sister carrie

Chapter 80 (1)

Chapter 45 Strange Changes of the Poor (1)
That sullen Hurstwood, sitting in that low-class hotel, had only seventy dollars beside him--money for the furniture.With that money, this hotel as a refuge, and nothing else.He sent away the hot summer and ushered in a cool autumn while reading newspapers.The fact that the money was slipping away didn't bother him at all.Paying fifty cents a day for the room, and another fifty cents the next day, he became uneasy, and finally changed to a cheaper room—five cents a day—so that the money would last a little longer.He had often read about Carrie. Her picture appeared once or twice in Le Monde.He knew from a chair in the Herald that she and some others had been at a benefit for some cause.As he read the news, he had mixed feelings.It seemed that everyone was pushing her to such a realm step by step, getting farther and farther away from him, and at the same time more and more magnificent.On the billboard, he saw another beautiful poster, showing her in the role of the little Quaker priestess, dignified and sweet.More than once he stopped to look at these things, gazing darkly at the beautiful face.His ragged clothes formed a stark contrast to everything she had now.

Anyway, knowing that she was at the Casino, even though he never wanted to get close to her, he still felt subconsciously relieved that he was not so alone.The play seemed to have become a regular program.So after a month or two he took it for granted that it was still happening.In September, the troupe went on tour, and he didn't notice.When he had spent almost all his money and had only twenty dollars left, he moved to a fifteen-cent-a-day apartment on Boverly Street.There was just a bare lounge with some tables, stools and a few chairs.Here, what he likes to do is to close his eyes and dream about the sweet dreams of the past, which has become an increasingly strong habit of his.In the beginning, it was not about sleeping, but mentally going back to those scenes of his life in Chicago.The eyes are getting darker, the past is getting brighter, and everything about the past stands out.

Little did he realize how ingrained the habit had become in him, until one day he found his lips were speaking the same words he had said in answer to a friend of his.These friends were at Fitzgerald's and Moai's saloon.It was vaguely as if he was standing at the door of that rather dignified small office, well dressed, talking with Shaka Morrison about real estate in South Chicago, which Shaka was about to invest in.

"Are you happy to invest with me?" he heard Morrison say.

"No," he replied, just as he had been a few years ago, "I'm so full I can't tell right now."

The movement of his lips woke him up.He wondered if he really said something, he thought.The next time, he noticed the situation: he actually spoke.

"What are you jumping for, you big fool?" he was saying, "Jumping!"

This is an interesting English story to a group of actors.As if he could still hear his own voice, he couldn't help laughing.There was an eccentric curmudgeon, who sat nearby, as if disturbed; at least he gave him a savage stare.Hurstwood pulled himself together.Immediately the taste of the memory faded away without a trace, and he was ashamed himself.To relieve his boredom, he got up and went for a walk in the street.

One day, looking at the advertising column in the "Evening World", he discovered that a new play was being staged at the Casino Theater.He was taken aback immediately, Carrie had already left! He remembered that he saw a poster of her yesterday, but there was no doubt that it was just not covered by the new poster.Oddly enough, this sort of thing bored him.He almost had to admit that, no matter what, the only thing he could rely on was that she was in this city.But now she's gone.He wondered how such an important matter escaped his attention.God knows when she will be back.In a state of panic and fear, he arose, and going into the soiled hall, where he could not be seen, he counted the remaining money, which amounted to only ten dollars.

How, he wondered, did so many people live in this boarding house.They don't seem to be doing anything.Maybe they were begging—no doubt they were.He used to give lots of dimes to people like them.He had seen other people begging for money on the street.Maybe he could get some money in this way, but how terrible the idea was.

He sat like this in that boarding house until he was down to his last fifty cents.He saved and saved, counted and counted, and finally his health was affected.His massive physique was gone.Meanwhile, better-fitting clothes were out of the question.He made up his mind what he must do, and walked up and down, and another day passed, and at last he had only twenty cents left in his money--not even enough to eat tomorrow.

Gathering up his courage, he walked across Broadway until he reached the Broadway Central Hotel.Only a block away, he stopped, uncertain.A large, sullen doorman was standing in the passage of the side door, looking out.Hurstwood thought he might as well turn to him.He walked straight over, just in time to meet him face to face, and it was too late to turn around.

"My friend," he said.Although he was suffering, he still saw the low status of the other party, "There is nothing in this hotel that I can do?"

The porter stared at him as he went on:
"I'm out of work and I don't have any money, and I gotta find something to do--anything. I don't want to talk about how I was, if you could tell me how I got a job Do it, I can't thank you enough. A few days' work will do, or some work will do."

The janitor was still staring at him, feigning indifference.Then, seeing that Hurstwood was still going on, he said:
"I have nothing to do for you, you have to ask inside."

Strange to say, this remark made Hurstwood determined to make further efforts.

"I thought you could give me advice."

The man shook his head wearily.

The ex-manager walked in and made his way to an office next to the clerk's desk.A hotel manager happened to be there, and Hurstwood looked him straight in the eye.

"Would you please give me some work for a few days?" said he. "I'm in such a position that I must find something at once."

The relaxed manager looked at him as if to say, "Well, that's exactly what I think."

"I'm here," explained Hurstwood uneasily, "because I was a manager too. I've had bad luck, but I won't tell you that here. I gotta get something to do." , even for a week."

The person seemed to sense an eager look in the applicant's eyes.

"Which hotel do you run?"

"Not a hotel," Hurstwood said. "I was the manager of the Fitzgerald Hotel in Chicago for 15 years."

"Is that so?" said the man in the hotel. "Why don't you do it?"

The contrast between Hurstwood's appearance and what was said was startling.

"Ah, didn't I do something stupid by myself, let's not talk about it now. If you are interested, you will understand clearly. Now I'm 'bankrupt', to tell you the truth, I haven't eaten anything today .”

The hotel manager was a little interested in the story.He couldn't figure out what to do with such a person.Hurstwood's eagerness, however, made him willing to help.

"Call Olson," he said, turning to the clerk.

After ringing for the waiter and sending him to fetch, Olson, the head waiter, answered the bell.

"Olson," said the manager, "can you give this man something to do down there under the stairs? I hope I can get him something to do."

"I don't know yet, sir," said Olson, "that we've got all we need. But, sir, if you'd like, I think I can get something."

"Good. Take him into the kitchen and tell Wilson to get him something to eat."

"Yes, sir," Olson said.

Hurstwood followed him.Once out of sight of the manager, the head waiter's attitude changed.

"I don't know what the hell it's got to do."

Hurstwood said nothing.In his eyes, the big man with the suitcase was a despicable character.

"I want you to get this man something to eat," he said.

The cook looked at Hurstwood, and seeing the shrewd, knowledgeable look in his eyes, said:
"Okay, sit down over there."

Hurstwood was thus accommodated, but not for long, at the Broadway Central Hotel.He had neither the strength nor the will to do mopping floors and cleaning tables and chairs in a hotel.Since there was nothing better for him to do, he was sent to be stoker's understudy, or in the basement, or whatever was assigned.The janitor, the cook, the fireman, the clerk—everyone was above him.Besides, his appearance didn't please these people--he was so withdrawn--they didn't get along with him.

But he endured it all, numb and indifferent with desperation.Living means living in a small attic on the roof, and eating means eating for him by the cook.The salary is only a few dollars a week.That's it, he also tried to save some.His body couldn't take it anymore.

One day in February, he was assigned to the office of a coal company.It snowed the other day and is melting, and the streets are muddy.His shoes were soaked on the road, and he felt numb and tired when he came home.All day the next day, he just felt so depressed that he wanted to sit down as much as he could, so that people who like other people's drive are very disgusted with him.

In the afternoon, several boxes need to be moved to make room for the new arrivals in the kitchen.He was asked to push a trolley, and when he encountered a big suitcase, he couldn't lift it.

"What's the matter over there?" said the head waiter, "Can you mention it?"

He tried his best to lift it up, but couldn't.

"No." He said weakly.

The foreman looked at him and saw that his face was ashen.

"It's not sick, is it?" he asked.

"I'm afraid so," replied Hurstwood.

"Well, then you should sit down."

(End of this chapter)