O. Henry

                       A Harlem Tragedy


Файл с книжной полки Несененко Алексея
OCR: Несененко Алексей июнь 2002



HARLEM. 
   Mrs. Fink has dropped into Mrs. Cassidy's flat one flight below. 
   `Ain't it a beaut?' said Mrs. Cassidy.
   She turned her face proudly for her friend Mrs. Fink to see.
One eye was nearly closed, with a great, greenish-purple bruise around 
it. Her lip was cut and bleeding a little and there were red finger-
marks on each side of her neck.
   `My husband wouldn't ever think of doing, that to me,' said Mrs. 
Fink, concealing her envy.
   `I wouldn't have a man,' declared Mrs. Cassidy, `that didn't beat 
me up at least once a week. Shows he thinks something of you. Say! but 
that last dose Jack gave me wasn't no homoepathic one. I can see stars 
yet. But he'll be the sweetest man in town for the rest of the week to 
make up for it. This eye is good for theatre tickets and a silk shirt 
waist at the very least.'
   `I should hope,' said Mrs. Fink, assuming complacency, `that Mr. 
Fink is too much of a gentleman ever to raise his hand against me.'
   `Oh, go on, Maggie!' said Mrs. Cassidy, laughing and applying wych-
hazel, `you're only jealous. Your old man is too frapped and slow to 
ever give you a punch. He just sits down and practises physical 
culture with a newspaper when he comes home - now ain't that the 
truth?'
   `Mr. Fink certainly peruses of the papers when he comes home,' 
acknowledged Mrs. Fink, with a toss of her head; `but he certainly 
don't ever make no Steve O'Donnell out of me just to amuse himself - 
that's a sure thing.'
   Mrs. Cassidy laughed the contented laugh of the guarded and happy 
matron. With the air of Cornelia exhibiting her jewels, she drew down 
the collar of her kimono and revealed another treasured bruise, 
maroon-coloured, edged with olive and orange - a bruise now nearly 
well, but still to memory dear.
   Mrs. Fink capitulated. The formal light in her eye softened to 
envious admiration. She and Mrs. Cassidy had been chums in the down-
town paper-box factory before they had married, one year before. Now 
she and her man occupied the fiat above Mame and her man. Therefore 
she could not put on airs with Mame.
   `Don't it hurt when he soaks you?' asked Mrs. Fink curiously. 
`Hurt!' - Mrs. Cassidy gave a soprano scream of delight. `Well, say 
did you ever have a brick house fall on you? - well, that's just the 
way it feels - just like when they're digging you out of the ruins. 
Jack's got a left that spells two matinees and a new pair of Oxfords - 
and his right! - well, it takes a trip to Coney and six pairs of 
openwork, silk lisle threads to make that good.'
   `But what does he beat you for?' inquired Mrs. Fink, with wide-open 
eyes.
   `Silly!' said Mrs. Cassidy, indulgently. `Why, because he's full.
It's generally on Saturday nights.'
   `But what cause do you give him?' persisted the seeker after
knowledge.
   `Why, didn't I marry him? Jack comes in tanked up; and I'm
here, ain't I? Who else has he got a right to beat? I'd just like to
catch him once beating anybody else! Sometimes it's because
supper ain't ready; and sometimes it's because it is. Jack ain't 
particular about causes. He just lushes till he remembers he's 
married, and then he makes for home and does me up. Saturday nights I
~,~lust move the furniture with sharp corners out of the way, so I
won't cut my head when he gets his work in. He's got a left swing
that jars you! Sometimes I take the count in the first round;'but
when I feel like having a good time during the week, or want some
new rags, I come up again for more punishment. That's what I
done last night. Jack knows I've been wanting a black silk waist for
a month, and I didn't think just one black eye would bring it. Tell
you what, Mag, I'll bet you the ice cream he brings it to-night.'
   Mrs. Fink was thinking deeply.
   `My Mart,' she said, `never hit me a lick in his life. It's just 
like you said, Mame; he comes in grouchy and ain't got a word to say.
He never takes me out anywhere. He's a chairwarmer at home for fair. 
He buys me things, but he looks so glum about it that I never 
appreciate 'em.'
   Mrs. Cassidy slipped an arm around her chum.
   `You poor thing.' she said. `But everybody can't have a husband 
like Jack. Marriage wouldn't be no failure if they was all like him.
These discontented wives you hear about - what they need is a man to 
come home and kick their slats in once a week, and then make it up in 
kisses and chocolate creams. That'd give 'em some interest in life. 
What I want is a masterful man that slugs you when he's jagged and 
hugs you when he ain't jagged. Preserve me from the man that ain't got 
the sand to do neither!'
   Mrs. Fink sighed.
   The hallways were suddenly filled with sound. The door flew open at 
the kick of Mr. Cassidy. His arms were occupied with bundles. Mame 
flew and hung about his neck. Her sound eye sparkled with the love-
light that shines in the eye of the Maori maid when she recovers 
consciousness in the hut of the wooer who has stunned and dragged her 
there.
   `Hello, old girl!' shouted Mr. Cassidy. He shed his bundles and
lifted her off her feet in a mighty hug. `I got tickets for Barnum &
Bailey's, and if you'll bust the string of one of them bundles I guess 
you'll find that silk waist - why, good evening, Mrs. Fink, I didn't 
see you at first. How's old Mart coming along?'
   `He's very well, Mr. Cassidy - thanks,' said Mrs. Fink. `I must be 
going along up now. Mart 'll be home for supper soon. I'll bring you 
down that pattern you wanted to-morrow, Mame.'
   Mrs. Fink went up to her flat and had a little cry. It was a 
meaningless cry, the kind of cry that only a woman knows about, a cry 
from no particular cause, altogether an absurd cry; the most transient 
and the most hopeless cry in the repertory of grief. Why had Martin 
never thrashed her? He was as big and strong as Jack Cassidy. Did he 
not care for her at all? He never quarrelled; he came home and lounged 
about, silent, glum, idle. He was a fairly good provider, but he 
ignored the spices of life.
   Mrs. Fink's ship of dreams was becalmed. Her captain ranged between 
plum-duff and his hammock. If only he would shiver his timbers or 
stamp his foot on the quarter-deck now and then! And she had thought 
to sail so merrily, touching at ports in the Delec-table Isles! But 
now, to vary the figure, she was ready to throw up the sponge, tired 
out, with a scratch to show for all those tame rounds with her 
sparring partner. For one moment she almost hated Mame - Mame, with 
her cuts and bruises, her salve of presents and kisses, her stormy 
voyage with her fighting, brutal, loving mate.
   Mr. Fink came home at seven. He was permeated with the curse of 
domesticity. Beyond the portal of his cosy home he cared not to roam. 
He was the man who had caught the street-car, the ana-conda that had 
swallowed its prey, the tree that lay as it had fallen.
   `Like the supper, Mart?' asked Mrs: Fink, who had striven over it.
   `M-m-m-yep,' grunted Mr. Fink.
   After supper he gathered his newspapers to read. He sat in his 
stockinged feet.
   Arise, some new Dante, and sing me the befitting corner of 
perdition for the man who sitteth in the house in his stockinged feet! 
Sisters of Patience who by reason of ties or duty have endured it in 
silk, yarn, cotton, lisle thread or woollen - does not the new canto 
belong?
   The next day was Labour Day. The occupations of Mr. Cassidy and Mr. 
Fink ceased for one passage of the sun. Labour, triumphant, would 
parade and otherwise disport itself.
   Mrs. Fink took Mrs. Cassidy's pattern down early. Mame had on her 
new silk waist. Even her damaged eye managed to emit a holiday gleam. 
Jack was fruitfully penitent, and there was an hilarious scheme for 
the day afoot, with parks and picnics and Pilsener in it.
   A rising, indignant jealousy seized Mrs. Fink as she returned to
her flat above. Oh, happy Mame, with her bruises and her quick-
following balin! But was Mame to have a monopoly of happiness?
Surely Martin Fink was as good a man as Jack Cassidy. Was his
wife to go always unbelaboured and uncaressed? A sudden, brilliant, 
breathless idea came to Mrs. Fink. She would show Mame that there were 
husbands as able to use their fists and perhaps to be as tender 
afterward as any Jack.
   The holiday promised to be a nominal one with the Finks. Mrs. Fink 
had the stationary wash-tubs in the kitchen filled with a two weeks' 
wash that had been soaking overnight. Mr. Fink sat in his stockinged 
feet reading a newspaper. Thus Labour Day-presaged to speed.
   Jealousy surged high in Mrs. Fink's heart, and higher still surged 
an audacious resolve. If her man would not strike her – if he would 
not so far prove his manhood, his prerogative and his mterest in 
conjugal affairs, he must be prompted to his duty.
   Mr. Fink lit his pipe and peacefully rubbed an ankle with a
stockinged toe. He reposed in the state of matrimony like a limp of 
unblended suet in a pudding. This was his level Elysium - to sit at 
ease vicariously girdling the world in print amid the wifely splashing 
of suds and the agreeable smells of breakfast dishes departed and 
dinner ones to come. Many ideas were far from his mind; but the 
furthest one was the thought of beating his wife.
   Mrs. Fink turned on the hot water and set the washboards in the
suds. Up from the flat below came the gay laugh of Mrs. Cassidy.
It sounded like a taunt, a flaunting of her own happiness in the
face of the unslugged bride above. Now was Mrs. Fink's time.
Suddenly she turned like a fury upon the man reading.
   `You lazy loafer!' she cried, `must I work my arms off washing
and toiling for the ugly likes of you? Are you a man or are you a
kitchen hound?'
   Mr. Fink dropped his paper, motionless from surprise. She feared 
that he would not strike - that the provocation had been insufficient. 
She leaped at him and struck him fiercely in the face with her 
clenched hand. In that instant she felt a thrill of love for him such 
as she had not felt for many a day. Rise up, Martin Fink, and come 
into your kingdom! Oh, she must feel the weight of his hand now - just 
to show that he eared - just to show that he cared! 
   Mr. Fink sprang to his feet - Maggie caught him again on the jaw 
with a wide swing of her other hand. She closed her eyes in that 
fearful, blissful moment before his blow should come - she whispered 
his name to herself - she leaned to the expected shock, hungry for it.
   In the flat below, Mr. Cassidy, with a shamed and contrite face, 
was powdering Mame's eye in preparation for their junket. From the 
flat above came the sound of a woman's voice, high-raised, a bumping, 
a stumbling and a shuffling, a chair overturned -unmistakable sounds 
of domestic conflict.
   `Mart and Mag scrapping?' postulated Mr. Cassidy. `Didn't know they 
ever indulged. Shall I trot up and see if they need a sponge-holder?'
One of Mrs. Cassidy's eyes sparkled like a diamond. The other twinkled 
at least like paste.
   `Oh; oh,' she said softly and without apparent meaning, in the 
feminine ejaculatory manner. `I wonder if - I wonder if! Wait Jack, 
till I go up and see.
   Up the stairs she sped. As her foot struck the hallway above, out 
from the kitchen door of her flat wildly flounced Mrs. Fink.
   `Oh, Maggie,' cried Mrs. Cassidy, in a delighted whisper; `did he? 
Oh, did he?'
   Mrs. Fink ran and laid her face upon her chum's shoulder and sobbed 
hopelessly.
   Mrs. Cassidy took Maggie's face between her hands and lifted it 
gently. Tear-stained it was, flushing and paling, but its velvety, 
pink-and-white, becomingly freckled surface was unscratched, 
unbruised, unmarred by the recreant fist of Mr. Fink.
   `Tell me, Maggie,' pleaded Mame, `or I'll go in there and find out. 
What was it? Did he hurt you - what did he do?'
   Mrs. Fink's face went down again despairingly on the bosom of her 
friend.
   `For Gawd's sake don't open that door, Mame,' she sobbed. `And 
don't ever tell nobody - keep it under your hat. He - he never touched 
me, and - he's - oh, Gawd - he's washin' the clothes - he's washin' 
the clothes!'