling employee in so shabby a way, and from what wretched circumstances such a youth, who would endure such treatment and such work, must spring. Suddenly, seeing me looking at him and wondering, and just as the recipient35 of the message was handing him back his book signed, his face became painfully and, as it seemed to me, involuntarily contorted with such a grimace36 of misery37 and inward spiritual dissatisfaction as I had not seen anywhere before. It was a miserable38 and moving grimace, followed by a struggle not to show what he felt. But suddenly he turned and drawing a big red cold wrist and hand across his face and eyes and starting for the door, he blurted39 out: “I never did have no home, God damn it! I never did have no father or mother, like you people, nor no chance either. I was raised in an orphan40 asylum—” and he was gone.
“Sometimes,” observed the youth who had started this line of jesting, getting up and looking apologetically at the rest of us, “this dam’ persiflage41 can be sprung in the wrong place and at the wrong time. I apologize. I’m ashamed of myself, and sorry too.”
A Character
161 “I’m sorry too,” said another, a gentlemanly Southerner, whom later I came to know better and to like.
But that boy!
* * * * *
For years, when I was a youth and was reading daily at the old Astor Library, there used to appear on the streets of New York an old man, the spindling counterpart, so far as height, weight and form were concerned, of William Cullen Bryant, who for shabbiness of attire42, sameness of appearance, persistence43 of industry and yet futility44 in so far as any worth while work was concerned could hardly have been outclassed. A lodger45 at the Mills Hotel, in Bleecker Street, that hopeless wayplace of the unfortunate, he was also a frequenter of the Astor Library, where, as I came to know through watching him over months and years even, he would burrow46 by the hour among musty volumes from which he made copious47 notes jotted48 on paper with a pencil, both borrowed from the library authorities. Year after year for a period of ten years I encountered him from time to time wearing the same short, gray wool coat, the same thin black baggy49 trousers, the same cheap brownish-black Fedora hat, and the same long uncut hair and beard, the former curly and hanging about his shoulders. His body, even in the bitterest weather, never supported an overcoat. His hands were always bare and the wrists more or less exposed. He came invariably with a quick, energetic step toward the library or the Mills Hotel and turned a clear, blue, birdlike eye upon whomsoever surveyed him. But of ability—nothing, in so far as any one ever knew. The library authorities knew nothing of162 anything he had ever achieved. Those who managed the hotel of course knew nothing at all; they were not even interested, though he had lived there for years. In short, he lived and moved and had his being in want and thinness, and finally died—leaving what? His effects, as I was informed afterwards by the attendants of the “hotel” which had housed him for years, consisted of a small parcel of clothes, worthless to any save himself, and a box of scribbled50 notes, relating to what no one ever knew. They were disjointed and meaningless scraps51 of information, I was told, and dumped out with the ashes after his demise52. What, think you, could have been his import to the world, his message?
* * * * *
And then Samuel Clampitt—or so a hand-lettered scrawl53 over his gate read—who maintained a junk-yard near the Harlem River and One Hundred and Thirty-eighth Street. He was a little man, very dark, very hunched54 at the shoulders, with iron-gray hair, heavy, bushy, black eyebrows55, a very dark and seamy skin, and hands that were quite like claws. He bought and sold—or pretended to—old bottles, tin, iron, rags, and the like. His place was a small yard or space of ground lying next to a coal-yard and adjoining the river, and about this he had built, or had found there, a high board fence. And within, whenever the gates were opened and one was permitted to look in, were collections of junk about as above tabulated56, with, in addition, some bits of iron fencing, old window-frames, part of stair railings, gasoliers and the like. He himself was rarely to be seen; I saw him no more than four or five163 times during a period of three years in which I passed his yard daily. But, having occasion once to dispose of a collection of waste rags and clothing, I eventually sought him out and found him, after trying his gate on an average of once every two days during a period of two weeks and more. The thing that interested me from the first was that my tentative knockings at his gate, which was always closed and very high, were greeted by savage57 roars from several Great Danes that were far within and that pawed the high gate whenever I touched it or knocked. Yet eventually I did find him, the gate being open and the dogs chained and he inside. He was sitting in a dark corner of his little hut inside the yard, no window or door giving onto the street, and eating from a discolored tin pan on his lap which held a little bread, a tomato and some sausage. The thing that interested me most (apart from the fact that he appeared to me more of a gnome58 than a man) was these same dogs, now chained to a post a score of feet from me and most savagely59 snarling60 and charging as I talked. They were so savage and showed such great, white, glistening61 teeth that I was eager to retreat without waiting to complete my errand. However, I managed to explain my purpose—but to no result. He was not interested in my collection of junk, saying that he only bought material that was brought to him.
But the voice, so cracked and wheezy. And the eyes, shining like sparks of light under his heavy brows. And the thin, parchment-like, claw-like hands. He rasped irritatingly with his throat whenever he talked, before and after each word or sentence—“eck—eck—eck—I164 don’t go out to buy stuff—eck—eck—eck. I only buy what’s brought here—eck—eck—eck. I don’t want any old rags—eck—eck—eck—I have more than I can sell now—eck—eck—eck.” Then he fell to munching62 again.
It was not to be.
“Eck—eck—eck—they need to be—eck—eck—eck.” That was all. He fell silent and would say no more.
I went out, curious as to what sort of a business this was, anyhow, and leaving him to himself.
But one morning, months later, turning a corner near there, a region of empty lots and some old sealed and untenanted storehouses, I found a crowd of boys following and stoning an old man who, on my coming near and then running to his rescue, I found to be this old dealer64. He was attempting to hide behind a signboard which adjoined one of the storehouses. His face and hands were already cut by stones and bleeding. He was breathless and very much exhausted65 and frightened, but still angry and savage. “They stoned me, the little devils—eck—eck—eck. They hit me with rocks—eck—eck—eck. I’ll have the law on ’em, I will—eck—eck—eck. I’ll get the police after ’em—eck—eck—eck. They’re always trying to break into my place and I won’t let ’em—eck—eck—eck.”
I wondered who could break into that place with those dogs loose, who would attempt it.
But that, as I found out later in conversation with boys of the vicinity, was just the trouble. At various165 times they had sought to enter to recover a tossed ball, possibly to steal something, and he had set the dogs (which were always unchained in his absence) on them; or, they had been attacked by the dogs and in turn had attempted to work him and them some injury.
Yet for a period of three years after this, to my knowledge, he continued to live there in that solitary66 place, harassed67 no doubt in this way. If he ever did any business I did not see it. The gates were nearly always closed, himself rarely to be seen.
Then one day a really terrible thing happened. Some children—not these same wicked boys but others less familiar with the neighborhood, I believe—were playing ball in an open space adjoining, and a fly being struck, the ball fell into the junk-yard. Three of the more courageous68 ones, as the papers stated afterwards, mounted the fence to see if they could get the ball, and one of them, more courageous than the others, actually leaped into the yard and was literally69 torn to bits by these same dogs, all but eaten alive. And there was no one to save him before he was dead. Old Clampitt was not there.
The horror was of course immediately reported to the police, who came and killed the dogs and then arrested Clampitt. A newspaper and police investigation70 of his life revealed nothing save that he was assumed to be an old junk-dealer who was eccentric, a solitary, without relatives or friends. He claimed to have kept the dogs for protection, also that he had been set upon by youths of the vicinity and stoned, which was true. Even so, he was held for weeks in166 jail pending71 this investigation of his connections. No past crimes being found, apparently72 he was released. But so terrified was he then by the furore his savage dogs had aroused that he disappeared from this region and was heard of no more. His old rag yard was abandoned. But I often wondered about him afterwards, the years he spent there alone.
* * * * *
And then Old Ragpicker, whom I have described in Plays of the Natural and the Supernatural, and who was as described.
And Hurstwood.
* * * * *
As interesting a type as I ever knew was an old hunchback who, as I understood, had had a small music business in the Bowery, years and years ago when that street was still a vaudeville73 center, a sort of theatrical74 Broadway. Through experience he had come by a little knowledge of popular songs and songbooks and had engaged in the manufacture and sale of these things. But times changed and public taste varied75 and he was not able to keep up with it all. From little business to no business was an easy step, and then he failed and took lodgings76 in one of the side streets off the Bowery, below Fourth Street, eking77 out a precarious78 existence, heaven only knows how. Age had hounded him even more than ill success. His naturally dark skin darkened still further and his black eyes retreated into gloomy sockets79. I used to see him at odd times, at a period when I lived in a vicinity near the Bowery, wending a lonely way through the crowded streets there, but never until he accosted80 me one night in the dark did167 I realize that he had become a beggar. A mumbled81 apology about hunger, a deprecating, shamefaced cough, and he was off again, the richer for a dime82. In this case, time, to say nothing of life, had worked one of those disturbing grotesqueries which arrest one. He was so very somber83, furtive84, misshapen and lean, a veritable masque of a man whose very glance indicated inconsolable disappointment and whose presence, to many, would most certainly have come as an omen85 of failure. A hall-bedroom, a lodging-house cot, an occasional meal, some hidden corner in which to be at peace, in which to brood, and then a few years later he was found dead, alone, seated before a small table, his head leaning upon his arms in the shabby little room in which he dwelt. I know this to be true, for from time to time I made effort to hear of him. What, think you, would he have to say to his Creator if he might?
* * * * *
And yet another character. One day I was walking in Brooklyn in a very conservative neighborhood, when I saw what I fancied I never should see, in America, a woman furtively86 picking a piece of bread out of a garbage can. I had read of such things in Balzac, Hugo, Dickens—but where else? And she was not absolutely wretchedly dressed, though her appearance was far from satisfactory, and she had a tense expression about her face which betokened87 stress of some kind. My astonishment was such that I walked deliberately88 up to her and asked: “What is the matter with you—are you hungry?”
She had hidden the bread under her shawl as I approached and may have dropped it as we walked, for168 I did not see it again though her hands appeared. Yet she refused to indulge in any conversation which would explain.
“I’m all right,” she replied.
“But I saw you taking a piece of bread out of that can?”
“No.”
“Don’t you want any money?”
“No.”
She appeared to be confused and walked away from me, edging toward the lines of fences to avoid contact. I put my hand in my pocket to offer a coin, but she hurried on. There was nothing to do but let her go her way—a thing which seemed intensely cruel, though there was apparently nothing else to do. I have often thought of this one, dark, tense, dreary89, and half wondered whether it was all a dream or whether I really saw it.
* * * * *
But the city for me, in my time, has been flecked with these shadows of disaster in the guise90 of decayed mortals who stared at me out of hollow eyes in the midst of the utmost gayety. You turn a corner laughing amid scenes of enthusiasm and activity, perhaps, and here comes despair along, hooded91 and hollow-eyed, accusing you of undue92 levity93. You dine at your table, serene94 in your moderate prosperity, and in looks want, thin-lipped, and pale, asking how can you eat when she is as she is. You feel the health and vigor19 of your body, warmly clad, and lo, here comes illness or weakness, thin and pining, and169 with cough or sigh or halting step, cries: “See how I suffer—and you—you have health!” Weakness confronts strength, poverty wealth, health sickness, courage cowardice95, fortune the very depths of misfortune, and they know each other not—or defy each other. Of a truth, they either despise or fear, the one the other.
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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pigeonhole
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| n.鸽舍出入口；v.把...归类 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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inefficient
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| adj.效率低的，无效的 | |
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participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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eventual
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dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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parsimony
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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plethoric
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| adj.过多的，多血症的 | |
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protruding
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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underneath
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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inclement
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| adj.严酷的，严厉的，恶劣的 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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defiantly
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parsimonious
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recipient
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grimace
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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miserable
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blurted
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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persiflage
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| n.戏弄；挖苦 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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baggy
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| adj.膨胀如袋的，宽松下垂的 | |
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scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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demise
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scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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tabulated
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| 把（数字、事实）列成表( tabulate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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gnome
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| n.土地神；侏儒，地精 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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65
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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66
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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71
pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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73
vaudeville
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| n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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74
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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eking
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| v.（靠节省用量）使…的供应持久( eke的现在分词 )；节约使用；竭力维持生计；勉强度日 | |
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78
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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81
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
dime
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| n.（指美国、加拿大的钱币）一角 | |
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83
somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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84
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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86
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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87
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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89
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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91
hooded
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| adj.戴头巾的；有罩盖的；颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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95
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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