Chapter 45 Chapter 45 The Strange Lives of the Poor

That gloomy Hurstwood, lodged in a cheap hotel, had nothing but his seventy dollars for furniture. He sat in the hotel like that, reading the newspaper, and sent away the hot summer, It's cool autumn again. His money is quietly disappearing, and he's not entirely indifferent to it. When he takes out fifty-fifty cents a day to pay his fifty-cent-a-day rent, he becomes agitated. , so ended up getting a cheaper room... 35 cents a day, trying to make his money last longer. He had often seen news of Carrie. A time or two passed her picture, and he saw an old issue of the Herald on a chair, and learned that she had recently attended a benefit performance for a cause with other actors. Read the messages one after the other. Each message seemed to send her farther and farther into another world. The farther the world was from him, the more unattainable it seemed. He also saw on the bulletin board a A beautiful poster of her in the role of a little Quaker. Demure and handsome. More than once he stopped to look at these, his eyes dulled at the beautiful face. He was in rags, and Compared with her current situation, he just formed a sharp contrast.

Somehow, as long as he knew she was still playing at the Casino, even though he never had the idea of ​​approaching her, he subconsciously felt a kind of comfort...he wasn't quite alone One. The play seemed to be such a permanent fixture that after a month or two he began to take it for granted that it would go on. In September, the troupe went on tour without him noticing. When he When he had only twenty dollars left in his money, he moved to a fifteen-cent-a-day boarding-house on the Bowery, where there was nothing but a bare lounge filled with tables, benches, and There are some chairs. Here he likes to close his eyes and think about the old days, a habit that has become more and more ingrained in him. At first this is not a deep sleep, but just a mental memory of his life in Chicago. Circumstances and events. As the present day grows darker, the past appears brighter, and everything connected with the past stands out.

He hadn't realized how much this habit had affected him until one day he found himself repeating an old phrase he had given to a friend of his. They were in the Fermer Hotel. It was as if he was standing in his elegant In front of his small office, well-dressed, and Sagar Morrison were discussing the value of a property on the South Side of Chicago, where the latter was planning to invest. "Would you like to invest in that with me?" he heard Morrison say. "I can't," he answered, as he had answered many years ago, "I can't free my hand just now."

His lips were moving, and it woke him up. He wondered if he really said it. The second time he realized it, he was really talking. "Why don't you dance, you big fool?" he was saying, "Jump!" Here's a funny English story he's telling a bunch of actors. Even when he's woken up by his own voice, he's still laughing. A stubborn old man sitting next to him looks disturbed, He stared sharply, at least. Hurstwood straightened up. The memory of the joke faded instantly, and he felt a little ashamed. So he left his chair, and wandered out into the street for amusement. up.

One day, as he was browsing the advertisement column of the Evening World, he saw that there was a new play being put on at the Casino. He was taken aback. Carrie had gone! He remembered seeing her just yesterday. A poster, but there was no doubt that it was left uncovered by a new one. Strange to say, it shocked him. He almost had to admit that somehow he relied on knowing that she was still here The city held on. Now she's gone. He doesn't understand how such important news has been missed. God knows how long it will take for her to come back now. A kind of spiritual fear prompts him to stand up and walk into the dark He went down the aisle, where no one saw him. He counted the money he had left, and there was only ten dollars in all.

He wondered how these other people around him in the boarding house lived. They didn't seem to do anything. Maybe they lived by begging... yes, they definitely lived by begging. He had given people like them countless small pennies when he was young. He had seen others beg for money in the street. Perhaps he could beg for the same. The thought was horrifying. Sitting in his room at the boarding house, with his last fifty cents left to spend, he saved and saved, reckoned and reckoned, and finally affected his health. He was no longer strong. As a result, even his clothes He also looked very out of place. At this point he decided that something had to be done, but, after walking around, he watched the day go by, and only his last twenty cents were left, which was not enough for tomorrow's dinner.

He plucked up his courage, went to Broadway Avenue, and walked towards the Broadway Central Hotel. At the place where he left a cross street, he stopped and hesitated. A big waiter with a sad face was standing at a side door, looking towards the hotel. looked away. Hurstwood was going to ask him for help. He walked straight up, and greeted him before he turned away. "My friend," said he, who could see the low status of the man in spite of his own predicament. "Is there anything your hotel can do for me?" The waiter stared at him wide-eyed, when he went on. "I have no job, no money, I have to find something to do...anything! I don't want to talk about my past, but if you could tell me how to find something to do, I would be very grateful You. It doesn't matter if you can only work for a few days now. I must find something to do."

The waiter continued to stare at him, trying to appear indifferent. Then, seeing that Hurstwood was going to go on, the waiter interrupted him. "It's none of my business. You've got to ask inside." Strangely enough, this remark prompted Hurstwood to make further efforts. "I thought you could tell me." The guy shook his head impatiently. The ex-manager went inside, and went straight to the clerk's desk in the office. A manager of the hotel happened to be there. Hurstwood looked the manager straight in the eye. "Can you give me something to do for a few days?" he said, "I'm getting to the point where I have to find something to do right now."

The laid-back manager looked at him as if to say, "Yeah, I think so." "I'm here," explained Hurstwood uneasily, "because I was a manager when I was proud. I've had some kind of bad luck, but I'm not here to tell you that. I want something to do." , even if only for a week." The person thought he saw a flicker of fanaticism in the job applicant's eyes. "Which hotel did you manage?" he asked. "Not a hotel," said Hurstwood. "I was manager of the Ferrer Hotel in Chicago for fifteen years." "Is that true?" said the hotel manager, "how did you get out of there?"

The contrast of Hurstwood's figure with this fact is indeed startling. "Oh, because I did a stupid thing myself. Let's not talk about it now. If you want to know, you will find out. I have no money now, and, if you will believe me, I have not ate anything." The hotel manager was a little interested in the story. He hardly knew what to do with such a character, but Hurstwood's sincerity made him willing to do something about it. "Call Olsen," he said to the clerk. A bell rang, and a small waiter came and ran out to call for someone, and then Olsen, the waiter, came in.

"Olson," said the manager, "can you find something for this guy downstairs to do? I want to give him something to do." "I don't know, sir," said Olsen, "that we have nearly all the men we need. But if you want, I think I can find something." "Just do it. Take him to the kitchen and tell Wilson to give him something to eat." "Yes, sir," Olsen said. Hurstwood followed him. The head waiter changed his attitude as soon as the manager was out of sight of them. "I don't know what on earth there is to do," he said. Hurstwood said nothing. He privately despised the big box-carrier. "I want you to give this man something to eat," he said to the cook. The cook looked at Hurstwood, and seeing something keen and intelligent in his eyes, said: "Okay, sit over there." In this way, Hurstwood was settled in the Broadway Central Hotel, but it was not long. He had neither the strength nor the mood to do the most basic work of mopping the floor and cleaning tables and chairs in every hotel. There are better things to do. He was sent to work in the basement instead of Huozhui. He had to do whatever he could do. Those waiters, cooks, firemen, and clerks were all above him. In addition, his appearance did not please these people, and his temper was too withdrawn, and they did not give him good looks. Yet he endured all this with the insensitivity and indifference of a man in despair. He slept in a small attic on the roof of the hotel, ate what the cook gave him, and was paid a few dollars a week, which He still wants to save up. His body can no longer support it. One day in February, he was sent to the office of a large coal company. It had been snowing and melting, and the streets were muddy. He soaked his shoes on the way and came back feeling dizzy and tired Throughout the next day, he felt unusually low and sat around as much as possible, much to the displeasure of those who like other people to be energetic. That afternoon some boxes were being removed to make room for new kitchen utensils. He was assigned to push a cart. A large box came up and he couldn't lift it. "What's the matter with you?" said the head waiter, "can't you move it?" He was trying desperately to lift it up, but then he let go. "No," he said weakly. The man looked at him, and saw that his face was as pale as death. "Are you sick?" he asked. "Sick, I suppose," replied Hurstwood. "Oh, then you'd better sit down for a while." He did so, but soon his condition rapidly worsened. It seemed that he could only crawl slowly into his room, which he did not leave all day. "That Wheeler man is ill," a waiter reported to the night clerk. "What's the matter with him?" "I don't know, he has a high fever." The hotel doctor went to see him. "Better take him to Bellevue Hospital," he suggested, "he has pneumonia." So, he was pulled away by the car. After three weeks the dangerous period was over. But it was not until about May 1 that his strength allowed him to leave the hospital. By this time he had been dismissed. No one looked frailer than the formerly strong, energetic manager as he walked out of the hospital and ambled into the spring sunshine. Thin and pale, with colorless hands and flabby muscles. Clothes and all, he weighed only 135 pounds. Someone gave him some old clothes... a cheap brown top and a pair of Fitting trousers. Some change and advice. He was told to apply for relief. He went back to his boarding house in the Bowery, trying to figure out where to apply for relief. It was only a step away from being a beggar. "What can I do?" said he; "I can't go hungry." His first begging was on the sunny Second Avenue. A well-dressed man came out of Stuyvesant Park and was walking towards him without haste. Hurstwood took courage, sideways approached him. "Give me a dime, please?" he said flatly. "I've got to the point where I have to beg." Without looking at him, the man reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a dime. "Here you are," he said. "Thank you very much," said Hurstwood softly, but he was ignored. Satisfied with his success but ashamed of his situation, he decided to only ask for another quarter, because that would be enough. He wandered about, watching passers-by, but it took a long time before he found the right one. People and opportunity. When he asked for money, he was turned down. He was stunned by the result, recovered after an hour, and asked to beg again. This time he got a nickel. After ten minutes With prudent efforts, he did get another twenty cents, but what a pain. He made the same effort the next day, with various setbacks, and a generous handout or two. At last, It suddenly occurred to him that the face of a person is a university question, as long as he studies it, he can choose the person who is willing to give generously by looking at the face. However, this kind of begging was not a pleasant thing for him. He had seen a man arrested for it, so now he was afraid that he would be arrested too. But he continued to do it, with a feeling of Vaguely looking forward to it, I never know when I will always have good luck. One morning afterward he read with a feeling of satisfaction the return announcement of the Casino Troupe starring "Miss Carrie Madenda." He had thought of her often these past few days. So successful... how much money she must have! However, even now, it is because of bad luck that he has not been able to get money, so he decided to ask her for help. He was so hungry, Just remembered to say: "I'll ask her for it. She won't give me a few dollars." So, one afternoon, he walked towards the Casino, walked back and forth in front of the theater a few times, trying to find the entrance to the backstage. Then he sat in Bryant Park across the street and waited. "She won't help me a little," he kept saying to himself. Since 6:30, he has been wandering around the entrance of Thirty-ninth Street like a shadow, always pretending to be a pedestrian in a hurry, but he is afraid that he will miss the target he is waiting for. Now it is critical He was also a little nervous at the moment. But, being hungry and weak, he was less able to feel the pain. At last he saw the actors begin to arrive, and his nervous nerves tightened even more until he felt as if he could no longer bear it. Living. Once, thinking he saw Carrie approaching, he stepped forward, only to find that he had seen the wrong person. "Now, she'll be here soon," he said to himself, a little dreading to see her, but a little dismayed at the thought that she might have gone in by another door. His stomach ached with hunger. People passed him one by one, almost all well-dressed and indifferent. He watched the carriages go by, and the gentlemen accompanied the ladies. This was the beginning of the evening's merriment in the area where theaters and hotels were concentrated. Suddenly a carriage drove up, and the driver sprang down and opened the door. Before Hurstwood had time to act, the two ladies had darted across the wide sidewalk and disappeared from the stage entrance. He thought he saw Carrie, but It came so suddenly, so gracefully, and so out of reach, that he could not tell. He waited a little longer, and began to feel hungry. Seeing that the backstage entrance door was no longer open, and that the jubilant audience was arriving, he Deciding it must be Carrie that she had just seen, she turned and walked away. "My God," he said, hastily leaving the street towards which those more fortunate than himself were pouring. "I must eat." Just then, just when Broadway used to take on its funniest face, there was always a weirdo standing on the corner of Twenty-sixth Street and Broadway...that was also the same place as Fifth Avenue Intersecting. At this hour the theater was beginning to receive the audience. Illuminated signs were shining here and there announcing the entertainments of the evening. Stagecoaches and private carriages clattered by, their lights gleaming like pairs of yellow eyes. Cheng Couples and small groups of people laughed and played, and merged freely into the endless stream of people. There were some loitering people on Fifth Avenue... a few rich people were walking, a A gentleman in evening dress took a lady on his arm, and members of a club went from smoking-room to smoking-room. The great hotels across the street had a hundred brightly lit windows, and their cafés and billiard-rooms were packed. A leisurely, merry-go-round crowd. Surrounded by the night, throbbing with yearning for joy and happiness... It is the wonderful madness of a metropolis that is bent on pursuing pleasure in every possible way. The eccentric was nothing more than a war veteran turned religious fanatic. He had suffered all the whipping and exploitation that our special social system gave him, so he concluded that his duty to God in his heart was to help his fellow people. The choice he chose The form of help he implemented was entirely his own. It was to find a place to sleep for all the homeless people who came to this particular place to ask him, even though he didn't have enough money for himself either. Provide a comfortable place to stay. He found his place in this light-hearted environment, and there he stood, his massive body in a cloaked coat and a fedora, waiting for those who passed through various channels. Applicant who learned of the nature of his philanthropic endeavors. For a time he would stand alone, gazing like an idler on a scene that is always fascinating. On the night our story takes place, a policeman from his Passed by, saluted him, and called him "Captain" in a friendly way. An urchin who used to see him there, stopped and watched. Others thought he was nothing out of the ordinary except his attire. , thinking that he was nothing more than a stranger whistling about at his own pleasure. After half an hour passed, certain figures began to appear. From time to time, among the passing crowd, a loitering person could be seen to dawdle purposefully towards him. A listless person walked around the opposite corner, stealing toward He looked in that direction. The other man walked up Fifth Avenue to the corner of Twenty-sixth Street, took a look at the whole situation, and staggered away. Two or three obviously lived in the Bowery. He walked along the Fifth Avenue side of Madison Square, but did not dare to come. The soldier, in his cloaked coat, was within ten feet of the corner where he was standing. inside, walking up and down, whistling absently. By nearly nine o'clock, the uproar had subsided somewhat, and the atmosphere in the hotel was no longer so youthful. The weather had grown colder. Strange people were moving about, some Watchers and prying ones. They stood outside an imaginary circle, and seemed afraid to go inside it... There were twelve in all. Presently, because the cold was more unbearable, one came forward. The man emerged from the shadows of Twenty-sixth Street, crossed Broadway, and approached the waiting man hesitantly around the bend. The man acted shyly or timidly, as if not at the last moment. Intended to reveal any thoughts of stopping. Then, when I got to the soldier, I stopped suddenly. The captain glanced at him as a greeting, but did not express any particular welcome. The visitor nodded slightly and muttered something like a man waiting for alms. The other party only pointed to the sidewalk. "Stand over there," he said. This broke the restraints. While the soldier resumed his prim, short pacing, the others shuffled forward. They did not greet the leader, but stood up to the one who had come first. Beside him, sniffling, stumbling, and wiping the ground with his feet. "It's cold, isn't it?" "I'm glad winter is over." "It looks like it's going to rain." The mob had grown to ten people. One or two people who knew each other were talking. Others stood a few feet away, not wanting to be in the crowd but not to be missed. They were surly. Stubborn. Silent, his eyes are looking at something, his feet are moving all the time. They would have spoken soon, but the soldier gave them no chance. He had counted enough to begin, and stepped forward. "Need bunks, yes? Do you want any?" There was a chaotic sound of moving feet and murmured agreement from the group. "Well, line up here. I'll see what I can do. I'm broke myself." They lined up in an intermittent, jagged line. By comparing them this way, you can see some of their main characteristics. There was a guy with a fake leg in the line. The hats of these guys were all drooping on their heads, and these hats None of them fit in the basement thrift shop on Hester Street. The trousers were all crooked and frayed at the cuffs, and the tops were worn and faded. Some of their faces looked like Dry and pale, others' faces were red with blisters, puffy cheeks and under the eyes. One or two were scrawny, reminiscent of railroad workers. Attracted by the people in the assembly, they approached. Then more and more people came, and soon a large group of people gathered, where you pushed each other and stared wide-eyed. Someone in the line began to talk. "Quiet!" cried the captain; "well, gentlemen, these people have no place to sleep. To-night they must have a place to sleep. They can't sleep on the streets. I need a quarter for lodging for one. Who will give me the money?" No one answered. "Well, then, we'll just have to wait here, boys, until someone wants to pay. A quarter isn't much for a man." "Here's a quarter," cried a lad, staring straight ahead. "That's all I can afford." "Very well. Now I've got fifteen cents. Get out," said the captain, grabbing a man by the shoulders, and pulling him a few steps aside, leaving him to stand alone. He returned to his original position and started shouting again. "I've got three cents left. These guys must have a place to sleep. There's a lot," he counted, "one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, Twelve. Nine cents more will find a berth for the next one. Please let him have a good night's sleep. I'll go along and take care of this myself. Who will give me nine cents?" This time it was a middle-aged man watching the fun, who handed him a nickel. "Now, I've got eight cents. Another four cents will give this man a berth. Please, gentlemen. We're going very slowly tonight. You've got good places to sleep. But what about these people?" " "Here you are," said a bystander, putting some coins into his hand. "This money," said the captain, looking at the coins, "is enough to find berths for two people, and there is an extra 5 cents for the next one. Who wants to give me another 7 cents?" "I will," said a voice. Hurstwood was walking south along Sixth Avenue that night, and happened to be heading east across Twenty-sixth Street, toward Third Avenue. He was listless, exhausted, and starving. What should he do now? To find Carrie? The show is not until eleven o'clock. If she has come in a carriage, she will return in a carriage. He can only stop her under very embarrassing circumstances. The worst thing is that he is now Hungry and tired, and at least one more day at least, for he had no courage to try again tonight. He had nothing to eat, and no place to sleep. As he approached Broadway, he noticed the homeless people gathered around the captain. But he thought it was some street preacher or some fake medicine hustler, and was about to pass by. But, just as As he was walking across the street toward Madison Square Park, he saw the line of berths stretching out from the crowd. He recognized it as a group with him by the blinding lights nearby. The people of his own kind were the people he had seen in the streets and at the boarding-houses. They were, like himself, adrift, both physically and mentally, and he wanted to know what was going on, and he turned and walked back. The captain was still pleading as before. Hurstwood was surprised and somewhat relieved when he heard the repeated words, "These men must have a berth for the night." The unfortunate man who got his berth decided to do the same when he saw a newcomer creeping up to the end of the line. What was the use of struggling? He was tired tonight. At least one difficulty can be solved easily. Maybe he will do better tomorrow. Behind him, where the berths were already settled, there was a distinctly relaxed atmosphere. No longer worried about having nowhere to spend the night, he heard their conversation lighthearted, with some desire to make friends. There are both talkers and listeners here. The topics involve politics, religion, the state of the government, some sensational news in the newspapers, and scandals around the world. The hoarse voice is trying to tell strange things. The answer was some vague and mixed opinions. Others just squinted, or stared like bulls, too dull or too tired to talk. Standing was beginning to become unbearable. Hurstwood became more and more tired waiting. He felt that he was about to fall, and kept changing his feet to support the weight of his body. At last it was his turn. The person in front had already got the money. , to stand in the ranks of the lucky winners. Now, he is the first, and the captain is already interceding for him. "A quarter, gentlemen. A quarter will get a bunk for this man. If he had somewhere to go, he wouldn't be standing here in the cold." Something rose in Hurstwood's throat, and he swallowed it back. Hunger and weakness made him a coward. "Here you are," said a stranger, handing the captain the money. Then the captain laid a kind hand on the former manager's shoulder. "Get in the line over there," he said. As soon as he stood there, Hurstwood breathed a little easier. He felt that there was such a good person in the world, and the world didn't seem too bad. On this point, other people seemed to agree with him. "Quite a man, the Captain, isn't he?" said one in front. It was a sad, wretched little man, who looked as if he were always either being teased or cared for by fate. "Yes," said Hurstwood dryly. "Hey! There's a lot of people behind," said one further ahead, leaning back from the line to look back at the applicants for whom the captain was applying. "Yes. There must be more than a hundred people tonight," said another. "Look at that fellow in the carriage," said a third. A carriage stopped. A gentleman in evening dress held out his hand and handed the captain a bill. The captain took the money, thanked him briefly, and turned to his procession. All craned their necks, looking The shining jewels on the front of the white shirt watched the carriage leave. Even the crowd of onlookers were awed and stunned. "That's enough money for nine people to spend the night," said the captain, calling out nine in turn from the line beside him. "Go to the line over there. Well, there are only seven now. I need 1 Two cents." The money came slowly. After a while, the crowd of onlookers gradually dispersed, leaving only a few people. Except for the occasional stagecoach or a passerby on foot, Fifth Avenue was empty. Broadway There are still some pedestrians scattered on the street. Occasionally a stranger passing by here, seeing this small group of people, takes out a coin, and then walks away. The captain stood there resolutely. He went on talking, very slowly and sparingly, but with confidence, as if he could not fail. "Please, I can't stand here all night. These people are getting tired. It's getting colder. Give me four cents." For a while he didn't say a word at all. When the money came to him, for every 12 cents, he would point out a person and let him stand in another team. Then he did the same thing as before. He paced back and forth, staring at the ground. The theater was closed. The illuminated signs were no longer visible. The clock struck eleven. Another half hour passed, and there were only the last two of him left. "Please," he cried to some curious onlookers, "eighteen cents will give us all a place to spend the night now. Eighteen cents, and I've got six cents. Who will?" Give me the money. Remember, I've got to get to Brooklyn tonight. Before I do that, I've got to get these people off and put them to bed. Eighteen cents." There was no answer. He paced up and down, looking at the ground for a few minutes, and occasionally said softly, "Eighteen cents." It seemed that this small sum of money had been delayed longer than all the preceding ones. The object of all hope. Hurstwood took heart a little, being part of the long procession, and managed to refrain from moaning, for he was too weak. Finally, a lady appeared. She wore an opera cloak and a rustling skirt, and she was accompanied by her chaperone down Fifth Avenue. Hurstwood stared wearily, and she And he thought of Carrie in the new world and the scene where he accompanied his wife like this back then. While he was still watching, she looked round and saw the strange crowd, and called her companion. He came, with a bill between his fingers, in the most graceful manner. "Here you are," he said. "Thank you," said the captain, turning to the last two remaining applicants. "Now we have some money for tomorrow evening," he added. After all, he asked the last two people to stand in the line, and then walked towards the head of the line, counting the number of people while walking. "One hundred and thirty-seven," he announced. "Now, boys, line up. Line up to the right. We won't delay any longer. Say, take your time." He stood at the head of the line himself, and shouted, "Go." Hurstwood followed the procession. The long, winding procession crossed Fifth Avenue and followed the winding path. Madison Square, go east to 23rd Street, and then go south along Third Avenue. When the procession passed by, pedestrians and wanderers in the middle of the night stopped to watch. The police chatting at every corner watched indifferently. , nodding to the leader they had seen before. They marched up Third Avenue, what seemed to be a tiring trek, until they reached Eighth Street. It's closed. But here we know they're coming. They stood in the dark outside the door, while the leader negotiated inside. Then the door opened, and with a "Hey, don't worry," they were invited in. Someone was pointing ahead to the room so as not to delay getting the key. Hurstwood climbed the creaking stairs with difficulty. Looking back, he saw the Captain watching. His fraternity was so great that he would see the last man Only after being settled can he rest assured. Then, he wrapped up his coat with a cloak, walked out slowly, and walked into the night. "I can't stand this going on," said Hurstwood, who died of starvation in the dark cubicle allotted to him."