* * * * *
It is nine o’clock of a summer’s evening. Approaching my place at this hour, suddenly I encounter a rabble12 issuing out of Thirty-ninth Street into Tenth Avenue. It is noisy, tempestuous, swirling13. A frowsy-headed man of about thirty-eight, whose face is badly lacerated and bleeding and whose coat is torn and covered with dust, as though he had been rolling upon the ground, leads the procession. He is walking with that reckless abandon which characterizes the movements of the angry. A slatternly woman of doughy185 complexion14 follows at his heels. About them sways a crowd of uncombed and stribbly-haired men and women and children. In the middle of the street, directly on a line with the man whom the crowd surrounds, but, to one side and nearer the sidewalk walks another man, undersized, thickset and energetic, who seems to take a great interest in the crowd. Though he keeps straight ahead, like the others, he keeps turning and looking, as though he expected a demonstration15 of some sort. No word is spoken by either the man or the woman, and as the curious company passes along under the variable glows of the store-lamps, shop-keepers and store-dealers come out and make humorous comments, but seem to think it not worth while to follow. I join the procession, since this now relates to my interests, and finally shake an impish, black-haired, ten-year-old girl by the arm until she looks up at me.
“What’s the matter?”
“Aw, he hit him with a banister.”
“Who hit him?”
“Why, that man out there in the street.”
“What did he hit him for?”
“I dunno,” she replies irritably16. “He wouldn’t get out of the room. They got to fightin’ in the hall.”
She moves away from me and I ply17 others fruitlessly, until, turning into Thirty-seventh Street, the green lights of the police station come into view. The object of this pilgrimage becomes apparent. I fall silent, following.
Reaching the station door, the injured man and his woman attendant enter, while the thickset individual186 who walked to one side, and the curious crowd remain without.
“Well?” says the sergeant18 within, glaring intolerantly at the twain as they push before him. The appearance of the injured man naturally takes his attention most.
“Lookit me eye,” begins the wounded man, with that curious tone of injured dignity which the drunk and disorderly so frequently assume. “That—” and he interpolates a string of oaths descriptive of the man who has assaulted him “—hit me with a banister leg.”
“Who hit you? Where is he? What did he hit you for?” This from the sergeant in a breath. The man begins again. The woman beside him interrupts with a description of her own.
“Shut up!” yells the sergeant savagely19, showing his teeth. “I’ll ram20 me fist down your throat if you don’t. Let him tell what’s the matter with him. You keep still.”
“He hit me with a banister leg.”
“What for?”
“It was this way, Captain. I went to call on this here lady and that —— came in and wanted me to get out of the room. I——”
“What relation is this man to you?” inquires the sergeant, addressing the woman.
“Isn’t the other man your husband?”
Hell’s Kitchen
“No, he ain’t, the blank-blank-blank-blank ——”187 and you have a sweet string of oaths. “He’s a ——,” and she begins again to ardently24 describe the assailant. The man assists her as best he can.
“I thought so,” exclaims the officer vigorously. “Now, you two get the hell out of here, and stay out, before I club you both. Get on out! Beat it!”
“Ain’t you goin’ to lock him up?” demands the victim.
“I lock nothing,” vouchsafes25 the sergeant intolerantly. “Clear out of here, both of you. If I catch you coming around here any more I’ll give you both six months.”
He calls an officer from the rear room and the two complainants, together with others who have ventured in, myself included, beat a sullen retreat, the crowd welcoming us on the outside. A buzz of conversation follows. War is promised. When the victim is safely down the steps he exclaims:
“All right! I ast him to arrest him. Now let ’em look out. I’ll go back there, I will. Yes, I will. I’ll kill the bastard26, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll show him whether he’ll hit me with a banister leg, the ——,” and as he goes now, rather straight and yet rhythmically27 forward, his assailant, who has been opposite him all the while but in the middle of the street, keeps an equal and amusing pace.
The crowd follows and turns into Thirty-ninth Street, a half-block east of Tenth Avenue. It stops in front of an old, stale, four-story red brick tenement28. Some of its windows are glowing softly in the night. On the188 third floor some one is playing a flute29. Quiet and peace seem to reign30, and yet this——
“I’ll show him whether he’ll hit me,” insists the injured man, entering the house. The woman follows, and then the short, thickset man from the street. One after another they disappear up the narrow stairs which begin at the back of the hall. Some of the crowd follows, myself included.
Presently, after a great deal of scuffling and hustling31 on the fourth floor, all return helter-skelter. They are followed by a large, comfortably-built, healthy, white-shirted Irish-American, who lives up there and who has strength and courage. Before him, pathetically small in size and strength, the others move, the mutilated and still protesting victim among them. Apparently32 he has been ejected from the room in which he had been before.
“I’ll show him,” he is still boasting. “I’ll see whether he’ll hit me with a banister leg, the ——.”
“That’s all right,” says the large Irishman with a brogue, pushing him gently onto the sidewalk as he does so. “Go on now.”
“I’ll get even with him yet,” insists the victim.
“That’s all right. I don’t care what you do to-morrow. Go on now.”
The victim turns and looks up at this new authority fixedly33, as though he knew him well, scratches his head and then turns and solemnly walks away. The other man does likewise. You wonder why.
“It’s over now,” says the new authority to the crowd, and he smiles as blandly as if he had been taking189 part in an entertainment of some kind. The crowd begins to dissolve. The man who drew the banister leg or stick and who was to have been punished has also disappeared.
“But how is this?” I ask of some one. “How can he do that?”
“Him?” replies an Irish longshoreman who seems to wish to satisfy my curiosity. “Don’t you know who that is? It’s Patsy Finnerty. He used to be a champeen prize-fighter. He won all the fights around here ten years ago. Everybody knows him. He’s in charge over at the steamship34 dock now, but they won’t fight with him. If they did he wouldn’t give ’em no more work. They both work for him once in a while.”
I see it all in a blinding flash and go to my own room. How much more powerful is self-interest as typified by Patsy than the police!
* * * * *
It is raining one night and I hear a voice in the room above mine, singing. It is a good voice, sweet and clear, but a little weak and faint down here.
“Tyro-al, Tyro-al! Tyro-al, Tyro-al!
Ich hab dich veeder, O mine Tyro-al!”
I know who lives up there by now: Mr. and Mrs. Schmick and a little Schmick girl, about ten or eleven. Being courageous35 in this vicinity because of the simplicity36 of these people, the awe21 they have for one who holds himself rather aloof37 and dresses better than they, and lonely, too, I go up. In response to my knock a little fair-complexioned, heavily constructed German190 woman with gray hair and blue eyes comes to the door.
“I heard some one singing,” I say, “and I thought I would come up and ask you if I might not come in and listen. I live in the room below.”
“Certainly. Why, of course.” This with an upward lift of the voice. “Come right in.” And although flustered38 and red because of what to her seems an embarrassing situation, she introduces me to her black-haired, heavy-faced husband, who is sitting at the center table with a zither before him.
“Papa, here is a gentleman who wants to hear the music.”
I smile, and the old German arises, smiles and extends me a welcoming hand. He is sitting in the center of this combination sitting-room39, parlor40, kitchen and dining-room, his zither, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, on the table before him.
“I don’t know your name,” I say.
“Schmick,” he replies.
I apologize for intruding42 but they both seem rather pleased. Also the little daughter, who is sitting in one corner.
“Were you singing?” I ask her.
“No. Mamma,” she replies.
I look at the gray-haired little mother and she shows me even, white teeth in smiling at my astonishment43.
“I sing but very little,” she insists, blushing red. “My woice is not so strong any more.”
“Won’t you sing what you were singing just before I came in?” I ask.
191 Without any of that diffidence which characterizes so many of all classes she rises and putting one hand on the shoulder of her heavy, solemn-looking husband, asks him to strike the appropriate chord, and then breaks forth44 into one of those plaintive45 folksongs of the Tyrol which describes the longing46 of the singer for his native land.
“I have such a poor woice now,” she insists when she concludes. “When I was younger it was different.”
“Poor!” I exclaim. “It’s very clear and beautiful. How old are you?”
“I will be fifty next August,” she answers.
This woman is possessed47 of a sympathetic and altogether lovely disposition48. How can she exist in Hell’s Kitchen, amid grime and apparent hardness, and remain so sweet and sympathetic? In my youth and ignorance I wonder.
* * * * *
I am returning one day from a serious inspection49 of the small stores and shops of the neighborhood. As I near my door I am preceded up the street by three grimy coal-heavers, evidently returning from work in an immense coalyard in Eleventh Avenue.
“Come on in and have a pint50,” invites one great hulking fellow, with hands like small coal-shovels. He was, as it chanced, directly in front of my doorway51.
One of his two companions needs no second invitation, but the other, a small, feeble-witted-looking individual, seems uncertain as to whether to go on or stay.
“Come on! Come on back and have a pint!” shouts192 the first coal-heaver. “What the hell—ain’t you no good at all? Come on!”
“Sure I am,” returns the other diffidently. “But I ought to be home by half-past.”
“Aw, home be damned! It won’t take long to drink a pint. Come on.”
“All right,” returns the other, grinning sheepishly.
They go over the way to a saloon, and I pause in my own door. Presently a little girl comes down, carrying a tin pail.
“Whose little girl are you?” I inquire, not recognizing her.
“Mamma ain’t home to-day,” she returns quickly.
“Mamma?” I reply. “Why do you say that? I don’t want your mamma. I live here.”
“Oh, I thought you was the insurance man,” she adds, grinning. “You look just like him.”
“Aren’t you the coal man’s little girl?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he just went into the saloon over there.”
“Huh-uh. Mine’s upstairs, drunk. He must be Mr. Kelly,” and she goes quickly on with her bucket.
* * * * *
I am sitting in my room one night, listening to the sounds that float vaguely52 about this curious little unit of metropolitan53 life, when a dénouement in the social complications of this same coal-heaver’s life is reached. I already know him now to be a rough man, for once or twice I heard him damning his children very loudly. But I did not suspect that there were likely to be complications193 over and above the world of the purely54 material.
“Die frau hat sich selbst umgebracht!” (“The woman has taken her life!”) I hear some one crying out in the hall, and then there is such a running and shuffling55 in the general hubbub56. A score of tenants57 from the different floors are talking and gesticulating, and in the rear of the hall the door opening into the coal-heaver’s dining-room is open. My landlady58, Mrs. Witty59, is on the scene, and even while we gaze a dapper little physician of the region, in a high hat and frockcoat, comes running up the steps and enters the open door in the rear.
“The doctor! The doctor!” The word passes from one to another.
“What is it?” I ask, questioning a little girl whom I had often seen playing tag on the sidewalk below.
“She took poison,” she answers.
“Who?”
“That woman in there.”
“The wife of the coal man?”
“Sure.”
“What did she take it for?”
“I dunno. Here comes another doctor—look!”
Another young doctor is hurrying up the steps.
While we are still gaping60 at the opening and closing door, Mrs. Schmick, the little German woman who sang for me, comes out. She has evidently been laboring61 in the sick room and seems very much excited.
194 “Is she dead?” ask a half-dozen people as she hurries upstairs for something.
“No-oh,” she answers, puckering63 up her mouth in her peculiar64 way. “She is very low, though. I must get some things,” and she hurries away.
The crowd waits, and finally some light on the difficulty begins to break.
“She wouldn’t live with him if he didn’t stop going with her,” my own landlady is saying. “I heard her say it.”
“Who? Who?” inquires another.
“Why, that woman in Fortieth Street. You know her.”
“No.”
“Yes, you do. She lives next door to the blacksmith’s shop, upstairs there, the woman with the two little girls.”
“Her? Is that why she did it?”
“Sure.”
“You don’t say!”
They clatter65 on in this way and gradually it comes out in good order. This coal-heaver knows a widow in the next block. He is either in love with her or she is in love with him, and sometimes she comes here into Thirty-ninth Street to catch a glimpse of him. He has been seen with her a number of times and had been in the habit of driving his coal-wagon through Fortieth Street in order to catch a glimpse of her. His wife has frequently complained, of course, and there have been rows, bitter nocturnal wrangles66, in which he has not come off triumphant67. He has sworn and raved68 and195 struck his wife but he has been made to promise not to drive through Fortieth Street just the same. This day, however, he failed to keep this injunction. She was in Fortieth Street and had seen him, then had come home and in a fit of jealous rage and affectionate distemper had drunk a bottle of camphor. The husband is not home yet.
While we are still patiently awaiting him he arrives, dark, heavy, unprepared for the difficulty awaiting him, and very much astonished at the company gathered about his door.
“My wife!” he exclaims when told.
“Yes, your wife.” This from several members of the company.
He hurries in, very shaken and frightened.
“What is this?” he demands as he passes the door and is confronted by serious-looking physicians. More we could not hear.
But after a time out he comes for something at the drugstore, then in again. He is in and out two or three times, and finally, before the assembled company and in explanation, wrings69 his hands.
“I never done nothin’ to make her do this. I never done nothin’.” He pauses, awaiting a denial, possibly, from some one, then adds: “The disgrace! I wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t for the disgrace!”
“Will she die?”
“No, she gets better now.”
“Is he going to behave himself?”
“Mrs. Schmick,” I ask, interestedly, her philosophy of life arresting me, “why do you work so hard? You didn’t even know her, did you?”
“Ach, no. But she is sick now. She is in trouble. I would do as much for anybody.”
And this is Hell’s Kitchen, I recall.
* * * * *
Looking out of my front window I can see a great deal of all that goes on here, in connection with this house, I mean. Through the single narrow door under my window issue and return all those who have in any way anything to do with it. The mailman comes very seldom. There is a weekly life-insurance man who comes regularly, bangs on doors and complains that some people are in but won’t answer. Ditto the gas man. Ditto the milkman. Ditto the collector for a rug and clock house. Many duns of many kinds who come to collect bills of all kinds and never can “get in.” Of a morning only a half-dozen men and some six or eight girls seem to creep wearily and unwillingly74 forth to work. At night they and others, who have apparently other methods than that of regular toil75 for occupying their time, return with quite a different air. Truckmen and coalmen and Mr. Schmick arrive about the same time, half-past five. The son of a morose76 malster’s clerk, who occupies the second floor rear, back of me, arrives at six. Beer-can carrying is the chief employment of the city cart-driver’s wife, who lives on the third floor, the unemployed77 iron-worker, whose front room197 I rent, and the ill-tempered woman with the three children on the fourth floor. The six or eight girls who go out evenings after their day’s labor62 frequently do not begin to drift back until after eleven, several of them not before three or four. I have met them coming in. Queer figures slip in and out at all times, men and women who cannot be placed by me in any regular detail of the doings of this house. Some of them visit one or another of several “apartments” too frequently to make their comings and goings explicable on conventional grounds. It is a peculiar region and house, this, with marked streaks78 of gayety at times, and some very evident and frequently long-continued periods of depression and dissatisfaction and misery79.
I am hanging out of my window one evening as usual when the keenest of all these local tragedies, in so far as this house and a home are concerned, is enacted80 directly below me. One of the daughters above-mentioned is followed down four flights of stairs and pushed out upon the sidewalk by her irate81 father and a bundle of wearing apparel thrown after her.
He is very angry and shouts: “You get out now. You can’t come back into my house any more. Get out!”
He waves his arms dramatically. A crowd gathers. Men and women hang out of windows or gather closely about him and the girl, while the latter, quite young yet, perhaps fifteen, cries, and the onlookers82 eagerly demand to know what the trouble is.
198 “She’s a street-walker, that’s what she is,” he screams. “She comes to my house after running around all night with loafers. Let her get out now.”
“Aw, what do you want to turn her off for?” demands a sympathetic bystander who is evidently moved by the girl’s tears. Others voice the same sentiment.
“You! You!” exclaims the old locksmith, who is her father, in uncontrollable rage. “You mind your own business. She is a street-walker, that’s what she is. She shall not come into my house any more.”
There is wrangling83 and more exclamations84, and finally into the thick of the crowd comes a policeman, who tries to gather up all the phases of the story.
“You won’t take her back, eh?” he asks of the father, after using all sorts of arguments to prevent a family rupture85. “All right, then, come along,” he says to the girl, and leads her around to the police station. “We’ll find some place for you, maybe, to-night anyhow.”
I heard that she did not stay at the station, after all, but what the conclusion of her career was, outside of the fact that the matter was reported to the Gerry Society, I never learned. But the reasons for her predicament struck me as obvious. Here was too much toil, too much gloom, too much solemnity for her, the non-appreciation which the youthful heart so much abhors86. Elsewhere, perhaps, was light, warmth, merriment, beauty—or so she thought.
She went, she and so many others, fluttering eastward87 like a moth41, into the heart of the great city which199 lay mostly to the east. When she returned, and with singed88 wings, she was no longer welcome.
* * * * *
But why they saw fit to dub it Hell’s Kitchen, however, I could never discover. It seemed to me a very ordinary slum neighborhood, poor and commonplace, and sharply edged by poverty, but just life and very, very human life at that.
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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dub
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| vt.（以某种称号）授予，给...起绰号，复制 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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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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savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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disturbances
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| n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 )；打扰；困扰；障碍 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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ply
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| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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ram
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| (random access memory)随机存取存储器 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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ardently
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vouchsafes
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的第三人称单数 )；允诺 | |
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bastard
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rhythmically
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tenement
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flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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hustling
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| 催促（hustle的现在分词形式） | |
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apparently
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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steamship
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| n.汽船，轮船 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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flustered
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| adj.慌张的；激动不安的v.使慌乱，使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
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sitting-room
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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53
metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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55
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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56
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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57
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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61
laboring
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| n.劳动，操劳v.努力争取(for)( labor的现在分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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62
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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63
puckering
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的现在分词 )；小褶纹；小褶皱 | |
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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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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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wrangles
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| n.（尤指长时间的）激烈争吵，口角，吵嘴( wrangle的名词复数 )v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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69
wrings
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| 绞( wring的第三人称单数 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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72
shrugs
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| n.耸肩（以表示冷淡，怀疑等）( shrug的名词复数 ) | |
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dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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75
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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unemployed
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| adj.失业的，没有工作的；未动用的，闲置的 | |
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78
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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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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enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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irate
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| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
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82
onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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83
wrangling
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的现在分词 ) | |
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84
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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86
abhors
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| v.憎恶( abhor的第三人称单数 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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singed
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| v.浅表烧焦( singe的过去式和过去分词 )；（毛发）燎，烧焦尖端[边儿] | |
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