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His New Mittens · The Monster and Other Stories

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Section four of The Monster and Other Stories by Stephen Crane. The s LibriVox
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recording is in the public domain. Read by Ben Tucker, his New Mittens,
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One little Horace was walking home from school, brilliantly decorated by a pair
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of new red mittens. A number of boys were snowballing gleefully in a field.
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They hailed him, Come on, Horace, we're havin a battle.
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Horace was sad. No, he said, I can't. I've got to
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go home at noon. His mother had admonished him. Now, Horace,
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you come straight home as soon as school is out, do you hear?
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And don't you get them nice new mittens all wet either? Do you hear?
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Also? His aunt had said, I declare, Emily, it's a
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shame the way you allow that child to ruin his things. She had meant
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mittens to his mother. Horace had dutifully replied, yes'm But now he loitered
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in the vicinity of the group of a roarious boys who were yelling like hawks
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as the white balls flew. Some of them immediately analyzed this extraordinary hesitancy.
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Ha They paused a scoff. Afraid of your new mittens, ain't you some
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smaller boys, who were not yet so wise and discerning motives, applauded this
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attack with unreasonable vehemence. Afraid of his mittens. Afraid of his mittens,
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they sang these lines to cruel and monotonous music, which is as old,
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perhaps as American childhood, and which it is the privilege of the emancipated adult
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who completely forget afraid of his mittens. Horace cast a tortured glance towards his
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playmates, and then dropped his eyes to the snow at his feet. Presently,
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he turned to the trunk of one of the great maple trees that lined
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the curb. He made a pretense of closely examining the rough and virile bark.
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To his mind, this familiar street of Wilhelmville seemed to grow dark in
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the thick shadow of shame. The trees and the houses were now palled in
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purple. Afraid of his mittens. The terrible music had in it a meaning
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from the moonlit war drums of chanting cannibals. At last, Horace, with
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supreme effort, raised his head. Tain't them that I care about, he
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said, gruffly. I've got to go home, That's all. Whereupon each
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boy held his left forefinger as if it were a pencil, and began to
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sharpen it derisively with his right forefinger. They came closer and sang like a
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trained chorus, afraid of his mittens. When he raised his voice to deny
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the charge, it was simply lost in the screams of the mob. He
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was alone, fronting all the traditions of boyhood held before him by inexorable representatives.
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To such a low state had he fallen that one lad, a mere
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baby, outflanked him and then struck him in the cheek with a heavy snowball.
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The act was acclaimed with loud jeers. Horace turned to dart at his
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assailant, but there was an immediate demonstration on the other flank, and he
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found himself obliged to keep his face towards the hilarious crew of tormentors. The
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baby retreated in safety to the rear of the crowd, where he was received
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with fulsome compliments. Upon his daring. Horace retreated slowly up the walk.
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He continually tried to make them heed him, but the only sound was the
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chant. Afraid of his maidens. In this desperate withdrawal, the Besett and
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Hackard. Boy suffered more than is the common lot of man. Being a
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boy himself, he did not understand boys at all. He had, of
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course, the dismal conviction that they were going to dog him to his grave.
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But near the corner of the field they suddenly seemed to forget all about
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it. Indeed, they possessed only the malevolence of so many flitter headed sparrows.
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The interest had swung capriciously to some other matter. In a moment,
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they were off in the field again, carousing amid the snow. Some authoritative
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boy had probably said, ah, come on. As the pursuit ceased,
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Horace ceased his retreat. He spent some time in what was evidently an attempt
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to adjust his self respect, and then began to wander furtively down towards the
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group. He too, had undergone an important change. Perhaps his sharp agony
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was only as durable as the malevolence of the others. In this boyish life,
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obedience to some unformulated creed of manners was enforced with capricious but merciless rigor.
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However, they were, after all his comrades, his friends. They
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did not heed his return. They were engaged in an altercation. It had
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evidently been planned that this battle was between Indians and soldiers. The smaller and
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weaker boys had been induced to appear as Indians and the initial skirmish, but
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they were now very sick of it and were reluctantly but steadfastly affirming their desire
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for a change of caste. The larger boys had all one great distinction devastating
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Indians materially, and they wished the war to go on as planned. They
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explained vociferously that it was proper for the soldiers always to thrash the Indians.
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The little boys did not pretend to deny the truth of this argument. They
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confined themselves to the simple statement that in that case they wished to be soldiers.
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Each little boy willingly appealed to the others to remain Indians, but as
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for himself, he reiterated his desire to enlist as a soldier. The larger
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boys were in despair over this dearth of enthusiasm in the small Indians. They
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alternately wheedled and bullied, but they could not persuade the little boys, who
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were really suffering dreadful humiliation. Rather than submit to another onslaught of soldiers.
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They recalled all the baby names that had the power of stinging deep into their
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pride, but they remained firm. Then a formidable Lad, a leader of
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reputation, one who could whip many boys that wore long trousers, suddenly blew
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out his cheeks and shouted, well, all right, then, I'll be
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an Indian myself. Now. The little boys greeted with cheers this addition to
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their waried ranks, and seemed then content. But matters were not mended in
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the least because all of the personal following of the Formidable Lad, with the
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addition of every outsider, spontaneously forsook the flag and declared themselves Indians. There
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were now no soldiers. The Indians had carried everything unanimously. The Formidable Lad
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used his influence, but his influence could not shake the loyalty of his friends,
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who refused to fight under any colors but his colors. Plainly, there
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was nothing for it but to coerce the little ones. The Formidable Lad again
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became a soldier, and then graciously permitted to join him all the real fighting
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strength of the crowd, leaving behind a most forlorn band of little Indians.
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Then the soldiers attacked the Indians, exhorting them to opposition. At the same
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time, the Indians at first adopted a policy of hurried surrender, but this
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had no success, as none of the surrenders were accepted. They then turned
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to flee, bawling out protests. The ferocious soldiers pursued them. Amid shouts.
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The battle widened, developing all manner of marvelous detail. Horace had turned
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towards home several times, but as a matter of fact, the scene held
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him in a spell. It was fascinating, beyond anything which the grown man
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understands. He had always in the back of his head a sense of guilt,
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even a sense of impending punishment for disobedience, but they could not weigh
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with the delirium of this snow battle. Two. One of the raiding soldiers,
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the spying Horace, called out in passing afraid of his mittens. Horace
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flinched at this renewal, and the other lad paused to taunt him again.
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Horace scooped some snow, molded it into a ball, and flung it at
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the other Oh cried the boy, You're an Indian, aren't you, hey,
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Fellers, here's an Indian that ain't been killed yet. He and Horace
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engaged in a duel in which both were in such haste muld snowballs that they
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had little time for aiming. Horace once struck his opponent squarely in the chest.
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Hey, he shouted, you're dead. You can't find any more Pete,
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I killed you. You're dead. The other boy flushed red, but
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he continued frantically to make ammunition. You never touched me, he retorted,
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glowering. You never touched me. Where now, he added, defiantly,
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where did you hit me? On the coat, right on your breast.
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You can't fight any more. You're dead. You never I did too,
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Hey, fellers, ain't he dead? I hit him square? Hey?
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Never? Nobody had seen the affair, but some of the boys took sides
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in absolute accordance with their friendship. For one of the concerned parties, Horace's
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opponent went about contending he never touched me, He never came near me,
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He never came near me. The formidable leader now came forward an accosted Horace,
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what was you an Indian? Well, then you're dead. That's all
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he hit you. I saw him me, shrieked Horace. He never came
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within a mile of me. At that moment he heard his name called in
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a certain familiar tune of two notes, with the last note shrill and prolonged.
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He looked towards the sidewalk and saw his mother standing there in her widow's
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weeds, with two brown paper parcels under her arm. A silence had fallen
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upon all the boys. Horace moved slowly towards his mother. She did not
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seem to note his approach. She was gazing austerly off through the naked branches
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of the maples, where two crimson sunset bars lay on the deep blue sky,
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at a distance of ten paces. Horace made a desperate venture. Oh
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ma, he whined, Can I stay out for a while? No,
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she answered solemnly, you must come with me. Horace knew that profile.
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It was the inexorable profile, but he continued to plead because it was not
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beyond his mind that a great show of suffering now might diminish his suffering later.
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He did not dare to look back at his playmates. It was already
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a public scandal that he could not stay out as late as other boys,
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and he could imagine his standing now that he had been again dragged off by
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his mother. In sight of the whole world, he was a profoundly miserable
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human being. Aunt Martha opened the door for them. Light streamed about her
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straight skirt. Oh, she said, so you found him on the road.
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Eh, Well, I declare it was about time. Horace slunk into
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the kitchen. The stove, straddling out on its four iron legs, was
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gently humming. Aunt Martha had evidently just lighted the lamp, for she went
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to it and began to twist the wick experimentally. Now said the mother,
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let's see them mittens. Horace's chin sank. The aspiration of the criminal,
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the passionate desire for an asylum from retribution from justice, was a flame in
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his heart. A. I don't know where they are, he gasped finally,
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as he passed his hand over his pockets. Horace intoned his mother,
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You are telling me a story. Taint a story, he answered, just
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above his breath. He looked like a sheep stealer. His mother held him
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by the arm and began to search his pockets. Almost at once she was
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able to bring forth a pair of very wet mittens. Well, I declare,
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cried Aunt Martha. The two women went close to the lamp and minutely
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examined the mittens, turning them over and over. Afterwards, when Horace looked
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up, his mother's sad, lined, homely face was turned towards him.
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He burst into tears. His mother drew a chair near the stove. Just
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you sit there now until I tell you to get off. He sidled meekly
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into the chair. His mother and his aunt went briskly about the business of
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preparing supper. They did not display a knowledge of his existence. They carried
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an effect of oblivion, so far that they even did not speak to each
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other. Presently, they went into the dining and living room. Horace could
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hear the dishes rattling. His aunt, Martha, brought a plate of food,
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placed it on a chair near him, and went away without a word.
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Horace instantly decided that he would not touch a morsel of the food.
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He had often used this ruse in dealing with his mother. He did not
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know why it brought her to terms, but certainly it sometimes did. The
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mother looked up when the aunt returned to the other room. Is he eatin
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his supper? She asked? The maiden aunt, fortified in ignorance, gazed
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with pity and contempt upon this interest. Well, now, Emily, how
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do I know, she queried, Was I going to stand over him?
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Of course, all the worryin' you do about that child, it's a shamed
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the way you're bringing up that child. Well, he ought to eat something.
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It won't do for him to go without eatin The mother retorted weakly.
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Aunt Martha, profoundly scorning the policy of concession which these words meant, uttered
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a long, contemptuous sigh. Three Alone in the kitchen, Horace stared with
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somber eyes at the plate of food. For a long time. He betrayed
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no sign of yielding. His mood was adamantine. He was resolved not to
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sell his vengeance for bread, cold ham, and a pickle. And yet
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it must be known that the sight of them affected him powerfully. The pickle,
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in particular, was notable for its seductive charm. He surveyed it darkly,
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but at last, unable to longer endure his state his attitude, in
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the presence of the pickle, he put out an inquisitive finger and touched it.
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And it was cool and green and plump. Then a full conception of
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the cruel woe of his situation swept upon him suddenly, and his eyes filled
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with tears, which began to move down his cheeks. He sniffled. His
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heart was black with hatred. He painted in his mind scenes of deadly retribution.
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His mother would be taught that he was not one to endure persecution meekly
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without raising an arm in his And so his dreams were of a slaughter of
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feelings. And near the end of them, his mother was pictured as coming
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bowed with pain to his feet, weeping, she implored his charity. Would
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he forgive her? No, his once tender heart had been turned to stone
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by her injustice. He could not forgive her. She must pay the inexorable
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penalty. The first item in this horrible plan was the refusal of the food.
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This he knew by experience would work havoc in his mother's heart, and
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so he grimly waited. But suddenly it occurred to him that the first part
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of his revenge was in danger of failing. The thought struck him that his
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mother might not capitulate in the usual way. According to his recollection, the
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time was more than due when she should come in worried, sadly, affectionate,
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and ask him if he was ill. It had then been his custom
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to hint in a resigned voice that he was the victim of secret disease,
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but that he preferred to suffer in silence and alone. If she was obdurate
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in her anxiety, he always asked her in a gloomy, low voice to
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go away and leave him to suffer in silence and alone in the darkness,
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without food. He had known this maneuvering to result even in pie. But
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what was the meaning of the long pause and the stillness? Had his old
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and valued ruse betrayed him as the truth sank into his mind. He supremely
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loathed life, the world, his mother, Her heart was beating back the
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besiegers. He was a defeated child. He wept for a time before deciding,
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upon the final stroke, he would run away in a remote corner of
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the world. He would become some sort of bloody handed person, driven to
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a life of crime by the barbarity of his mother. She should never know
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his fate. He would torture her for years with doubts and doubts, and
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drive her implacably to a repentant grave. Nor would his aunt Martha escape some
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day a century. Hence, when his mother was dead, he would write
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to his aunt Martha and point out her part in the blighting of his life.
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For one blow against him now he would in time deal back a thousand,
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ay ten thousand. He arose and took his coat and cap. As
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he moved stealthily towards the door, he cast a glance backward at the pickle.
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He was tempted to take it, but he knew that if he left
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the plate inviolate, his mother would feel even worse. A blue snow was
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falling. People bowed forward, were moving briskly along the walks. The electric
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lamps hummed amid showers of flakes. As Horace emerged from the kitchen, a
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shrill squall drove the flakes around the corner of the house. He cowered away
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from it, and its violence illumined his mind vaguely in new directions. He
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deliberated upon a choice of remote corners of the globe. He found that he
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had no plans which were definite enough in a geographical way, but without much
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loss of time, he decided upon California. He moved briskly as far as
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his mother's front gate, on the road to California. He was off at
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last. His success was a trifle dreadful, his throat choked. But at
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the gate he paused. He did not know if his journey to California would
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be shorter if he went down Niagara Avenue or off through Hogan Street. As
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the storm was very cold and the point was very important, he decided to
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withdraw for reflection to the woodshed. He entered the dark shanty and took seat
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upon the old chopping block upon which he was supposed to perform for a few
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minutes every afternoon. When he returned from school. The wind screamed and shouted
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at the loose boards, and there was a rift of snow on the floor
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to leeward of a crack. Here. The idea of starting for California on
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such a night departed from his mind, leaving him ruminating miserably upon his martyrdom.
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He saw nothing for it but to sleep all night in the wood shed
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and start for California in the morning, bright and early. Thinking of his
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bed, he kicked over the floor and found that the innumerable chips were all
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frozen, tightly bedded in ice. Later, he viewed with joy some signs
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of excitement in the house, the flare of a lamp moved rapidly from window
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to window. Then the kitchen door slammed loudly, and a shawled figure sped
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towards the gate. At last, he was making them feel his power.
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The shivering child's face was lit with saturnine glee. As in the darkness of
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the woodshed. He gloated over the evidences of consternation in his home. The
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shawled figure had been his aunt Martha, dashing with the alarm to the neighbors.
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The cold of the woodshed was tormenting him. He endured only because of
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the terror he was causing. But then it occurred to him that if they
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instituted a search for him, they would probably examine the woodshed. He knew
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that it would not be manfold to be caught so soon. He was not
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positive now that he was going to remain away forever, but at any rate,
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he was bound to inflict some more damage before allowing himself to be captured.
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If he merely succeeded in making his mother angry, she would thrash him
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on sight. He must prolong the time in order to be safe. If
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he held out properly, he was sure of a welcome of love, even
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though he should drip with crimes. Evidently the storm had increased, for when
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he went out, it swung him violently with its rough and merciless strength.
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Panting, stung, half blinded with the driving flakes. He was now a
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waif, exiled, friendless, and poor. With a bursting heart. He
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thought of his home and his mother. To his forlorn vision, they were
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as far away as heaven. Four. Horace was undergoing changes of feeling so
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rapidly that he was merely moved hither and then thither like a kite. He
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was now aghast at the merciless ferocity of his mother. It was she who
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had thrust him into this wild storm, and she was perfectly indifferent to his
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fate, perfectly indifferent. The forlorn wanderer could no longer weep, The strong
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sobs caught at his throat, making his breath come in short, quick snuffles.
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All in him was conquered, save the enigmatical, childish ideal of form
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manner. The principle still held out, and it was the only thing between
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him and submission. When he surrendered, he must surrender in a way that
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deferred to the undefined code. He longed simply to go to the kitchen and
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stumble in, but his unfathomable sense of fitness forbade him. Presently, he
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found himself at the head of Niagara Avenue, staring through the snow into the
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blazing windows of Stickney's butcher shop. Stickney was the family butcher, not so
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much because of a superiority to other Willhelmville butcher's as because he lived next door
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and had been an intimate friend of the father of Horace. Rows of glowing
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pigs hung head downward back of the tables, which bore huge pieces of red
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beef. Clumps of attenuated turkeys were suspended here and there. Stickney, hale
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and smiling, was bantering with a woman in a cloak, who, with
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a monster basket on her arm, was dickering for eight cents worth of something.
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Horace watched them through a crusted pane. When the woman came out and
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passed him, he went towards the door. He touched the latch with his
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finger, but withdrew again suddenly to the sidewalk. Inside Stickney was whistling cheerily
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and assorting his knives. Finally, Horace went desperately forward, opened the door
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and entered the shop. His head hung low. Stickney stopped whistling a low
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young man, He cried, what brings you here? Horace halted but said
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nothing. He swung one foot to and fro over the sawdust floor. Stickney
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had placed his two fat hands, palmed downward and wide apart, on the
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table, in the attitude of a butcher facing a customer. But now he
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straightened here he said, what's wrong? What's wrong? Kid? Nothing answered
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Horace huskily. He labored for a moment with something in his throat, and
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afterwards added only I I've run away, and run away, shouted Stickney.
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Run away from what? Who? From home? Answered Horace. I don't
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like his are any more? Eh. He had arranged an oration to win
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the sympathy of the butcher. He had prepared a table, setting forth the
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merits of his case in the most logical fashion. But it was as if
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the wind had been knocked out of his mind. I've run away. Ah.
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Stickney reached an enormous hand over the array of beef and firmly grappled the
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emigrant. Then he swung himself to Horace's side. His face was stretched with
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laughter and he playfully shook his prisoner. Come, come, come, what
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dash of nonsense is this? Run away? Eh, run away? Whereupon
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the child's long tried spirit found vent and howls. Come, come, said
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Stickney busily. Never mind, now, never mind, you just come along
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wi me. It'll be all right. I'll fix it. Never you mind.
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Five minutes later, the butcher, with a great ulster over his apron,
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was leading the boy homeward. At the very threshold, Horace raised his
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last flag of pride. No, no, he sobbed. I don't want
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to, I don't want to go in there. He braced his foot against
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the step and made a very respectable resistance. Now, Horace, cried the
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butcher. He thrust open the door with a bang. Hello There across the
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dark kitchen, the door to the living room opened, and Aunt Martha appeared.
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You've found him, she screamed. We've come to make a call,
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roared the butcher. At the entrance to the living room, a silence fell
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upon them. All Upon a couch, Horace saw his mother lying limp,
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pale as death, her eyes gleaming with pain. There was an electric pause
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before she swung a waxen hand towards horace, my child, She murmured tremulously,
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whereupon the sinister person, addressed with a prolonged wail of grief and joy,
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ran to her with speed. Mamma, mamma, oh, mamma.
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She was not able to speak in a known tongue as she folded him in
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her weak arms. Aunt Martha turned defiantly upon the butcher. Because her face
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betrayed her. She was crying. She made a gesture, half military,
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half feminine. Won't you have a glass of our root beer? Mister Stickney,
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We make it ourselves. End of Section four. His new mittens