Chapter XLV

by Theodore Dreiser

　　CURIOUS SHIFTS OF THE POORThe gloomy Hurstwood, sitting in his cheap hotel, where he hadtaken refuge with seventy dollars--the price of his furniture--between him and nothing, saw a hot summer out and a cool fall in,reading. He was not wholly indifferent to the fact that hismoney was slipping away. As fifty cents after fifty cents werepaid out for a day's lodging he became uneasy, and finally took acheaper room--thirty-five cents a day--to make his money lastlonger. Frequently he saw notices of Carrie. Her picture was inthe "World" once or twice, and an old "Herald" he found in achair informed him that she had recently appeared with someothers at a benefit for something or other. He read these thingswith mingled feelings. Each one seemed to put her farther andfarther away into a realm which became more imposing as itreceded from him. On the billboards, too, he saw a prettyposter, showing her as the Quaker Maid, demure and dainty. Morethan once he stopped and looked at these, gazing at the prettyface in a sullen sort of way. His clothes were shabby, and hepresented a marked contrast to all that she now seemed to be.Somehow, so long as he knew she was at the Casino, though he hadnever any intention of going near her, there was a subconsciouscomfort for him--he was not quite alone. The show seemed such afixture that, after a month or two, he began to take it forgranted that it was still running. In September it went on theroad and he did not notice it. When all but twenty dollars ofhis money was gone, he moved to a fifteen-cent lodging-house inthe Bowery, where there was a bare lounging-room filled withtables and benches as well as some chairs. Here his preferencewas to close his eyes and dream of other days, a habit which grewupon him. It was not sleep at first, but a mental hearkeningback to scenes and incidents in his Chicago life. As the presentbecame darker, the past grew brighter, and all that concerned itstood in relief.He was unconscious of just how much this habit had hold of himuntil one day he found his lips repeating an old answer he hadmade to one of his friends. They were in Fitzgerald and Moy's.It was as if he stood in the door of his elegant little office,comfortably dressed, talking to Sagar Morrison about the value ofSouth Chicago real estate in which the latter was about toinvest."How would you like to come in on that with me?" he heardMorrison say."Not me," he answered, just as he had years before. "I have myhands full now."The movement of his lips aroused him. He wondered whether he hadreally spoken. The next time he noticed anything of the sort hereally did talk."Why don't you jump, you bloody fool?" he was saying. "Jump!"It was a funny English story he was telling to a company ofactors. Even as his voice recalled him, he was smiling. Acrusty old codger, sitting near by, seemed disturbed; at least,he stared in a most pointed way. Hurstwood straightened up. Thehumour of the memory fled in an instant and he felt ashamed. Forrelief, he left his chair and strolled out into the streets.One day, looking down the ad. columns of the "Evening World," hesaw where a new play was at the Casino. Instantly, he came to amental halt. Carrie had gone! He remembered seeing a poster ofher only yesterday, but no doubt it was one left uncovered by thenew signs. Curiously, this fact shook him up. He had almost toadmit that somehow he was depending upon her being in the city.Now she was gone. He wondered how this important fact hadskipped him. Goodness knows when she would be back now.Impelled by a nervous fear, he rose and went into the dingy hall,where he counted his remaining money, unseen. There were but tendollars in all.He wondered how all these other lodging-house people around himgot along. They didn't seem to do anything. Perhaps theybegged--unquestionably they did. Many was the dime he had givento such as they in his day. He had seen other men asking formoney on the streets. Maybe he could get some that way. Therewas horror in this thought.Sitting in the lodging-house room, he came to his last fiftycents. He had saved and counted until his health was affected.His stoutness had gone. With it, even the semblance of a fit inhis clothes. Now he decided he must do something, and, walkingabout, saw another day go by, bringing him down to his lasttwenty cents--not enough to eat for the morrow.Summoning all his courage, he crossed to Broadway and up to theBroadway Central hotel. Within a block he halted, undecided. Abig, heavy-faced porter was standing at one of the sideentrances, looking out. Hurstwood purposed to appeal to him.Walking straight up, he was upon him before he could turn away."My friend," he said, recognising even in his plight the man'sinferiority, "is there anything about this hotel that I could getto do?"The porter stared at him the while he continued to talk."I'm out of work and out of money and I've got to get something,--it doesn't matter what. I don't care to talk about what I'vebeen, but if you'd tell me how to get something to do, I'd bemuch obliged to you. It wouldn't matter if it only lasted a fewdays just now. I've got to have something."The porter still gazed, trying to look indifferent. Then, seeingthat Hurstwood was about to go on, he said:"I've nothing to do with it. You'll have to ask inside."Curiously, this stirred Hurstwood to further effort."I thought you might tell me."The fellow shook his head irritably.Inside went the ex-manager and straight to an office off theclerk's desk. One of the managers of the hotel happened to bethere. Hurstwood looked him straight in the eye."Could you give me something to do for a few days?" he said."I'm in a position where I have to get something at once."The comfortable manager looked at him, as much as to say: "Well,I should judge so.""I came here," explained Hurstwood, nervously, "because I've beena manager myself in my day. I've had bad luck in a way but I'mnot here to tell you that. I want something to do, if only for aweek."The man imagined he saw a feverish gleam in the applicant's eye."What hotel did you manage?" he inquired."It wasn't a hotel," said Hurstwood. "I was manager ofFitzgerald and Moy's place in Chicago for fifteen years.""Is that so?" said the hotel man. "How did you come to get outof that?"The figure of Hurstwood was rather surprising in contrast to thefact."Well, by foolishness of my own. It isn't anything to talk aboutnow. You could find out if you wanted to. I'm 'broke' now and,if you will believe me, I haven't eaten anything to-day."The hotel man was slightly interested in this story. He couldhardly tell what to do with such a figure, and yet Hurstwood'searnestness made him wish to do something."Call Olsen," he said, turning to the clerk.In reply to a bell and a disappearing hall-boy, Olsen, the headporter, appeared."Olsen," said the manager, "is there anything downstairs youcould find for this man to do? I'd like to give him something.""I don't know, sir," said Olsen. "We have about all the help weneed. I think I could find something, sir, though, if you like.""Do. Take him to the kitchen and tell Wilson to give himsomething to eat.""All right, sir," said Olsen.Hurstwood followed. Out of the manager's sight, the headporter's manner changed."I don't know what the devil there is to do," he observed.Hurstwood said nothing. To him the big trunk hustler was asubject for private contempt."You're to give this man something to eat," he observed to thecook.The latter looked Hurstwood over, and seeing something keen andintellectual in his eyes, said:"Well, sit down over there."Thus was Hurstwood installed in the Broadway Central, but not forlong. He was in no shape or mood to do the scrub work thatexists about the foundation of every hotel. Nothing betteroffering, he was set to aid the fireman, to work about thebasement, to do anything and everything that might offer.Porters, cooks, firemen, clerks--all were over him. Moreover hisappearance did not please these individuals--his temper was toolonely--and they made it disagreeable for him.With the stolidity and indifference of despair, however, heendured it all, sleeping in an attic at the roof of the house,eating what the cook gave him, accepting a few dollars a week,which he tried to save. His constitution was in no shape toendure.One day the following February he was sent on an errand to alarge coal company's office. It had been snowing and thawing andthe streets were sloppy. He soaked his shoes in his progress andcame back feeling dull and weary. All the next day he feltunusually depressed and sat about as much as possible, to theirritation of those who admired energy in others.In the afternoon some boxes were to be moved to make room for newculinary supplies. He was ordered to handle a truck.Encountering a big box, he could not lift it."What's the matter there?" said the head porter. "Can't youhandle it?"He was straining to lift it, but now he quit."No," he said, weakly.The man looked at him and saw that he was deathly pale."Not sick, are you?" he asked."I think I am," returned Hurstwood."Well, you'd better go sit down, then."This he did, but soon grew rapidly worse. It seemed all he coulddo to crawl to his room, where he remained for a day."That man Wheeler's sick," reported one of the lackeys to thenight clerk."What's the matter with him?""I don't know. He's got a high fever."The hotel physician looked at him."Better send him to Bellevue," he recommended. "He's gotpneumonia."Accordingly, he was carted away.In three weeks the worst was over, but it was nearly the first ofMay before his strength permitted him to be turned out. Then hewas discharged.No more weakly looking object ever strolled out into the springsunshine than the once hale, lusty manager. All his corpulencyhad fled. His face was thin and pale, his hands white, his bodyflabby. Clothes and all, he weighed but one hundred and thirty-five pounds. Some old garments had been given him--a cheap browncoat and misfit pair of trousers. Also some change and advice.He was told to apply to the charities.Again he resorted to the Bowery lodging-house, brooding overwhere to look. From this it was but a step to beggary."What can a man do?" he said. "I can't starve."His first application was in sunny Second Avenue. A well-dressedman came leisurely strolling toward him out of Stuyvesant Park.Hurstwood nerved himself and sidled near."Would you mind giving me ten cents?" he said, directly. "I'm ina position where I must ask some one."The man scarcely looked at him, fished in his vest pocket andtook out a dime."There you are," he said."Much obliged," said Hurstwood, softly, but the other paid nomore attention to him.Satisfied with his success and yet ashamed of his situation, hedecided that he would only ask for twenty-five cents more, sincethat would be sufficient. He strolled about sizing up people,but it was long before just the right face and situation arrived.When he asked, he was refused. Shocked by this result, he tookan hour to recover and then asked again. This time a nickel wasgiven him. By the most watchful effort he did get twenty centsmore, but it was painful.The next day he resorted to the same effort, experiencing avariety of rebuffs and one or two generous receptions. At lastit crossed his mind that there was a science of faces, and that aman could pick the liberal countenance if he tried.It was no pleasure to him, however, this stopping of passers-by.He saw one man taken up for it and now troubled lest he should bearrested. Nevertheless, he went on, vaguely anticipating thatindefinite something which is always better.It was with a sense of satisfaction, then, that he saw announcedone morning the return of the Casino Company, "with Miss CarrieMadenda." He had thought of her often enough in days past. Howsuccessful she was--how much money she must have! Even now,however, it took a severe run of ill luck to decide him to appealto her. He was truly hungry before he said:"I'll ask her. She won't refuse me a few dollars."Accordingly, he headed for the Casino one afternoon, passing itseveral times in an effort to locate the stage entrance. Then hesat in Bryant Park, a block away, waiting. "She can't refuse tohelp me a little," he kept saying to himself.Beginning with half-past six, he hovered like a shadow about theThirty-ninth Street entrance, pretending always to be a hurryingpedestrian and yet fearful lest he should miss his object. Hewas slightly nervous, too, now that the eventful hour hadarrived; but being weak and hungry, his ability to suffer wasmodified. At last he saw that the actors were beginning toarrive, and his nervous tension increased, until it seemed as ifhe could not stand much more.Once he thought he saw Carrie coming and moved forward, only tosee that he was mistaken."She can't be long, now," he said to himself, half fearing toencounter her and equally depressed at the thought that she mighthave gone in by another way. His stomach was so empty that itached.Individual after individual passed him, nearly all well dressed,almost all indifferent. He saw coaches rolling by, gentlemenpassing with ladies--the evening's merriment was beginning inthis region of theatres and hotels.Suddenly a coach rolled up and the driver jumped down to open thedoor. Before Hurstwood could act, two ladies flounced across thebroad walk and disappeared in the stage door. He thought he sawCarrie, but it was so unexpected, so elegant and far away, hecould hardly tell. He waited a while longer, growing feverishwith want, and then seeing that the stage door no longer opened,and that a merry audience was arriving, he concluded it must havebeen Carrie and turned away."Lord," he said, hastening out of the street into which the morefortunate were pouring, "I've got to get something."At that hour, when Broadway is wont to assume its mostinteresting aspect, a peculiar individual invariably took hisstand at the corner of Twenty-sixth Street and Broadway--a spotwhich is also intersected by Fifth Avenue. This was the hourwhen the theatres were just beginning to receive their patrons.Fire signs announcing the night's amusements blazed on everyhand. Cabs and carriages, their lamps gleaming like yellow eyes,pattered by. Couples and parties of three and four freelymingled in the common crowd, which poured by in a thick stream,laughing and jesting. On Fifth Avenue were loungers--a fewwealthy strollers, a gentleman in evening dress with his lady onhis arm, some club-men passing from one smoking-room to another.Across the way the great hotels showed a hundred gleamingwindows, their cafes and billiard-rooms filled with acomfortable, well-dressed, and pleasure-loving throng. All aboutwas the night, pulsating with the thoughts of pleasure andexhilaration--the curious enthusiasm of a great city bent uponfinding joy in a thousand different ways.This unique individual was no less than an ex-soldier turnedreligionist, who, having suffered the whips and privations of ourpeculiar social system, had concluded that his duty to the Godwhich he conceived lay in aiding his fellow-man. The form of aidwhich he chose to administer was entirely original with himself.It consisted of securing a bed for all such homeless wayfarers asshould apply to him at this particular spot, though he hadscarcely the wherewithal to provide a comfortable habitation forhimself. Taking his place amid this lightsome atmosphere, hewould stand, his stocky figure cloaked in a great cape overcoat,his head protected by a broad slouch hat, awaiting the applicantswho had in various ways learned the nature of his charity. For awhile he would stand alone, gazing like any idler upon an ever-fascinating scene. On the evening in question, a policemanpassing saluted him as "captain," in a friendly way. An urchinwho had frequently seen him before, stopped to gaze. All otherstook him for nothing out of the ordinary, save in the matter ofdress, and conceived of him as a stranger whistling and idlingfor his own amusement.As the first half-hour waned, certain characters appeared. Hereand there in the passing crowds one might see, now and then, aloiterer edging interestedly near. A slouchy figure crossed theopposite corner and glanced furtively in his direction. Anothercame down Fifth Avenue to the corner of Twenty-sixth Street, tooka general survey, and hobbled off again. Two or three noticeableBowery types edged along the Fifth Avenue side of Madison Square,but did not venture over. The soldier, in his cape overcoat,walked a short line of ten feet at his corner, to and fro,indifferently whistling.As nine o'clock approached, some of the hubbub of the earlierhour passed. The atmosphere of the hotels was not so youthful.The air, too, was colder. On every hand curious figures weremoving--watchers and peepers, without an imaginary circle, whichthey seemed afraid to enter--a dozen in all. Presently, with thearrival of a keener sense of cold, one figure came forward. Itcrossed Broadway from out the shadow of Twenty-sixth Street, and,in a halting, circuitous way, arrived close to the waitingfigure. There was something shamefaced or diffident about themovement, as if the intention were to conceal any idea ofstopping until the very last moment. Then suddenly, close to thesoldier, came the halt.The captain looked in recognition, but there was no especialgreeting. The newcomer nodded slightly and murmured somethinglike one who waits for gifts. The other simply motioned to-wardthe edge of the walk."Stand over there," he said.By this the spell was broken. Even while the soldier resumed hisshort, solemn walk, other figures shuffled forward. They did notso much as greet the leader, but joined the one, sniffling andhitching and scraping their feet."Gold, ain't it?""I'm glad winter's over.""Looks as though it might rain."The motley company had increased to ten. One or two knew eachother and conversed. Others stood off a few feet, not wishing tobe in the crowd and yet not counted out. They were peevish,crusty, silent, eying nothing in particular and moving theirfeet.There would have been talking soon, but the soldier gave them nochance. Counting sufficient to begin, he came forward."Beds, eh, all of you?"There was a general shuffle and murmur of approval."Well, line up here. I'll see what I can do. I haven't a centmyself."They fell into a sort of broken, ragged line. One might see,now, some of the chief characteristics by contrast. There was awooden leg in the line. Hats were all drooping, a group thatwould ill become a second-hand Hester Street basement collection.Trousers were all warped and frayed at the bottom and coats wornand faded. In the glare of the store lights, some of the faceslooked dry and chalky; others were red with blotches and puffedin the cheeks and under the eyes; one or two were rawboned andreminded one of railroad hands. A few spectators came near,drawn by the seemingly conferring group, then more and more, andquickly there was a pushing, gaping crowd. Some one in the linebegan to talk."Silence!" exclaimed the captain. "Now, then, gentlemen, thesemen are without beds. They have to have some place to sleep to-night. They can't lie out in the streets. I need twelve centsto put one of them to bed. Who will give it to me?"No reply."Well, we'll have to wait here, boys, until some one does.Twelve cents isn't so very much for one man.""Here's fifteen," exclaimed a young man, peering forward withstrained eyes. "It's all I can afford.""All right. Now I have fifteen. Step out of the line," andseizing one by the shoulder, the captain marched him off a littleway and stood him up alone.Coming back, he resumed his place and began again."I have three cents left. These men must be put to bed somehow.There are"--counting--"one, two, three, four, five, six, seven,eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve men. Nine cents more will putthe next man to bed; give him a good, comfortable bed for thenight. I go right along and look after that myself. Who willgive me nine cents?"One of the watchers, this time a middle-aged man, handed him afive-cent piece."Now, I have eight cents. Four more will give this man a bed.Come, gentlemen. We are going very slow this evening. You allhave good beds. How about these?""Here you are," remarked a bystander, putting a coin into hishand."That," said the captain, looking at the coin, "pays for two bedsfor two men and gives me five on the next one. Who will give meseven cents more?""I will," said a voice.Coming down Sixth Avenue this evening, Hurstwood chanced to crosseast through Twenty-sixth Street toward Third Avenue. He waswholly disconsolate in spirit, hungry to what he deemed an almostmortal extent, weary, and defeated. How should he get at Carrienow? It would be eleven before the show was over. If she came ina coach, she would go away in one. He would need to interruptunder most trying circumstances. Worst of all, he was hungry andweary, and at best a whole day must intervene, for he had notheart to try again to-night. He had no food and no bed.When he neared Broadway, he noticed the captain's gathering ofwanderers, but thinking it to be the result of a street preacheror some patent medicine fakir, was about to pass on. However, incrossing the street toward Madison Square Park, he noticed theline of men whose beds were already secured, stretching out fromthe main body of the crowd. In the glare of the neighbouringelectric light he recognised a type of his own kind--the figureswhom he saw about the streets and in the lodging-houses, driftingin mind and body like himself. He wondered what it could be andturned back.There was the captain curtly pleading as before. He heard withastonishment and a sense of relief the oft-repeated words: "Thesemen must have a bed." Before him was the line of unfortunateswhose beds were yet to be had, and seeing a newcomer quietly edgeup and take a position at the end of the line, he decided to dolikewise. What use to contend? He was weary to-night. It was asimple way out of one difficulty, at least. To-morrow, maybe, hewould do better.Back of him, where some of those were whose beds were safe, arelaxed air was apparent. The strain of uncertainty beingremoved, he heard them talking with moderate freedom and someleaning toward sociability. Politics, religion, the state of thegovernment, some newspaper sensations, and the more notoriousfacts the world over, found mouthpieces and auditors there.Cracked and husky voices pronounced forcibly upon odd matters.Vague and rambling observations were made in reply.There were squints, and leers, and some dull, ox-like stares fromthose who were too dull or too weary to converse.Standing tells. Hurstwood became more weary waiting. He thoughthe should drop soon and shifted restlessly from one foot to theother. At last his turn came. The man ahead had been paid forand gone to the blessed line of success. He was now first, andalready the captain was talking for him."Twelve cents, gentlemen--twelve cents puts this man to bed. Hewouldn't stand here in the cold if he had any place to go."Hurstwood swallowed something that rose to his throat. Hungerand weakness had made a coward of him."Here you are," said a stranger, handing money to the captain.Now the latter put a kindly hand on the ex-manager's shoulder."Line up over there," he said.Once there, Hurstwood breathed easier. He felt as if the worldwere not quite so bad with such a good man in it. Others seemedto feel like himself about this."Captain's a great feller, ain't he?" said the man ahead--alittle, woebegone, helpless-looking sort of individual, wholooked as though he had ever been the sport and care of fortune."Yes," said Hurstwood, indifferently."Huh! there's a lot back there yet," said a man farther up,leaning out and looking back at the applicants for whom thecaptain was pleading."Yes. Must be over a hundred to-night," said another."Look at the guy in the cab," observed a third.A cab had stopped. Some gentleman in evening dress reached out abill to the captain, who took it with simple thanks and turnedaway to his line. There was a general craning of necks as thejewel in the white shirt front sparkled and the cab moved off.Even the crowd gaped in awe."That fixes up nine men for the night," said the captain,counting out as many of the line near him. "Line up over there.Now, then, there are only seven. I need twelve cents."Money came slowly. In the course of time the crowd thinned outto a meagre handful. Fifth Avenue, save for an occasional cab orfoot passenger, was bare. Broadway was thinly peopled withpedestrians. Only now and then a stranger passing noticed thesmall group, handed out a coin, and went away, unheeding.The captain remained stolid and determined. He talked on, veryslowly, uttering the fewest words and with a certain assurance,as though he could not fail."Come; I can't stay out here all night. These men are gettingtired and cold. Some one give me four cents."There came a time when he said nothing at all. Money was handedhim, and for each twelve cents he singled out a man and put himin the other line. Then he walked up and down as before, lookingat the ground.The theatres let out. Fire signs disappeared. A clock struckeleven. Another half-hour and he was down to the last two men."Come, now," he exclaimed to several curious observers; "eighteencents will fix us all up for the night. Eighteen cents. I havesix. Somebody give me the money. Remember, I have to go over toBrooklyn yet to-night. Before that I have to take these men downand put them to bed. Eighteen cents."No one responded. He walked to and fro, looking down for severalminutes, occasionally saying softly: "Eighteen cents." It seemedas if this paltry sum would delay the desired culmination longerthan all the rest had. Hurstwood, buoyed up slightly by the longline of which he was a part, refrained with an effort fromgroaning, he was so weak.At last a lady in opera cape and rustling skirts came down FifthAvenue, accompanied by her escort. Hurstwood gazed wearily,reminded by her both of Carrie in her new world and of the timewhen he had escorted his own wife in like manner.While he was gazing, she turned and, looking at the remarkablecompany, sent her escort over. He came, holding a bill in hisfingers, all elegant and graceful."Here you are," he said."Thanks," said the captain, turning to the two remainingapplicants. "Now we have some for to-morrow night," he added.Therewith he lined up the last two and proceeded to the head,counting as he went."One hundred and thirty-seven," he announced. "Now, boys, lineup. Right dress there. We won't be much longer about this.Steady, now."He placed himself at the head and called out "Forward." Hurstwoodmoved with the line. Across Fifth Avenue, through Madison Squareby the winding paths, east on Twenty-third Street, and down ThirdAvenue wound the long, serpentine company. Midnight pedestriansand loiterers stopped and stared as the company passed. Chattingpolicemen, at various corners, stared indifferently or nodded tothe leader, whom they had seen before. On Third Avenue theymarched, a seemingly weary way, to Eighth Street, where there wasa lodginghouse, closed, apparently, for the night. They wereexpected, however.Outside in the gloom they stood, while the leader parleyedwithin. Then doors swung open and they were invited in with a"Steady, now."Some one was at the head showing rooms, so that there was nodelay for keys. Toiling up the creaky stairs, Hurstwood lookedback and saw the captain, watching; the last one of the linebeing included in his broad solicitude. Then he gathered hiscloak about him and strolled out into the night."I can't stand much of this," said Hurstwood, whose legs achedhim painfully, as he sat down upon the miserable bunk in thesmall, lightless chamber allotted to him. "I've got to eat, orI'll die."