Chapter 35 Chapter Thirty-Five

Next morning he skimmed through the papers, gnawed through the long list of advertisements, and made some notes. Then he went to see the advertisements for male workers, but was in a very unhappy mood. Another day lay before him...  ..a long day of looking for something to do...and that's how he had to start. He glanced at the long billboards, most of which were for bakers, changers, cooks, compositors. Coachman, etc., only two cases caught his attention, one was a cashier for a wholesale furniture store, the other was a salesman for a whiskey company. He never thought of being a salesman. He Decided to check it out right away.

That company is called Alsbury & Co., and distributes whiskey. He was so dignified that he was invited to see the manager almost as soon as he arrived. "Good morning, sir," said the manager, thinking at first that he was dealing with an out-of-town client. "Good morning," said Hurstwood. "I know you're in the papers looking for salesmen, aren't you?" "Oh," said the man, with a distinct look of enlightenment. "Yes, yes, I'm in the paper." "I want to apply," said Hurstwood with dignity, "and I have some experience of the trade."

"Oh, do you have any experience?" said the man, "what kind of experience do you have?" "Well, I've been manager of a few hotels in the past. I recently had a one-third interest in the hotel on the corner of Warren and Hudson." "I see," said the man. Hurstwood paused, waiting for his opinion. "We wanted a salesman," said the man, "but I don't know if you'd like to do that." "I understand," said Hurstwood, "but I can't be picky just now. If the place is still vacant, I'll be happy to take it."

The man was not happy to hear what he said about "can't pick and choose". He wanted someone who didn't want to pick and choose or find something better to do. He didn't want an old man. He wanted a young, positive, happy to take A man with little money who can work on his own initiative. He doesn't like Hurstwood at all. Hurstwood is more pompous than his shopkeepers. "Very well," he replied. "We are glad to consider your application. It will be a few days before we make a decision. Send us a resume." "All right," said Hurstwood. He nodded his goodbyes and came out. At the corner, he looked at the address of the furniture store and figured out it was on West Twenty-third Street. He went there according to the address. But the store was not very big. , looked like a modest shop, and the people in it were idle and paid very little. He glanced inside as he passed, and then decided not to go in.

"Probably they want a ten-dollar-a-week girl," he said. At one o'clock he wanted to eat, so he went into a restaurant in Madison Square. There he thought about where he could find something to do. He was tired. The cold wind was blowing again. He decided to go over there and sit for a while in the lobby of a hotel. It was warm and bright inside. He met no acquaintances at the Broadway Central Hotel. Ten Most likely, he would meet no acquaintance here. He sat down on a red velvet couch by the large window, which looked out on the bustle of Broadway, and sat thinking. Here , he felt that his situation did not seem too bad. Sitting there quietly looking out of the window, he could find a little comfort in the few hundred dollars in his wallet. He could forget some of the tiredness and Tiredness of looking about. But it was only a flight from one severe situation to a less severe one. He was still sullen and despondent. Here the minutes seemed to pass very slowly. An hour. It used to take a long, long time. During the hour he was busy observing and evaluating the real travelers who came and went from the hotel, and the wealthier passers-by on Broadway outside the hotel, who It's all about fortune, you can tell by their clothes and looks. It's almost the first time since he came to New York that he has had so much leisure to enjoy the spectacle. Now he himself is forced to , did not know what other people were busy with. He saw how happy these young people were, and how beautiful these women were. They were all so gorgeously dressed. They were all so anxious to get somewhere. He saw beautiful and throw coquettish glances at the girls. Oh, how much money it costs to keep these people... He knows it all too well! It's been a long time since he had the opportunity to live like this!

The clock outside said four o'clock. It was a little early, but he wanted to go back to the apartment. The thought of going back to the apartment was accompanied by the thought that if he came home early, Carrie would think he was sitting around too much. He wished he didn't have to, but it was such a rough day. Back home He was at his ease. He could sit in the rocking chair and read the newspaper. The busyness, the distraction, the evocative scene was blocked out. He could read the newspaper. With that thought, he went home. Carrie was reading, very alone. The house was shaded and it was dark inside.

"You'll spoil your eyes," he said when he saw her. After taking off his coat, he thought he should talk a little bit about the day. "I've talked to a wholesale liquor company," he said, "and I might go out and do some sales." "Wouldn't that be nice!" said Carrie. "Not too bad," he answered. Lately he has been buying two papers from the man on the corner...the Evening World and the Evening Sun. So now, when he passes there, he just picks up the papers and goes away without stopping. He moved his chair closer to the fire and lit the gas. Then everything was as it was the night before. His troubles disappeared in the news that he loved so much. The next day was even worse than the previous day, because then he wanted to Not knowing where to go. He studied the papers until ten o'clock in the morning, and he still couldn't see a thing he wanted to do. He thought he should go out, but the thought of it made him sick. Where to go, where to go Woolen cloth?

"Don't forget to give me the money I need this week," said Carrie quietly. They agreed that he would give her twelve dollars a week for daily expenses. When she said this, he sighed softly and took out his wallet. He felt the horror of the matter again. He In this way, the money is taken out, taken out, and no penny is brought in. "For God's sake!" he thought to himself, "it can't go on like this." To Carrie he said nothing. She could feel that he was disturbed by her request. It would soon become a painful thing to ask for money. "But what does it matter to me?" she thought, "well, why should I bother with it?"

Hurstwood went out and walked toward Broadway. He was looking for a place to go. It was not long before he came to the Grand Hotel on Thirty-first Street. He knew that this hotel had a comfortable room. Hall. After twenty cross streets, he felt cold. "I'll go to their barbershop and have a shave," he thought. Having enjoyed the services of the barber, he felt he had a right to sit there. He felt that time was running out again, so he went home early. It was like this for several days, and every day he was miserable because he had to go out to find something to do. sit. In the end, it was a three-day snowstorm, and he didn’t go out at all. The snow started to fall one evening. The snow kept falling, and the snow flakes were big, soft and white. There's a snowstorm. You can see a thick, soft snow through the front window.

"I don't think I'll go out today," he said to Carrie at breakfast. "It's going to be bad, the papers say." "My coal has not been delivered yet," said Carrie, whose coal was called by the bushel. "I'll go over and ask," said Hurstwood. It was the first time he had offered to do some chores, but somehow his desire to sit at home prompted him to say so, as a pleasure to sit at home. Some kind of compensation for the rights of the family. The snow fell all day and all night. Traffic jams began to occur all over the city. The newspapers filled with details of the blizzard and the plight of the poor in large type.

Hurstwood sat reading the paper by the fire in the corner. He no longer considered the need for work. The terrible snowstorm, which had paralyzed everything, did not require him to look for work. He made himself Comfortable, roasting his two feet. Carrie was puzzled to see him so at ease. She doubted that, however violent the blizzard, he should not have looked so comfortable. He was too optimistic about his situation. However, Hurstwood went on looking and looking. He didn't pay much attention to Carrie. She was busy with her housework and seldom disturbed him with words. It was still snowing the next day, and bitterly cold the third. Hurstwood listened. Newspaper warnings, sitting at home. Now he volunteers to do other little things. Once to the butcher shop, another time to the grocery store. He does these little things without actually thinking about the real value of the things themselves. He just felt that he was not useless. Indeed, in such bad weather, it is still very useful to stay at home. On the fourth day, however, the sky cleared, and he knew from the papers that the storm was over. And he was still lounging about, thinking how muddy the streets must be. It was not until noon that he finally put down the newspaper and set out. As the temperature rose slightly, the street was muddy and difficult to walk. He took the streetcar across Fourteenth Street and turned south at Broadway. He took the relevant information about the Pearl Street family. A small advertisement for a hotel. However, at the Broadway Central Hotel, he changed his mind. "What's the use of that?" he thought, looking at the mud and snow outside the car. "I can't invest in a stock. It's going to come to nothing nine times out of ten. I'd better get out of the car." So he got out He got out of the car. He sat down again in the lobby of the hotel and waited for the hours to pass, wondering what he could do. He was content to be indoors. While he was sitting there dreaming, a well-dressed man passed the hall, stopped, as if wondering if he remembered, stared, and walked away. Come forward. Hurstwood recognized him as Cargill, owner of a great stable in Chicago also called Cargill. He had last seen him at Affleck Hall, where Carrie was performing that evening. I remembered the time when this man brought his wife over to shake hands with him. Hurstwood was greatly embarrassed. His eyes showed that he was embarrassed. "Oh, it's Hurstwood!" said Cargill, now remembering, and regretted not having recognized him soon enough at first to avoid the interview. "Yes," said Hurstwood. "How are you?" "Very well," said Cargill, troubled at not knowing what to say. "Live here?" "No," said Hurstwood, "only here for an appointment." "All I know is that you left Chicago. I've always wondered what became of you." "Oh, I live in New York now," answered Hurstwood, hurrying away. "I think you're doing well." "great." "Glad to hear that." They looked at each other, embarrassed. "Oh, I have an appointment with a friend upstairs. I'm going. Goodbye." Hurstwood nodded. "Damn it," he muttered, walking toward the door. "I knew it was going to happen." He walked along the street a few cross streets. He looked at his watch and it was only half past one. He tried to think of where to go or what to do. The weather was so bad that he just wanted to hide indoors. Finally he started Feeling his feet were wet and cold, he got on a streetcar, which took him to Fifty-ninth Street, which was like everywhere else. He got off here, turned and walked back down Seventh Avenue, But the road was muddy. The pain of wandering about in the streets with nowhere to go was too much for him. He felt as if he was going to catch a cold. He stopped at a corner to wait for a southbound tram. It was definitely not the weather to go out, he was going home. Carrie was surprised to see him back at a quarter to three. "It's a bad day to be out," was all he said. Then he took off his coat and changed his shoes. That night he thought he had a cold, so he took some quinine. He was still a little feverish until the next morning, and sat at home all day, attended by Carrie. He was not very handsome in the dull bathrobe, and his hair was unkempt. He looked haggard around his eyes, and he looked old. Carrie was displeased to see this. She wanted to express tenderness and sympathy, but there was something about this man. Something keeps her from being close to him. In the evening, in the dim light, he looked very ugly, and she advised him to go to bed. "You'd better sleep alone," she said, "that will make you feel better. I'll go and make your bed now." "Okay," he said. She felt very uncomfortable when she was doing these things. "What a life! What a life!" was all she could think of. Once, during the day, when he was sitting hunched over the fire, reading a newspaper, she crossed the room and frowned at him. In the less warm front room, she sat by the window I started to cry. Is this the life she was destined to live? To be locked up in a small house like a pigeon cage, and to live with a person who has no job, nothing to do, and who doesn’t care about her? Now she is just one of his maids, That's all. When she cried, her eyes were red from crying. He noticed it when she lit the gas lamp while making the bed, and called him in after making the bed. "What's the matter with you?" he asked, looking into her face. His voice was hoarse, and with his unkempt appearance, it sounded terrible. "Nothing," said Carrie feebly. "You have cried," he said. "I didn't cry," she answered. He didn't cry because he loved him, he knew that. "You don't have to cry," he said, getting into bed. "It's going to get better." After a day or two he got up, but the weather was still so bad that he had to stay at home. The Italian who sold the newspapers now brought them to his door, and he read them with great interest. After this, he got up his courage and went out. A few times, but again met an old friend. He began to feel restless sitting in the lobby of the hotel. He came home early every day, and in the end he didn't even pretend to be going anywhere. Winter was not the time to find something to do. Staying at home, he naturally noticed how Carrie was doing the housework. She was so bad at housekeeping and economy that her deficiencies in these respects first came to his attention. It was, however, when she asked for money regularly After it became unbearable. Week after week seemed to go by very quickly as he sat at home like this. Carrie asked him for money every Tuesday. "Do you think we're saving enough?" he asked one Tuesday morning. "I did my best," said Carrie. He said nothing more then, but the next day he said: "Have you ever been to Gansewall's Market over there?" "I didn't know there was such a market," said Carrie. "I hear things are much cheaper there." Carrie's reaction to this suggestion was very cool. She was not at all interested in such matters. "How much do you pay for a pound of meat?" he asked one day. "Oh, the price is different," said Carrie. "Sirloin twenty-five cents a pound." "That's too expensive, isn't it?" he replied. Just like that, he asked about other things, and over time it seemed to become a hobby of his. He knew the price and remembered it. His ability to do household chores also improved. From small things, of course. One morning Carrie was stopped by him as she was going to get her hat. "Where are you going, Carrie?" he asked. "To the bakery over there," she replied. "May I go for you?" he said. She acquiesced, and he went. Every afternoon, he went to the corner of the street to buy newspapers. "Do you have anything to buy?" he'd say. Gradually she began to tease him. But then she lost her twelve dollars a week. "It's time for you to pay me today," she said, about this time, a Tuesday. "How much?" he asked. She knew exactly what it meant. "Well, about five dollars," she replied. "I owe coal money." On the same day, he said: "I know that Italian on the corner sells coal at twenty-five cents a bushel. I'll buy his coal." Carrie was indifferent when she heard this. "Okay," she said. Then, the situation becomes: "George, you have to buy coal today." Or "You have to get some meat for supper." He will ask what she needs, and then go shopping. With this arrangement comes stinginess. "I only bought a half-pound of steak," he said, coming in one afternoon with a newspaper. "We don't seem to eat much." These sad little things broke Carrie's heart. They made her life dark and her soul sad. Oh, what a change the man had made! Day after day he sat at home, watching His papers. The world seemed to interest him in the least. He would go out now and then, when the weather was fine, perhaps for four or five hours, between eleven and four o'clock. Besides, she has nothing to do with him. With no way out, Hurstwood became insensitive. Every month he spent some of his small savings. Now, he had only 500 dollars left, and he held on to it tightly. Persevering, as if this would indefinitely postpone the onset of abject poverty. Sitting at home, he decided to put on some of his old clothes. At first when the weather was bad. At first when he did so, he excused himself. . "It's such a bad day, I'll just wear these at home." In the end, these clothes were worn forever. Also, he has always been used to paying 15 cents for a facial repair, and another 10 cents for tips. When he first felt tight, he reduced the tip to 5 cents, and then gave up nothing. Later, He tried a dime barber shop and found that the shaves were okay, so he started frequenting there. After a while, he changed his shaves to every other day, then every three days, so that Go down till the rule is once a week. On Saturdays, he'll be a sight to behold. Of course, with his self-respect gone, Carrie lost respect for him. She couldn't understand what this man thought. He still had some money, he had decent clothes, and he looked good when he was dressed. She She didn't forget her struggle in Chicago, but she didn't forget that she never stopped fighting, but he never fought, and he didn't even read the advertisements in the newspapers. Finally, she could bear it no longer, and expressed her thoughts unequivocally. "Why do you put so much butter on your steak?" he asked her one evening, standing idle in the kitchen. "To make it taste better, of course," she replied. "Butter is terribly expensive these days," he suggested. "If you had a job, you wouldn't care about that," she answered. Thereupon he closed his mouth and went back to his paper, but the retort stung his heart. It was the first sharp word that fell from her lips. Carrie went to bed in the front room that night after finishing the paper, which was unusual. When Hurstwood decided to go to bed, he went to bed, as usual, without lighting the lamp. It was only then that he realized that Carrie was not there. "It's strange," he said, "perhaps she's going to bed later." He didn't think about it any more, and went to sleep. She was not with him in the morning. Strange to say, no one talked about it, and it passed away. When evening came, and the conversation grew a little more intense, Carrie said: "I want to sleep alone tonight. I have a headache." "All right," said Hurstwood. On the third night, without any excuse, she went to sleep on the bed in the front room. It was a cruel blow to Hurstwood, but he never mentioned it. "Well," he said to himself, and could not help frowning. "Let her sleep alone."