sister carrie

Chapter 64 (2)

Chapter 36 Going from bad to worse: a slim chance (2)
"Yes," he said with a guilty conscience, "it's Mrs. Vance."

"Did she see you?" she asked, with indescribable despair.

It was like a whip to Hurstwood, and he scowled.

"If she had eyes, she would see. I opened the door."

"Oh," said Carrie.Clenching one hand tightly due to nervousness, "What did she say?"

"No," he replied, "she cannot stay."

"And you look like this!" said Carrie.The reserved attitude that had been maintained for a long time was now thrown away all at once.

"So what?" he said angrily. "I didn't know she'd come, did I?"

"You knew perfectly well that she might come," said Carrie. "I told you she would. I've asked you to put on something else a dozen times. Oh, how dreadful it is."

"Oh, shut up," he replied, "what's the difference? You can't deal with her anyway. She's too rich."

"Who said I would?" said Carrie sharply.

"Well, you're acting like this, arguing about my appearance. You think I'm guilty of—"

Carrie interrupted him.

"It's the truth," she said. "I couldn't if I wanted to. But whose fault is it? Why don't you just sit here and say I can deal with someone? look for a job?"

It was a thunderbolt on a sunny day.

"What does that have to do with you?" he said, rising to his feet fiercely. "I pay the rent, don't I? I supply—"

"Yes, you paid the rent," said Carrie, "and you speak as if there were nothing else in the world but a room to sit in. For three months, you But I didn't do a thing, I just sat here and cared about this and that. I want to know, what are you marrying me for?"

"I'm not married to you," he said furiously.

"Well, I should like to know, what did you do at Mondrian?" she replied.

"Well, I'm not married to you," he replied, "you don't have to think about it. You talk as if you don't know it yet."

Carrie looked at him for a moment, her eyes wide.She had thought it was perfectly legal and binding.

"Then why did you lie to me?" she asked viciously, "then why did you force me to elope with you."

Her voice was almost like a sob.

"Forcing!" He pursed his lips and said, "I still have a lot of things to force."

"Oh!" said Carrie, weeping uncontrollably, and turning, "Oh, oh!", as she ran to the front room.

Hurstwood was very emotional at the moment.This was a big shock to him, both psychologically and morally.He looked around, wiped his forehead, found the clothes, and put them on.Carrie was quite still; she stopped whimpering when he heard him dress.At first she had been terrified at the thought of being left penniless--not of losing him, though it was possible that he would never come back.She heard him open the wardrobe lid and take out his hat, and then the dining room door closed, and she knew he was out.

After a while of silence, she stood up, wiped away her tears, and looked out the window.Hurstwood was wandering the streets after leaving the house, heading for Sixth Street.

Hurstwood along No. 13 Street, across No. 14 Street, to Union Square.

"Get a job!" he said to himself. "Get a job! She wants me to come out and get a job."

He himself was blaming himself in his heart, and admitted that she was right, but he tried to find an excuse to escape his spiritual blame.

"Mrs. Vance's visit, after all, is a damn thing," he thought to himself, "just standing there, looking all over me. I know what she's thinking."

He remembered seeing her several times on No.70 Eight Streets.She was always well-groomed, and he himself tried to look as if he were worthy of her.But now that she saw him like this, he frowned uncomfortably.

"Damn!" he said a dozen times in an hour.

It was a quarter past four when he left the house.Carrie was weeping like tears.I won't be able to eat tonight.

"Damn it!" he said.He pretended in his heart, hiding his shame to himself, "I'm not that bad. I'm not broken yet."

He looked around the square and saw several big restaurants, so he decided to find one to have dinner.He wants to buy some newspapers that he reads and be comfortable there for a while.

He climbed the steps into the Moshon Building, one of the finest hotels in New York at the time, found a cushioned seat, and read the newspaper.As for the money is getting less and less, he can't talk about being rich in this way, which doesn't bother him.Like a morphine ghost, he has become addicted to comfort.No matter what, as long as it can eliminate his psychological pain, as long as it can satisfy his desire for happiness, it will be fine.He must do it.He didn't think about tomorrow—he didn't want to think about it, just as he didn't want to think about another catastrophe.Like a denial of mortality, he tried to dismiss in his mind the imminent inevitability of penniless penniness, even as his actions approached that day.

Well-dressed guests walking up and down the thick carpet reminded him of old times.A young lady, a guest of the hotel, played the piano in the music-room, to his delight.He sat there and read the newspaper.

A dinner cost him one dollar and fifty cents.By eight o'clock, when he had finished his meal, and saw the guests leaving, and the merry-goers crowding outside, he wondered where he should go.Not coming home, Carrie would make a fuss, no, he wasn't coming home tonight.He was going to stay out and hang around like an independent man—not a broke man—where he went.He bought a cigar and went out to the corner where other people were hanging out—brokers, racegoers, theater people—all flesh and blood with him. .As he stood there he thought of those evenings in Chicago and how he passed the time.He has always played a lot of games.This thought took him to the poker table.

"I didn't play well that day," he thought, referring to the $60 he lost. "I shouldn't have softened up. I could have stolen the chicken and bluffed the guy. I was in a bad mood. hurt me."

Then he studied the situation of the gambling at the beginning, trying to figure out how he could have won in the first place, and using several examples as evidence, he should have been more resolute in stealing the chicken.

"I'm an old hand at poker. I should have shown my skills. I'm going to show my skills tonight."

A phantom of a large bet dangled before his eyes.Wouldn't it be great if he could win a few hundred bucks? Plenty of gamblers he knew made a living doing it, and doing very well.

"Back then, their money was always as much as mine." He thought to himself.

So he went to a nearby poker table, and the feeling in his heart seemed to be the same as back then.It was a moment of ecstasy, caused above all by the shock of the quarrel, and with a nice hotel meal, cocktails, and cigars, he was almost, as he wished, the same Hurstwood.But he was not the Hurstwood of his day—only a man with an argument in his conscience, seduced by phantoms.

The poker table was pretty much the same as anywhere else, except that it was in a back room of a nicer hotel.Hurstwood watched for a while, and then, seeing an interesting game of cards, joined in.It was the same as in the past, it went smoothly at the beginning, and after a few wins, it became more energetic, and then after losing a few times, it became more interesting, and because of this, it became more determined.At last, this charming game bewitched him.He happily took risks, had a small hand, and dared to steal the opponent's chicken, winning a considerable amount.When he gambled like this, he was really satisfied and nervous.

At the height of this state of mind, he began to feel that luck was on his side.No one has played so beautifully.Here was another medium deck, and he tried to play it as high again.There were other people there who were almost looking into his mind, looking very deeply.

"I've got three of a kind," one gambler said to himself, "and I'm going to fight that guy to the end."

The result is that the bet is called again.

"I'll add you ten yuan."

"it is good."

"Another ten dollars."

"it is good."

"Another ten dollars."

"Just add it as you like."

Thus Hurstwood's bet amounted to seventy-five dollars.The other party became really serious.Maybe this guy (Hurstwood) does have a good hand.

"I see yours," he said.

Hurstwood laid out his cards.He was screwed, and the bitter fact of losing seventy-five dollars made him despair.

"One more card." He said angrily.

"Yes," said the man.

Some gamblers walked away, and many people who liked to watch games filled the gaps.Time passed, and now it was twelve o'clock.Hurstwood held on, winning or losing by little.Later, he was tired and lost another 20 yuan on the last card.He was not feeling well.

At a quarter past one in the middle of the night, he walked out from here.The deserted, frosty streets seemed a mockery of his current situation.He walked slowly west, thinking little of his quarrel with Carrie.He went up the stairs and into his room as if the quarrel had never happened.What he cares about is his loss.Sitting on the edge of the bed, he added up the money.Now it's only 190 yuan and some change.He put the money away and began to undress.

"Look, I really don't know what's the matter with me?" he said.

Carrie said so little the next morning, and he felt that perhaps he must go out again.He had treated her so badly, but he couldn't make it up.Now he has given up on himself.In a day or two he was out in this way, living like a gentleman--or like a gentleman calling himself--and it cost money.Because of his out-of-the-ordinary behavior, he was in a difficult situation both physically and mentally, not to mention that he lost 30 yuan in his wallet successively.Then he felt cold and bitter all over again.

"The renter came today," said Carrie.This was what she said to him three days later with indifference.

"Is it?"

"Yes, this is the second time," answered Carrie.

Hurstwood frowned.Then, desperately, he took out his wallet.

"The rent is so high," he said.

His money is almost down to the last 100 yuan.

(End of this chapter)