sister carrie

Chapter 70

Chapter 40 A Public Quarrel: A Final Appeal
Afterwards fun didn't materialize, at least for Carrie.She walked home, thinking about her not coming home.Hurstwood was asleep, but he sat up and looked as she passed him to her own bed.

"It's you," he said.

"Yes," she replied.

At breakfast the next morning, she felt it was time to apologize.

"I couldn't make it back last night," she said.

"Oh, Carrie," he answered, "what's the use of saying that? I don't mind. You needn't tell me that."

"I can't come back," said Carrie, flushing.Then, seeing him look as if to say "I know it," she exclaimed, "Oh, well. I don't care."

Since then, her indifference to this family has deepened.There seemed to be no common ground for conversation between them.She's just waiting to be asked to cover the expenses.And he, for wanting to open the mouth himself, also hates something.He preferred to have credit at the butcher's and bakery, and he owed $16 at Oslog's grocer, and had stockpiled so much food that he would not have to buy anything for quite some time.Then he switched to another grocery store.Do the same for butchers and several other businesses.Carrie had never heard any of this directly from him.He can ask for as much as he can, and such a situation has been dragging on and getting farther and farther apart, and there will only be one end in the end.

And just like that, September passed.

"Is Mr. Durek going to open his hotel?" asked Carrie several times.

"Yes. But now he won't until October."

Carrie grew disgusted. "Such a man!" she often said in her heart.She said that the number of visits to friends has become more and more frequent.Most of her extra money was spent on clothes, which was a staggering figure after all.Later, the opera in which she participated in the performance announced that she would go on a four-week tour in other places. "The Comic-Opera is a great success, last two weeks--" and so on, and such posters were put up everywhere and in the papers.At the time, she hadn't acted.

"I'm not going on tour," said Miss Osborne.

Carrie went with her to another manager and applied to him.

"Have you had any experience?" was one of his questions.

"I'm in the Casino Troupe right now."

"Oh, is it?" he said.

As a result, another contract was signed for 20 yuan per week.

Carrie was delighted.She felt that she had a place in the world.People recognized her talent.

In such a situation as she was, the atmosphere in the house became intolerable.There, there is only poverty and trouble, or so it seems, because it is only a burden.It has become a place to avoid.But she still sleeps there, and does a lot of housework, keeping things in order.That's where Hurstwood sat.He sat, swayed, read the newspaper, and immersed himself in the dark atmosphere of his fate.October passed, and it was November again.Before he knew it, winter had come, and he was still sitting.

Carrie was getting better, he knew that.Her attire had improved, and she was even beautiful.He sees her coming and going now, and sometimes he has pictured her prosperous scene in his heart.He ate less, and he lost some weight.He has no appetite.His clothes are also the clothes of the poor.The talk of looking for work had become a cliché, a sneer at him.So he crossed his hands and waited—waiting for something, which he himself could not have foreseen.

Later, troubles became more and more.The creditor's demands, Carrie's indifference, the silence of the house, and the approach of winter all combined to form a climax.What was directly triggered was that Oslog personally visited the door, and Carrie was also at home at that time.

"I came for my bill," said Mr. Oslog.

Carrie was only slightly surprised.

"How much?" she asked.

"16 yuan." He replied.

"Oh, that much?" said Carrie. "Is that the amount?" she asked, turning to Hurstwood.

"Yes," he said.

"Well, I never heard you say that."

She looked as if she thought he was spending more than was necessary.

"Well, we owe the money, there's nothing wrong with that," he replied.Then he walked toward the door. "I can't pay anything today," he said pleasantly.

"Well, when will you be able to pay?" the grocer asked.

"Not before Saturday anyway," said Hurstwood.

"Hey!" replied the grocer, "that's all right. I've got to take the money. I need the money."

Carrie, who was standing at the far end of the room, heard it all.She is very sad.It's too bad and too boring.Hurstwood was also chagrined.

"Well," he said, "it's no use talking about it just now. Come on Saturday, please. I'll pay you something then."

The grocer is gone.

"How will you pay the bill?" asked Carrie.She was quite surprised by the account, "I have no power."

"Well, you don't have to pay," he said, "he can't get it, he has to wait."

"I don't see how we owe so much," said Carrie.

"Well, we ate," said Hurstwood.

"How strange," she replied, still puzzled.

"What's the use of you standing up like this and talking about it?" he asked. "You think I did it all alone? As you say, it's as if I got something?"

"Well, it's too much, anyway," said Carrie. "I shouldn't be asked to pay it. I don't have so much money to pay just now."

"Very well," replied Hurstwood, and sat down in silence.He had had enough of torturing people like this.

Carrie was out, and he sat making up his mind what to do.

There were rumors in the papers that the streetcar workers in Brooklyn were planning to go on strike.Workers are generally dissatisfied with working hours and wages.As usual—for reasons that are a little unclear—workers pick the winter to put pressure on their bosses to solve problems.

Hurstwood had been reading about it in the papers, and wondered what the ensuing strike would be like.A day or two before the quarrel between him and Carrie began the strike began.On a cold afternoon, when the sky was gray and snowy, the papers said that all lines were on strike.

Hurstwood was so completely idle and full of predictions about the lack of jobs this winter, panic in the financial markets, and so on, that he read the news with great attention.He noticed the claims made by the striking drivers and conductors, saying that they used to earn two yuan a day, but for more than a year, the "temporary workers on shift" system was implemented, which cut their chances of living by half. Increased the time of hard labor from ten hours to twelve hours, or even fourteen hours.These "temporary workers on shifts" are scheduled during busy or "peak" hours.Only drive a car once, so the payment for driving a car is only twenty-five cents.They are removed as soon as busy hours or peak hours pass.The worst part is that one doesn't know when to get out.He had to come to the depot early in the morning and wait there, in good or bad weather, until he was needed.The reward for waiting like this is usually two rides—a little over three hours and fifty cents.Waiting is not worth the money.

The workers complained that this system is still being promoted, and it may not be long before only a few of the [-] workers will be able to work for two yuan a day.They demanded that the system be abolished, that the working day be limited to ten hours, except for unavoidable delays, and that the wages be two dollars and twenty-five cents a day.They demanded that the demands be accepted immediately, while the various street car companies refused.

Hurstwood sympathized with the demands of these workmen at first—yes, whether he always sympathized with them, that is a question, until his deeds proved his lie.He read all the news and was first attracted by the news of the strike in the Le Monde under the startling headline.He had seen it all—the names of the seven companies involved, the number of people on strike, and so on.

"It would be silly to strike in such weather," he thought to himself, "but let them win if possible."

The next day, there was even bigger news. The Le Monde reported that residents of Brooklyn took to the streets on foot. "The Knights of Labor stopped streetcars from crossing the bridge", "About 7000 people lost their jobs".

Hurstwood read the news and formed in his mind an idea of ​​what might turn out.He is a man who firmly believes in the power of the company.

"They can't win," he said.This refers to striking workers. "They don't have any money. The police will protect the company. They can't be protected. The public must have a car."

He wasn't sympathetic to the company, but the power was on their side.The same goes for property and utilities.

"These guys can't win," he thought.

Among various things, he noticed a notice issued by one of the companies:

Atlantic Road Railway Special Notice
In view of the sudden resignation of our company's drivers, conductors and other employees, all those loyal to their duties who went on strike against their will can re-employ if they can apply before twelve o'clock noon on Wednesday, January [-] .The priority of employment is based on the priority of application (safety is guaranteed), and the number of trains and duties are arranged accordingly.Otherwise, it is regarded as dismissal, and the vacancies left will be filled by new employees to be recruited.

General Manager Benjamin Norton (signature)
Hurstwood also noticed that one of the job advertisements reads:

Recruitment—Fifty skilled drivers, who are required to understand the performance of Westinghouse locomotives and be able to drive US postal vehicles in Brooklyn; ensure safety.

In particular, he noticed the words "keep safe" in every ad.In his view, this demonstrates the inviolable power of the corporation.

"They have the militia on their side," he thought, "these workers are unthinkable."

While he was having these thoughts in his mind, he clashed with Oslog and Carrie.There have been many things that have aroused his disgust in the past, but this time can be said to be the most serious.No one had ever accused him of stealing—or anything close to such a thing—in the past.But she doubted the reliability of this large bill.What's more, he is so hard, trying to reduce expenses.He has been "tricking" the butcher and the baker so as not to charge him.And he ate very little—almost nothing.

"Fuck it," he said, "I can find something to do. I ain't broke yet."

Thinking about it, he really had to do something now.People are so sarcastic, and they are still sitting here, it is too worthless.Ha, just a little more rest, and he'll stand up to anything.

He stood up and looked out the window at the cold street.As he stood there the idea crept into his mind to go to Brooklyn.

"Why not?" he said to himself. "Anyone can work there. Make two bucks a day for it."

"What if there is an accident?" said a voice. "You might get hurt."

"Oh, that's nothing," he replied. "They've got the police. Anyone who drives once, they're protected."

"Then you don't know how to drive," said the voice again.

"I'm not going to apply to be a driver," he replied, "I can sell tickets."

"They're mainly looking for drivers."

"They want everybody, I know that."

For hours he debated inwardly for and against.He felt that such a stable and profitable matter required immediate action.

In the morning he put on his best clothes, which were old enough.He got to work, wrapping the bread and meat in a newspaper.Carrie watched him with interest in his new gesture.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"To Brooklyn," he replied.Seeing that she was still a little puzzled later, he continued, "I think I can find a job there."

"In a streetcar?" said Carrie, greatly astonished.

"Yes." he replied.

"Aren't you afraid?" she asked.

"What are you afraid of?" he replied, "There are policemen protecting them."

"The papers say four people were injured yesterday."

"Yes," he replied, "but you can't take what the paper says. They drive anyway."

He seemed to have made up his mind now, and he looked a little sad, and Carrie felt very sorry.Here was something of Hurstwood's old days--some small shadow of shrewd, capable, happy days.The clouds outside are low, and a few snowflakes are flying.

"What a day was chosen to go there," thought Carrie.

It was a rare thing that he went out before her.He headed east to No. 14th and Sixth Streets, where he caught a car.He read in the papers that dozens of applicants had come to the office of the Brooklyn railroad building and had been accepted.He had taken the carriage and the ferry--he was a dark, silent man--to the office there.The road was long, the car was not driving, and it was cold, but he still walked there with difficulty.Once in Brooklyn, he could see clearly that a strike was on.It can be seen in the behavior of people.Some tracks have no cars running on them.At some corners and in the nearby saloons, small groups of people loitered.Some pickup trucks passed him.There were plain wooden chairs in the car, marked "Frapush" or "Prosbeckett Park. Dime." He noticed the cold, even sullen faces.The workers are fighting a small war.

He approached the relevant office and saw several people standing there, and several policemen.At the far corner others - strikers, he thought - were watching.The houses are uniformly small and wooden, and the streets are rugged.After seeing New York, Brooklyn seemed really too poor and too hard.

He walked toward the center of the small crowd, the police and those already there watching him coldly.One of the officers spoke to him:
"Who are you looking for?"

"Let me see if I can find a place."

"The office is up the steps," said the policeman.His face was silent and elusive.In his heart, he sympathized with the striking workers and hated this "scab".In his heart, he also felt the dignity and role of the police.The police are there to maintain social order.As for its real social significance, he never even dreamed about it.He wasn't born that way.There were two feelings mingled-neutralizing each other, and to him as well.He would fight for someone as much as he would fight for himself.But follow orders.Stripped of his uniform, he'd quickly pick which side to take.

Hurstwood walked up the dusty steps into a small gray office with bars, a long desk, and a few clerks.

"How are you, sir?" said a middle-aged man, looking up at him from the long table.

"Are you hiring?" asked Hurstwood.

"What do you do—a pilot?"

"No, I'm nothing," said Hurstwood.

He wasn't shy about his situation.If one place does not accept him, another place will accept him.Take him in, don't take him in, just let him go.

"Well, we'd rather have someone with experience, of course," said the man.He paused, and Hurstwood smiled indifferently.Then the man continued, "But you can learn. What's your name?"

"Wheeler," said Hurstwood.

The man wrote the order on a small card. "Take this to our garage," he said, "to the foreman. He'll tell you what to do."

Hurstwood came out and went down the steps.He walked straight in the direction indicated, with the police watching.

"There's another one who wants to try it," said Policeman Kiri to Policeman Massie.

"I'm sure he's going to have a hard time," said Marcy calmly.

They have participated in strikes before.

(End of this chapter)