嘉莉妹妹 英文版 Sister Carrie
德莱塞 Theodore Dreiser
Chapter XLVII Page 1
THE WAY OF THE BEATEN--A HARP IN THE WIND
difficultto get anything?
In the city, at that time, there were a number of charitiessimilar in nature to that of the captain's, which Hurstwood nowpatronised in a like unfortunate way. One was a convent mission-house of the Sisters of Mercy in Fifteenth Street--a row of redbrick family dwellings, before the door of which hung a plainwooden contribution box, on which was painted the statement thatevery noon a meal was given free to all those who might apply andask for aid. This simple announcement was modest in the extreme,covering, as it did, a charity so broad. Institutions andcharities are so large and so numerous in New York that suchthings as this are not often noticed by the more comfortablysituated. But to one whose mind is upon the matter, they growexceedingly under inspection. Unless one were looking up thismatter in particular, he could have stood at Sixth Avenue andFifteenth Street for days around the noon hour and never havenoticed that out of the vast crowd that surged along that busythoroughfare there turned out, every few seconds, some weather-beaten, heavy-footed specimen of humanity, gaunt in countenanceand dilapidated in the matter of clothes. The fact is none theless true, however, and the colder the day the more apparent itbecame. Space and a lack of culinary room in the mission-house,compelled an arrangement which permitted of only twenty-five orthirty eating at one time, so that a line had to be formedoutside and an orderly entrance effected. This caused a dailyspectacle which, however, had become so common by repetitionduring a number of years that now nothing was thought of it. Themen waited patiently, like cattle, in the coldest weather--waitedfor several hours before they could be admitted. No questionswere asked and no service rendered. They ate and went awayagain, some of them returning regularly day after day the winterthrough.
A big, motherly looking woman invariably stood guard at the doorduring the entire operation and counted the admissible number.The men moved up in solemn order. There was no haste and noeagerness displayed. It was almost a dumb procession. In thebitterest weather this line was to be found here. Under an icywind there was a prodigious slapping of hands and a dancing offeet. Fingers and the features of the face looked as if severelynipped by the cold. A study of these men in broad light provedthem to be nearly all of a type. They belonged to the class thatsit on the park benches during the endurable days and sleep uponthem during the summer nights. They frequent the Bowery andthose down-at-the-heels East Side streets where poor clothes andshrunken features are not singled out as curious. They are themen who are in the lodginghouse sitting-rooms during bleak andbitter weather and who swarm about the cheaper shelters whichonly open at six in a number of the lower East Side streets.Miserable food, ill-timed and greedily eaten, had played havocwith bone and muscle. They were all pale, flabby, sunken-eyed,hollow-chested, with eyes that glinted and shone and lips thatwere a sickly red by contrast. Their hair was but half attendedto, their ears anaemic in hue, and their shoes broken in leatherand run down at heel and toe. They were of the class whichsimply floats and drifts, every wave of people washing up one, asbreakers do driftwood upon a stormy shore.
For nearly a quarter of a century, in another section of thecity, Fleischmann, the baker, had given a loaf of bread to anyone who would come for it to the side door of his restaurant atthe corner of Broadway and Tenth Street, at midnight. Everynight during twenty years about three hundred men had formed inline and at the appointed time marched past the doorway, pickedtheir loaf from a great box placed just outside, and vanishedagain into the night. From the beginning to the present timethere had been little change in the character or number of thesemen. There were two or three figures that had grown familiar tothose who had seen this little procession pass year after year.Two of them had missed scarcely a night in fifteen years. Therewere about forty, more or less, regular callers. The remainderof the line was formed of strangers. In times of panic andunusual hardships there were seldom more than three hundred. Intimes of prosperity, when little is heard of the unemployed,there were seldom less. The same number, winter and summer, instorm or calm, in good times and bad, held this melancholymidnight rendezvous at Fleischmann's bread box.
At both of these two charities, during the severe winter whichwas now on, Hurstwood was a frequent visitor. On one occasion itwas peculiarly cold, and finding no comfort in begging about thestreets, he waited until noon before seeking this free offeringto the poor. Already, at eleven o'clock of this morning, severalsuch as he had shambled forward out of Sixth Avenue, their thinclothes flapping and fluttering in the wind. They leaned againstthe iron railing which protects the walls of the Ninth RegimentArmory, which fronts upon that section of Fifteenth Street,having come early in order to be first in. Having an hour towait, they at first lingered at a respectful distance; but otherscoming up, they moved closer in order to protect their right ofprecedence. To this collection Hurstwood came up from the westout of Seventh Avenue and stopped close to the door, nearer thanall the others. Those who had been waiting before him, butfarther away, now drew near, and by a certain stolidity ofdemeanour, no words being spoken, indicated that they were first.
near noon," ventured one. shamblingfigure!
Seeing the opposition to his action, he looked sullenly along theline, then moved out, taking his place at the foot. When orderhad been restored, the animal feeling of opposition relaxed.
"Must be pretty near noon," ventured one.
"It is," said another. "I've been waiting nearly an hour."
"Gee, but it's cold!"
They peered eagerly at the door, where all must enter. A groceryman drove up and carried in several baskets of eatables. Thisstarted some words upon grocery men and the cost of food ingeneral.
"If there wuz war, it would help this country a lot."
The line was growing rapidly. Already there were fifty or more,and those at the head, by their demeanour, evidentlycongratulated themselves upon not having so long to wait as thoseat the foot. There was much jerking of heads, and looking downthe line.
"It don't matter how near you get to the front, so long as you'rein the first twenty-five," commented one of the first twenty-five. "You all go in together."
"Humph!" ejaculated Hurstwood, who had been so sturdilydisplaced.
"This here Single Tax is the thing," said another. "There ain'tgoing to be no order till it comes."
For the most part there was silence; gaunt men shuffling,glancing, and beating their arms.
At last the door opened and the motherly-looking sister appeared.She only looked an order. Slowly the line moved up and, one byone, passed in, until twenty-five were counted. Then sheinterposed a stout arm, and the line halted, with six men on thesteps. Of these the ex-manager was one. Waiting thus, sometalked, some ejaculated concerning the misery of it; somebrooded, as did Hurstwood. At last he was admitted, and, havingeaten, came away, almost angered because of his pains in gettingit.
At eleven o'clock of another evening, perhaps two weeks later, hewas at the midnight offering of a loaf--waiting patiently. Ithad been an unfortunate day with him, but now he took his fatewith a touch of philosophy. If he could secure no supper, or washungry late in the evening, here was a place he could come. Afew minutes before twelve, a great box of bread was pushed out,and exactly on the hour a portly, round-faced German tookposition by it, calling "Ready." The whole line at once movedforward each taking his loaf in turn and going his separate way.On this occasion, the ex-manager ate his as he went plodding thedark streets in silence to his bed.
By January he had about concluded that the game was up with him.Life had always seemed a precious thing, but now constant wantand weakened vitality had made the charms of earth rather dulland inconspicuous. Several times, when fortune pressed mostharshly, he thought he would end his troubles; but with a changeof weather, or the arrival of a quarter or a dime, his mood wouldchange, and he would wait. Each day he would find some old paperlying about and look into it, to see if there was any trace ofCarrie, but all summer and fall he had looked in vain. Then henoticed that his eyes were beginning to hurt him, and thisailment rapidly increased until, in the dark chambers of thelodgings he frequented, he did not attempt to read. Bad andirregular eating was weakening every function of his body. Theone recourse left him was to doze when a place offered and hecould get the money to occupy it.
He was beginning to find, in his wretched clothing and meagrestate of body, that people took him for a chronic type of bum andbeggar. Police hustled him along, restaurant and lodginghousekeepers turned him out promptly the moment he had his due;pedestrians waved him off. He found it more and more difficultto get anything from anybody.
At last he admitted to himself that the game was up. It wasafter a long series of appeals to pedestrians, in which he hadbeen refused and refused--every one hastening from contact.
"Give me a little something, will you, mister?" he said to thelast one. "For God's sake, do; I'm starving."
"Aw, get out," said the man, who happened to be a common typehimself. "You're no good. I'll give you nawthin'."
Hurstwood put his hands, red from cold, down in his pockets.Tears came into his eyes.
"That's right," he said; "I'm no good now. I was all right. Ihad money. I'm going to quit this," and, with death in hisheart, he started down toward the Bowery. People had turned onthe gas before and died; why shouldn't he? He remembered alodginghouse where there were little, close rooms, with gas-jetsin them, almost pre-arranged, he thought, for what he wanted todo, which rented for fifteen cents. Then he remembered that hehad no fifteen cents.
On the way he met a comfortable-looking gentleman, coming, clean-shaven, out of a fine barber shop.
"Would you mind giving me a little something?" he asked this manboldly.
The gentleman looked him over and fished for a dime. Nothing butquarters were in his pocket.
"Here," he said, handing him one, to be rid of him. "Be off,now."
Hurstwood moved on, wondering. The sight of the large, brightcoin pleased him a little. He remembered that he was hungry andthat he could get a bed for ten cents. With this, the idea ofdeath passed, for the time being, out of his mind. It was onlywhen he could get nothing but insults that death seemed worthwhile.
One day, in the middle of the winter, the sharpest spell of theseason set in. It broke grey and cold in the first day, and onthe second snowed. Poor luck pursuing him, he had secured butten cents by nightfall, and this he had spent for food. Atevening he found himself at the Boulevard and Sixty-seventhStreet, where he finally turned his face Bowery-ward. Especiallyfatigued because of the wandering propensity which had seized himin the morning, he now half dragged his wet feet, shuffling thesoles upon the sidewalk. An old, thin coat was turned up abouthis red ears--his cracked derby hat was pulled down until itturned them outward. His hands were in his pockets.
"I'll just go down Broadway," he said to himself.
When he reached Forty-second Street, the fire signs were alreadyblazing brightly. Crowds were hastening to dine. Through brightwindows, at every corner, might be seen gay companies inluxuriant restaurants. There were coaches and crowded cablecars.
In his weary and hungry state, he should never have come here.The contrast was too sharp. Even he was recalled keenly tobetter things."What's the use?" he thought. "It's all up with me. I'll quitthis."
People turned to look after him, so uncouth was his shamblingfigure. Several officers followed him with their eyes, to seethat he did not beg of anybody.
Once he paused in an aimless, incoherent sort of way and lookedthrough the windows of an imposing restaurant, before whichblazed a fire sign, and through the large, plate windows of whichcould be seen the red and gold decorations, the palms, the whitenapery, and shining glassware, and, above all, the comfortablecrowd. Weak as his mind had become, his hunger was sharp enoughto show the importance of this. He stopped stock still, hisfrayed trousers soaking in the slush, and peered foolishly in.
"Eat," he mumbled. "That's right, eat. Nobody else wants any."
"Wait'll I go upstairs and change.
Then his voice dropped even lower, and his mind half lost thefancy it had.
"It's mighty cold," he said. "Awful cold."
last he admitted to himself that the game was up.
At Broadway and Thirty-ninth Street was blazing, in incandescentfire, Carrie's name. "Carrie Madenda," it read, "and the CasinoCompany." All the wet, snowy sidewalk was bright with thisradiated fire. It was so bright that it attracted Hurstwood'sgaze. He looked up, and then at a large, gilt-framedposterboard, on which was a fine lithograph of Carrie, lifesize.
Hurstwood gazed at it a moment, snuffling and hunching oneshoulder, as if something were scratching him. He was so rundown, however, that his mind was not exactly clear.
He approached that entrance and went in.
"Well?" said the attendant, staring at him. Seeing him pause, hewent over and shoved him. "Get out of here," he said.
"I want to see Miss Madenda," he said.
"You do, eh?" the other said, almost tickled at the spectacle."Get out of here," and he shoved him again. Hurstwood had nostrength to resist.
"I want to see Miss Madenda," he tried to explain, even as he wasbeing hustled away. "I'm all right. I----"
The man gave him a last push and closed the door. As he did so,Hurstwood slipped and fell in the snow. It hurt him, and somevague sense of shame returned. He began to cry and swearfoolishly.
"God damned dog!" he said. "Damned old cur," wiping the slushfrom his worthless coat. "I--I hired such people as you once."
"She owes me something to eat," he said. "She owes it to me."
Hopelessly he turned back into Broadway again and slopped onwardand away, begging, crying, losing track of his thoughts, oneafter another, as a mind decayed and disjointed is wont to do.
It was truly a wintry evening, a few days later, when his onedistinct mental decision was reached. Already, at four o'clock,the sombre hue of night was thickening the air. A heavy snow wasfalling--a fine picking, whipping snow, borne forward by a swiftwind in long, thin lines. The streets were bedded with it--sixinches of cold, soft carpet, churned to a dirty brown by thecrush of teams and the feet of men. Along Broadway men pickedtheir way in ulsters and umbrellas. Along the Bowery, menslouched through it with collars and hats pulled over their ears.In the former thoroughfare businessmen and travellers were makingfor comfortable hotels. In the latter, crowds on cold errandsshifted past dingy stores, in the deep recesses of which lightswere already gleaming. There were early lights in the cablecars, whose usual clatter was reduced by the mantle about thewheels. The whole city was muffled by this fast-thickeningmantle.
In her comfortable chambers at the Waldorf, Carrie was reading atthis time "Pere Goriot," which Ames had recommended to her. Itwas so strong, and Ames's mere recommendation had so aroused herinterest, that she caught nearly the full sympatheticsignificance of it. For the first time, it was being borne inupon her how silly and worthless had been her earlier reading, asa whole. Becoming wearied, however, she yawned and came to thewindow, looking out upon the old winding procession of carriagesrolling up Fifth Avenue.
"Isn't it bad?" she observed to Lola.
"Terrible!" said that little lady, joining her. "I hope it snowsenough to go sleigh riding."
"Oh, dear," said Carrie, with whom the sufferings of FatherGoriot were still keen. "That's all you think of. Aren't yousorry for the people who haven't anything to-night?"
"Of course I am," said Lola; "but what can I do? I haven'tanything."
Carrie smiled.
"You wouldn't care, if you had," she returned.
"I would, too," said Lola. "But people never gave me anythingwhen I was hard up."
"Isn't it just awful?" said Carrie, studying the winter's storm.
"Look at that man over there," laughed Lola, who had caught sightof some one falling down. "How sheepish men look when they fall,don't they?"
"We'll have to take a coach to-night," answered Carrie absently.
said the other.attendant, staring at him.
In the lobby of the Imperial, Mr. Charles Drouet was justarriving, shaking the snow from a very handsome ulster. Badweather had driven him home early and stirred his desire forthose pleasures which shut out the snow and gloom of life. Agood dinner, the company of a young woman, and an evening at thetheatre were the chief things for him.
"Why, hello, Harry!" he said, addressing a lounger in one of thecomfortable lobby chairs. "How are you?"
"Oh, about six and six," said the other."Rotten weather, isn't it?"
"Well, I should say," said the other. "I've been just sittinghere thinking where I'd go to-night."
"Come along with me," said Drouet. "I can introduce you tosomething dead swell."
"Who is it?" said the other.
"Oh, a couple of girls over here in Fortieth Street. We couldhave a dandy time. I was just looking for you."
"Supposing you get 'em and take 'em out to dinner?"
"Sure," said Drouet. "Wait'll I go upstairs and change myclothes."
"Well, I'll be in the barber shop," said the other. "I want toget a shave."
"All right," said Drouet, creaking off in his good shoes towardthe elevator. The old butterfly was as light on the wing asever.
On an incoming vestibuled Pullman, speeding at forty miles anhour through the snow of the evening, were three others, allrelated.
"First call for dinner in the dining-car," a Pullman servitor wasannouncing, as he hastened through the aisle in snow-white apronand jacket.
"I don't believe I want to play any more," said the youngest, ablack-haired beauty, turned supercilious by fortune, as shepushed a euchre hand away from her.
"Shall we go into dinner?" inquired her husband, who was all thatfine raiment can make.
"Oh, not yet," she answered. "I don't want to play any more,though."
"Jessica," said her mother, who was also a study in what goodclothing can do for age, "push that pin down in your tie--it'scoming up."
Jessica obeyed, incidentally touching at her lovely hair andlooking at a little jewel-faced watch. Her husband studied her,for beauty, even cold, is fascinating from one point of view.