sister carrie

Chapter 85 (1)

Chapter 47 The Path of the Loser: The Harp in the Wind (1)
In New York at that time there were a number of charities of a similar nature to those in which Hurstwood had so unfortunately turned to the Captain.One of them is the Catholic Mercy Mission on No. 15 Street—a row of red brick houses, with an ordinary wooden donation box hanging at the door. Donate a lunch at noon.The wording of this simple announcement is extremely modest, and the charitable nature is actually very broad.In New York these institutions and charities are so large and numerous that the better off are often not aware of them.But to those who are paying attention, these institutions are all the more important.

Except for those who are looking for it, ordinary people, even if they stand at the intersection of Sixth Street and No. In the crowd, every few seconds, there appeared some weather-beaten and shambling specimen of humanity—gaunt and ragged.It is also true that the colder the weather, the more pronounced this scene is.Since there was not enough space in the missionary office and there was no cooking room, we had to limit the number of people eating at one time to 15 or 25 people at a time, so we had to line up outside and go in one by one.In this way, this kind of situation will appear every day. It has been like this for many years, and people are used to it, so they never think of it.People waited patiently in the cold climate like cattle—waiting for hours to get in.No one asked them any questions, and no one was there to serve.They ate, and then went away, and some often came every day throughout the winter.

A tall woman with a kind face always stood at the door from beginning to end every time, counting the number of people allowed to enter.The men moved forward in a dignified, almost silent procession that showed no panic and eagerness.In the worst of weather, this is where the team can be found.In the days of ice and snow, the palms are often clapped loudly, and even the feet are dancing.His fingers and face were prickly by the cold.An examination of these persons in broad daylight suffices to show that they are almost all of the same type.They belonged to the class who sat on park benches during the day when they could bear it and slept on park benches during the summer evenings.They frequented Boverly Street and the slovenly East End streets, where tattered clothes and haggard figures were not singled out as oddities.They belong to such a category.They go to the boarding house in cold and bad weather.Eating irregularly and eating voraciously leads to loose bones and atrophy of muscles.They were all pale, lifeless, with sunken eye sockets.The contrasting eyes twinkled and the lips were sickly red.Their hair is disheveled, their ears are anemic, their leather shoes are cracked, and their heels and toes are cracked.They belonged to a class that just floated about all day, and each wave of people pushed another group onward, just as the waves wash a floating log to the rough shore.

For nearly a quarter of a century, in another part of the city, there was a baker named Fleurchmann who told anyone who came to Broadway and Tenth Street in the middle of the night Anyone who came from the side door of the restaurant he opened at the corner of the street gave a piece of bread. For the past 20 years, every night, nearly 15 people have lined up. At the prescribed time, they walked through the door, picked up a piece of bread from the big box outside the door, and then disappeared into the night.Little has changed in the nature and number of these people from that first day to the present day.Some have seen the procession move forward year after year, and have become acquainted with two or three of them.There are two people who have hardly missed a night in [-] years.There were about forty people who were almost regular customers.The rest of the team were strangers.Whenever the economy panics and life is particularly difficult, the number of people rarely exceeds [-]. During the period of economic prosperity and unemployment is rarely heard, the number is rarely lower than this number.In front of the big box of the bakery in Fleurmans, winter or summer, rain or shine, harvest or famine, at midnight there is always the desolate sight of this group of people.

It's a harsh winter, and Hurstwood is a frequent visitor to both charities.Once the weather was very cold, and he couldn't beg for anything on the road. He waited until noon before finding this organization that provides charity to the poor.At eleven o'clock this morning, several people in the same situation as him staggered out of the Sixth Street, their thin clothes rustling in the cold wind.They leaned against the iron railing outside the wall of the hall of the Ninth Regiment of Amolle facing No. 15 Street, and they came early, hoping to go in first.Still the first hour.They spread out at first, and when others came, they squeezed in tighter to protect their priority.Hurst Ward, coming out of Seventh Street, came from the west and joined the procession, very near the gate, a little closer than the others.Those who were waiting here earlier than him stood a little farther away, but now they shrank a little.They didn't say anything, they just showed their tenacity that they should take the lead.

Seeing disapproval of his actions, he cast a gloomy look at the line, then walked away and reached the end of the line.Once order was restored, the bestial antipathy subsided.

"It must be near noon," said one.

"Yeah," said another, "I've been waiting almost an hour."

"Ah, but it's so cold!"

They peeped anxiously at the door through which they all had to pass.A grocer delivered several baskets of food in his cart.This brings up a conversation about food outlets and food prices.

"I see that the price of meat has gone up," said one person.

"If there is a war, it will be very good for the country."

The line quickly got longer and longer.There were already more than 50 people, and the people at the front, from their looks, were obviously very grateful that they didn't have to wait as long as those at the bottom.Many people stretched out their heads and looked at the team behind.

"As long as you're among the first 25, it doesn't matter if you're closest to the door," one of the 25 remarked, "you're going in together anyway."

"Hmph!" said Hurstwood, unable to restrain himself.He was forced out.

"So we have to rely on the implementation of a single tax (single tax, benefit at that time? George's idea that private land ownership is unreasonable, advocates taxing land rent income, and canceling other taxes, so it is called a single tax. Although it is not thorough, it has won many civilians. support.—Translator),” said another, “and there will be no order until this is done.”

For more time, no one spoke, only to see these haggard people pushing around, looking around, with their arms hanging down.

Then the door opened, and a compassionate female nun came out. She only looked at the order.The team moved forward slowly, entering one by one, counting until 25.So she stretched out her strong arms and stopped the procession. There were six people standing on the steps.The former manager was one of them.Some chatted while they waited, some couldn't help complaining about their misfortunes; some were brooding, and Hurstwood was one of them.Afterwards he was let in, and when he had eaten, he walked away, very annoyed at how much he had suffered to eat.

At eleven o'clock another night, perhaps two weeks later, he was waiting for the midnight bread--waiting patiently.It was an unfortunate day for him, but now he treated his fate with a philosophical touch.Even if he couldn't get dinner, or starved in the middle of the night, at least he'd have a place to hide.A few minutes before twelve o'clock in the middle of the night, a large bread box was pushed out. Just at the time, a German with a pot belly and a round face stood beside him and shouted: "Get ready." Moving forward, everyone got the bread in turn, and then went their own way.This time, the ex-manager walked and ate, and trudged silently along the dark road into the lodging where his berth was located.

By January, he had almost come to the conclusion that it was all over for him.Life, it is true, had always been precious, but now the constant want of food and clothing, combined with increasing physical weakness, darkened the charms of the world.On several occasions, fate pressed him so hard that he contemplated dying.However, once the weather changes, or if he begs for a coin, his mood will change, and he will wait again.Every day he would look for a few old newspapers on the ground to see if there was any trace of Carrie, but he didn't see anything throughout the whole summer and autumn.Later, he found himself suffering from an eye disease, which got worse and worse, so that in the dark room of the dormitory he used to frequent, he didn't want to read the newspaper at all.The bad food, irregular meals, weakened every physiological function in him.The only remedy is to find a place to go and get the money to pay the bill, and doze there.

He found that he was so shabby and thin that people took him for a loathsome bum and beggar.The police chased him all the way, and the owners of restaurants and boarding houses rushed him away as soon as they saw him, and passers-by waved him away.He found that it was getting more and more difficult to ask for something from others.

In the end, by his own admission, it was all over.I don't know how many times he begged from passers-by, but he was rejected again and again-everyone avoided him for fear of being too late.That's how he came to this conclusion.

"Sir, please give me some charity," he said to the last person, "for God's sake, please give me some charity, I'm hungry."

"Bah, fuck off," the man said.But this person himself just happens to be mediocre, "You are useless, I won't give you anything."

Hurstwood put his hands, blue with cold, in his pockets, and burst into tears. "Well," said he, "I'm useless now, I was good, I had money, and I'm done." He walked toward Bovery Street with thoughts of death.Some people have turned on the gas and died like this, why didn't he?He remembered a boarding house with some cramped little rooms with gas lights, which, he thought, were almost prearranged for what he wanted to do.According to regulations, you have to pay [-] cents to open this room.Then he remembered that he didn't have the nickel.

On the way he met a clean-shaven gentleman coming from a good barber's, who seemed in very good condition, and was coming towards him.

"Give me something more or less, please," he begged boldly.

The gentleman looked him over, and handed out his money.All that was found in the bag was a quarter.

"Here," he said, giving him a coin to get rid of him, "well, go away."

(End of this chapter)