sister carrie

Chapter 9

Chapter 5 A Brilliant Night Bloom: The Uses of a Name
Drouet did not come that night.After receiving the letter, he temporarily put aside all his thoughts about Carrie, and wandered here and there, enjoying himself in time.On this evening he dined at Lecter's, a little known local establishment which occupies a ground floor on the corner of Clark and Monroe Streets.After that he patronized the Fitzgerald-Moai Hotel on Adam Street, opposite the imposing Federal Building.There, reclining on the handsome counter, he drank a glass of clear whiskey, bought two cigars, and lit one.To him it represented an aspect of good life--a fine specimen of what life as a whole must be like.

Drouet was not a drunkard, he was not a rich man.He just longed for what he thought was the best, and this set of actions seemed to him to be the best kind of behavior.For him, the reputation of Lecter Restaurant, with smooth marble walls, brilliant red candles, beautiful porcelain and silverware, and more importantly, actors and freelancers frequenting this place, should be The most suitable place for a proud person.He likes beautiful clothes, delicious food, and especially likes to make friends with proud people.During the meal, I knew that Joseph Jefferson (the famous comedian at the time, who made a sensation in the British and American drama circles with his performance of Lip Van Winkle.——translator) would also come to this place, or that a famous actor at that time, Henry E. ? Dixie was only a few tables away from him, which was a pleasure.At Lecter's, he always found such satisfaction, because here he met politicians, agents, actors, young "loafers" from the city's rich families, all chatting and laughing vulgarly. eat and drink.

"So-and-so's on that side." That's what these gentlemen often say, especially those who haven't climbed this far, but who are determined to climb to such a prominent height, and here pay for their meals. , is a symbol of this kind of scene.

"Exactly." People would answer like that.

"Oh, that's right, don't you know? Yes, he's the manager of the Grand Opera House."

Drouet straightened himself up on hearing such a thing in his ears, and began to eat to his heart's content.If he had any vanity, it fueled him; if he had any ambition, it tugged at his heartstrings.One day, he will pull out a roll of banknotes in a flash.In this way, he can eat whatever (they) eat.

It was for the same reason that he chose the Fitzgeralds, the Moais on Arden Street.From a Chicagoan's point of view, this is a luxurious hotel.Like Lecter's, it was brightly lit, with beautiful candlesticks below.The floor was paved with colorful tiles, and the walls were inlaid with painted, dark black shiny wood strips and painted stucco, which gave the place a grandeur.Long counters, shining lights, painted wooden shelves, multicolored carved glassware, and many precious bottles.Really beautiful salon, beautiful curtains, precious wine, a row of bar treasures that cannot be compared in the whole country.

At the Lecter Hotel, Drouet met G. W. Hurstwood, Fitzgerald, Moai's manager.Everyone named him by name and said that he was a very proud and well-known figure in the city with a wide range of social contacts.Hurstwood deserved his reputation because he was now in his late forties, and he was strong, quick, and well-to-do, partly shown in his fine clothes, immaculate Shirts, jewelry worn, and pretentiousness.Drouet immediately had an opinion of him, considered him worthy of acquaintance, and was not only pleased to see him, but thereafter whenever he thought of a drink or a cigar, he would come to Arden Street for a drink.

Hurstwood was an interesting character in his own way.He is shrewd in many little things to make a good impression.His position as a manager is quite important-a position of general manager, very dignified, but without economic power.He was promoted to this position by tenacity and hard work, many years of hard work, from a bartender in an ordinary salon to the high position he is today.Here he had an office cubicle, partitioned off by painted cherry wood and a grate, where he kept a roll-top writing desk with a simple ledger—food ordered and needed.The main business and money coming in and out were handled by the bosses--by Mr. Fitzgerald and Mr. Moai--and the cashier, who took care of the income.

Most of the time he was on the move, dressed in imported materials, well made, with a fine blue diamond in his tie, a stylish waistcoat that caught the eye, a solid gold watch chain, Tie the latest watch with nice-looking trinkets and patterns and engravings.He could name hundreds of actors, businessmen, politicians, and the city's generally well-connected smug people, and he could greet them with "Ah, old friend."Being able to do this is part of his success.He has his own very detailed communication scale, and he says to the shop assistants and office workers who earn 15 yuan a week: "You say." These people are regular customers and know his identity.

As for famous or rich people who know him and are friendly, say: "Oh, old man, how are you?" But there is another class of people who are too rich, or too famous, or He was so proud of himself that he could never greet them casually. To these people, he always behaved very professionally, put on a solemn and solemn demeanor, and treated them with great respect in order to win their favor. And he didn't lose his identity.Finally, there are a few nice gentlemen who are neither rich nor poor, who are well-known but not particularly proud. To these people, he always gets along with them and treats them kindly.With these people, he talked most speculatively and seriously.He liked to be out and about, and to play with it every once in a while—watching horse races, theatre, or acrobatics in clubs.He owned a horse and a fine spring carriage.He lived with his wife and two children in a fine house and a comfortable family on the North Shore near Lincoln Park, and was a welcome figure in our great American high society—you can count them all down from the millionaires.

Hurstwood was fond of Drouet.Drouet's good-temper and smart dress suited him well.He knew that Drouet was only a traveling salesman--not for a few years--but Butlert-Cal Yao was a large and thriving company, and Drouet had a good relationship with the bosses.Hurstwood and Karyao were very familiar, and they would have a drink together and gossip with other people every once in a while.One of the strengths of Drouet's work was that he had a sense of humor, and could tell a story, and tell it vividly, if need be.He told Hurstwood about the races, and funny little stories about himself, and his experiences with women, and about business in the cities he went to, and he always managed to make himself attractive everywhere.This was especially true tonight, as his presentation to the company had been well received, his new samples had been satisfactorily selected, and his itinerary for the next six weeks had been drawn up.

"Oh, Charlie, old chap," said Hurstwood, when Drouet came in at eight o'clock in the evening, "how's it going?" The room was crowded now.

Drouet shook hands with him, smiling, and they strode up to the counter.

"Oh, very good."

"I haven't seen you for six weeks. When did you come back?"

"Friday," said Drouet, "is a very pleasant trip."

"Very well," said Hurstwood.There was a kind of enthusiasm in the dark eyes, not the usual cold and pretentious look. "What are you taking with you?" he went on.Then the bartender, in a white waistcoat and tie, leaned over the counter towards them.

"Strong," said Drouet.

"I'll take a little too," put in Hurstwood.

"How long will you be in the city this time?" asked Hurstwood.

"Only until Wednesday. I'm going to St. Paul's."

"George Evans was here on Saturday, and he said he saw you last week in Mewakee."

"Yes, I saw George's," replied Drouet, "a fine old chap, isn't he? We had a good time there."

The bartender put glasses and bottles in front of them, and they poured wine while talking.Drouet poured not two-thirds, as was considered decency, and Hurstwood poured whiskey, with a little grit and water.

"How is Karyo?" said Hurstwood. "I haven't seen him here for two weeks."

"He falls asleep at home, they say, and doesn't get up," exclaimed Drouet; "oh, he's an old chap with gout."

"But he's made a lot of money in that time, hasn't he?"

"Yes, a lot of money," replied Drouet. "He doesn't have long to live, and he rarely visits the office these days."

"He's only got one boy, hasn't he?" asked Hurstwood.

"Yeah, and a profligate rake," laughed Drouet.

"In my opinion, there are other shareholders, and he can't get in the way of the company's affairs."

"Yeah, there's nothing in the way."

Hurstwood stood with his coat unbuttoned, his fingers in his pockets, and his jeweled ring, which stood out in the light, was very pretty.He is the epitome of comfort.

To a man who does not like to drink and is naturally serious, such chatter and noise in this room must have seemed a strange place, a strange commentary on human nature and life.Like swarms of moths, there is no end in sight, rushing towards the flame.The talk that one hears here does not add to one's knowledge, so it is praised.It's clear that conspirators choose more hidden places to discuss their schemes, and politicians don't gather here to discuss anything, unless it's superficial, because otherwise, people with sharp ears will hear .And not thirst, because most of the people who visit these gorgeous places don't come for the drink.That being said, there is always a reason why people come here to chat and love to huddle together.It must have been a mass of strange desires and vague longings that produced such strange social fashions, or it would not have been so.

Drouet was one of those people who was as eager to be happy as he was to be popular among his superiors.Many of his friends here came here because they couldn't even consciously analyze why, but they were eagerly looking for company, for excitement and atmosphere.One might as well think of this as a search for a better social position.What they are pursuing here, although it is sensual, is not evil after all.It is not evil to yearn for a particularly richly furnished hall.The worst thing that can happen is that materialistic people, touched by ambition, arrange their lives according to this luxurious scheme.In the final analysis, it can not be said that there is any sin in the magnificent furnishings, but only because of human nature.Such an air may stir the chords of the poorly dressed to imitate the richly dressed, and it is no one else to blame but their own ambitions which are affected.If one thing that everyone hates—wine—was removed, no one would deny the beauty and enthusiasm that would last forever.Proof of this saying is that people love modern and stylish pubs and are happy to see them.

It is the case today of brightly lit halls, of fashionably dressed and greedy crowds, of a disorganized and rootless mind--loved only of bright lights, of rich and beautiful dress, all for a man in that eternal To outsiders where the stars shine majestically, it must have seemed a strange phenomenon.Under the starlight, the night wind blows, how delicious the lantern flower is, how strange and brilliant the night flower is, it exudes fragrance and attracts insects, this joyful rose full of insects.

"See that fellow that's coming in?" said Hurstwood, glancing at the man that was coming in.He was wearing a top hat and a Prince Albert jacket, and his plump face was flushed with good food.

"No, where is it?" said Drouet.

"That way," said Hurstwood, pointing forward with a glance, "the one with the top hat."

"Oh, yes," said Drouet, pretending not to have seen it, "who is he?"

"That's Jules Huaraz, the psychic."

Drouet's eyes followed him, interested.

"Not like a ghost-seeing man, is it?" said Drouet.

"Oh, I don't know that," said Hurstwood. "He's got money, anyway." With a glance.

"I don't quite believe those things, do you?" asked Drouet.

"Well, you don't know for sure," said Hurstwood, "perhaps there's something in it. But I don't want trouble. Besides," he went on, "where are you going at night?"

"Go see The Burrow," said Drouet, referring to the popular farce that was going on.

"Then you'd better start. It's eight thirty," said Hurstwood, taking out his watch.

The crowd had gone quite a bit--to the theatre, to the club, to the funniest places--some men at least--to the mistress's.

"Yes, I'm going right away," said Drouet.

"Come back after you've seen it, and I have something to show you," said Hurstwood.

"Certainly," said Drouet eagerly.

"You don't have anything to do tonight, do you?" asked Hurstwood.

"Nothing happened."

"Then please come here."

"I met a pretty little girl on the train on Friday," said Drouet, when they parted. "Yes, that's true. I must see her before I start."

"Oh, don't take her to heart," said Hurstwood.

"Oh, she's a pretty girl, I tell you the truth," said Drouet confidently, trying to impress his friend.

"Twelve o'clock," said Hurstwood.

"All right," said Drouet, going out.

Thus Carrie's name was passed around in this frivolous pleasure-seeking place, while the little toiler bemoaned her own unfortunate fate, which she was demonstrating. Inevitable in the early stages of fate.

(End of this chapter)