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letra de a girl of the painter cohorts (xvii) - stephen crane

upon a wet evening, several months after the last chapter, two interminable rows of cars, pulled by slipping horses, jangled along a prominent side-street. a dozen cabs, with coat-enshrouded drivers, clattered to and fro. electric lights, whirring softly, shed a blurred radiance. a flower dealer, his feet tapping impatiently, his nose and his wares glistening with rain-drops, stood behind an array of roses and chrysanthemums. two or three theatres emptied a crowd upon the storm-swept pavements. men pulled their hats over their eyebrows and raised their collars to their ears. women shrugged impatient shoulders in their warm cloaks and stopped to arrange their skirts for a walk through the storm. people having been comparatively silent for two hours burst into a roar of conversation, their hearts still kindling from the glowings of the stage

the pavements became tossing seas of umbrellas. men stepped forth to hail cabs or cars, raising their fingers in varied forms of polite request or imperative demand. an endless procession wended toward elevated stations. an atmosphere of pleasure and prosperity seemed to hang over the throng, born, perhaps, of good clothes and of having just emerged from a place of forgetfulness

in the mingled light and gloom of an adjacent park, a handful of wet wanderers, in att-tudes of chronic dejection, was scattered among the benches

a girl of the painted cohorts of the city went along the street. she threw changing glances at men who p-ssed her, giving smiling invitations to men of rural or untaught pattern and usually seeming sedately unconscious of the men with a metropolitan seal upon their faces

crossing glittering avenues, she went into the throng emerging from the places of forgetfulness. she hurried forward through the crowd as if intent upon reaching a distant home, bending forward in her handsome cloak, daintily lifting her skirts and picking for her well-shod feet the dryer spots upon the pavements

the restless doors of saloons, clashing to and fro, disclosed animated rows of men before bars and hurrying barkeepers

a concert hall gave to the street faint sounds of swift, machine-like music, as if a group of phantom musicians were hastening

a tall young man, smoking a cigarette with a sublime air, strolled near the girl. he had on evening dress, a moustache, a chrysanthemum, and a look of ennui, all of which he kept carefully under his eye. seeing the girl walk on as if such a young man as he was not in existence, he looked back transfixed with interest. he stared gl-ssily for a moment, but gave a slight convulsive start when he discerned that she was neither new, parisian, nor theatrical. he wheeled about hastily and turned his stare into the air, like a sailor with a search-light

a stout gentleman, with pompous and philanthropic whiskers, went stolidly by, the broad of his back sneering at the girl

a belated man in business clothes, and in haste to catch a car, bounced against her shoulder. “hi, there, mary, i beg your pardon! brace up, old girl.” he grasped her arm to steady her, and then was away running down the middle of the street

the girl walked on out of the realm of restaurants and saloons. she p-ssed more glittering avenues and went into darker blocks than those where the crowd travelled

a young man in light overcoat and derby hat received a glance shot keenly from the eyes of the girl. he stopped and looked at her, thrusting his hands in his pockets and making a mocking smile curl his lips. “come, now, old lady,” he said, “you don’t mean to tel me that you sized me up for a farmer?”

a labouring man marched along; with bundles under his arms. to her remarks, he replied, “it’s a fine evenin’, ain’t it?”

she smiled squarely into the face of a boy who was hurrying by with his hands buried in his overcoat pockets, his blonde locks bobbing on his youthful temples, and a cheery smile of unconcern upon his lips. he turned his head and smiled back at her, waving his hands

“not this eve—some other eve!”

a drunken man, reeling in her pathway, began to roar at her. “i ain’ ga no money!” he shouted, in a dismal voice. he lurched on up the street, wailing to himself: “i ain’ ga no money. ba’ luck. ain’ ga no more money.”

the girl went into gloomy districts near the river, where the tall black factories shut in the street and only occasional broad beams of light fell across the pavements from saloons. in front of one of these places, whence came the sound of a violin vigorously scr-ped, the patter of feet on boards and the ring of loud laughter, there stood a man with blotched features

further on in the darkness she met a ragged being with shifting, bloodshot eyes and grimy hands

she went into the blackness of the final block. the shutters of the tall buildings were closed like grim lips. the structures seemed to have eyes that looked over them, beyond them, at other things. afar off the lights of the avenues glittered as if from an impossible distance. street-car bells jingled with a sound of merriment

at the feet of the tall buildings appeared the deathly black hue of the river. some hidden factory sent up a yellow glare, that lit for a moment the waters lapping oilily against timbers. the varied sounds of life, made joyous by distance and seeming unapproachableness, came faintly and died away to a silence

- stephen crane

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