Chapter XXXIV

by Theodore Dreiser

　　THE GRIND OF THE MILLSTONES--A SAMPLE OF CHAFFCarrie pondered over this situation as consistently as Hurstwood,once she got the facts adjusted in her mind. It took severaldays for her to fully realise that the approach of thedissolution of her husband's business meant commonplace struggleand privation. Her mind went back to her early venture inChicago, the Hansons and their flat, and her heart revolted.That was terrible! Everything about poverty was terrible. Shewished she knew a way out. Her recent experiences with theVances had wholly unfitted her to view her own state withcomplacence. The glamour of the high life of the city had, inthe few experiences afforded her by the former, seized hercompletely. She had been taught how to dress and where to gowithout having ample means to do either. Now, these things--ever-present realities as they were--filled her eyes and mind.The more circumscribed became her state, the more entrancingseemed this other. And now poverty threatened to seize herentirely and to remove this other world far upward like a heavento which any Lazarus might extend, appealingly, his hands.So, too, the ideal brought into her life by Ames remained. Hehad gone, but here was his word that riches were not everything;that there was a great deal more in the world than she knew; thatthe stage was good, and the literature she read poor. He was astrong man and clean--how much stronger and better than Hurstwoodand Drouet she only half formulated to herself, but thedifference was painful. It was something to which shevoluntarily closed her eyes.During the last three months of the Warren Street connection,Hurstwood took parts of days off and hunted, tracking thebusiness advertisements. It was a more or less depressingbusiness, wholly because of the thought that he must soon getsomething or he would begin to live on the few hundred dollars hewas saving, and then he would have nothing to invest--he wouldhave to hire out as a clerk.Everything he discovered in his line advertised as anopportunity, was either too expensive or too wretched for him.Besides, winter was coming, the papers were announcing hardships,and there was a general feeling of hard times in the air, or, atleast, he thought so. In his worry, other people's worriesbecame apparent. No item about a firm failing, a familystarving, or a man dying upon the streets, supposedly ofstarvation, but arrested his eye as he scanned the morningpapers. Once the "World" came out with a flaring announcementabout "80,000 people out of employment in New York this winter,"which struck as a knife at his heart."Eighty thousand!" he thought. "What an awful thing that is."This was new reasoning for Hurstwood. In the old days the worldhad seemed to be getting along well enough. He had been wont tosee similar things in the "Daily News," in Chicago, but they didnot hold his attention. Now, these things were like grey cloudshovering along the horizon of a clear day. They threatened tocover and obscure his life with chilly greyness. He tried toshake them off, to forget and brace up. Sometimes he said tohimself, mentally:"What's the use worrying? I'm not out yet. I've got six weeksmore. Even if worst comes to worst, I've got enough to live onfor six months."Curiously, as he troubled over his future, his thoughtsoccasionally reverted to his wife and family. He had avoidedsuch thoughts for the first three years as much as possible. Hehated her, and he could get along without her. Let her go. Hewould do well enough. Now, however, when he was not doing wellenough, he began to wonder what she was doing, how his childrenwere getting along. He could see them living as nicely as ever,occupying the comfortable house and using his property."By George! it's a shame they should have it all," he vaguelythought to himself on several occasions. "I didn't do anything."As he looked back now and analysed the situation which led up tohis taking the money, he began mildly to justify himself. Whathad he done--what in the world--that should bar him out this wayand heap such difficulties upon him? It seemed only yesterday tohim since he was comfortable and well-to-do. But now it was allwrested from him."She didn't deserve what she got out of me, that is sure. Ididn't do so much, if everybody could just know."There was no thought that the facts ought to be advertised. Itwas only a mental justification he was seeking from himself--something that would enable him to bear his state as a righteousman.One afternoon, five weeks before the Warren Street place closedup, he left the saloon to visit three or four places he sawadvertised in the "Herald." One was down in Gold Street, and hevisited that, but did not enter. It was such a cheap lookingplace he felt that he could not abide it. Another was on theBowery, which he knew contained many showy resorts. It was nearGrand Street, and turned out to be very handsomely fitted up. Hetalked around about investments for fully three-quarters of anhour with the proprietor, who maintained that his health waspoor, and that was the reason he wished a partner."Well, now, just how much money would it take to buy a halfinterest here?" said Hurstwood, who saw seven hundred dollars ashis limit."Three thousand," said the man.Hurstwood's jaw fell."Cash?" he said."Cash."He tried to put on an air of deliberation, as one who mightreally buy; but his eyes showed gloom. He wound up by saying hewould think it over, and came away. The man he had been talkingto sensed his condition in a vague way."I don't think he wants to buy," he said to himself. "He doesn'ttalk right."The afternoon was as grey as lead and cold. It was blowing up adisagreeable winter wind. He visited a place far up on the eastside, near Sixty-ninth Street, and it was five o'clock, andgrowing dim, when he reached there. A portly German kept thisplace."How about this ad of yours?" asked Hurstwood, who ratherobjected to the looks of the place."Oh, dat iss all over," said the German. "I vill not sell now.""Oh, is that so?""Yes; dere is nothing to dat. It iss all over.""Very well," said Hurstwood, turning around.The German paid no more attention to him, and it made him angry."The crazy ass!" he said to himself. "What does he want toadvertise for?"Wholly depressed, he started for Thirteenth Street. The flat hadonly a light in the kitchen, where Carrie was working. He strucka match and, lighting the gas, sat down in the dining-roomwithout even greeting her. She came to the door and looked in."It's you, is it?" she said, and went back."Yes," he said, without even looking up from the evening paper hehad bought.Carrie saw things were wrong with him. He was not so handsomewhen gloomy. The lines at the sides of the eyes were deepened.Naturally dark of skin, gloom made him look slightly sinister.He was quite a disagreeable figure.Carrie set the table and brought in the meal."Dinner's ready," she said, passing him for something.He did not answer, reading on.She came in and sat down at her place, feeling exceedinglywretched."Won't you eat now?" she asked.He folded his paper and drew near, silence holding for a time,except for the "Pass me's.""It's been gloomy to-day, hasn't it?" ventured Carrie, after atime."Yes," he said.He only picked at his food."Are you still sure to close up?" said Carrie, venturing to takeup the subject which they had discussed often enough."Of course we are," he said, with the slightest modification ofsharpness.This retort angered Carrie. She had had a dreary day of itherself."You needn't talk like that," she said."Oh!" he exclaimed, pushing back from the table, as if to saymore, but letting it go at that. Then he picked up his paper.Carrie left her seat, containing herself with difficulty. He sawshe was hurt."Don't go 'way," he said, as she started back into the kitchen."Eat your dinner."She passed, not answering.He looked at the paper a few moments, and then rose up and put onhis coat."I'm going downtown, Carrie," he said, coming out. "I'm out ofsorts to-night."She did not answer."Don't be angry," he said. "It will be all right to morrow."He looked at her, but she paid no attention to him, working ather dishes."Good-bye!" he said finally, and went out.This was the first strong result of the situation between them,but with the nearing of the last day of the business the gloombecame almost a permanent thing. Hurstwood could not conceal hisfeelings about the matter. Carrie could not help wondering whereshe was drifting. It got so that they talked even less thanusual, and yet it was not Hurstwood who felt any objection toCarrie. It was Carrie who shied away from him. This he noticed.It aroused an objection to her becoming indifferent to him. Hemade the possibility of friendly intercourse almost a giant task,and then noticed with discontent that Carrie added to it by hermanner and made it more impossible.At last the final day came. When it actually arrived, Hurstwood,who had got his mind into such a state where a thunderclap andraging storm would have seemed highly appropriate, was ratherrelieved to find that it was a plain, ordinary day. The sunshone, the temperature was pleasant. He felt, as he came to thebreakfast table, that it wasn't so terrible, after all."Well," he said to Carrie, "to-day's my last day on earth."Carrie smiled in answer to his humour.Hurstwood glanced over his paper rather gayly. He seemed to havelost a load."I'll go down for a little while," he said after breakfast, "andthen I'll look around. To-morrow I'll spend the whole daylooking about. I think I can get something, now this thing's offmy hands."He went out smiling and visited the place. Shaughnessy wasthere. They had made all arrangements to share according totheir interests. When, however, he had been there several hours,gone out three more, and returned, his elation had departed. Asmuch as he had objected to the place, now that it was no longerto exist, he felt sorry. He wished that things were different.Shaughnessy was coolly businesslike."Well," he said at five o'clock, "we might as well count thechange and divide."They did so. The fixtures had already been sold and the sumdivided."Good-night," said Hurstwood at the final moment, in a lasteffort to be genial."So long," said Shaughnessy, scarcely deigning a notice.Thus the Warren Street arrangement was permanently concluded.Carrie had prepared a good dinner at the flat, but after his rideup, Hurstwood was in a solemn and reflective mood."Well?" said Carrie, inquisitively."I'm out of that," he answered, taking off his coat.As she looked at him, she wondered what his financial state wasnow. They ate and talked a little."Will you have enough to buy in anywhere else?" asked Carrie."No," he said. "I'll have to get something else and save up.""It would be nice if you could get some place," said Carrie,prompted by anxiety and hope."I guess I will," he said reflectively.For some days thereafter he put on his overcoat regularly in themorning and sallied forth. On these ventures he first consoledhimself with the thought that with the seven hundred dollars hehad he could still make some advantageous arrangement. Hethought about going to some brewery, which, as he knew,frequently controlled saloons which they leased, and get them tohelp him. Then he remembered that he would have to pay outseveral hundred any way for fixtures and that he would havenothing left for his monthly expenses. It was costing him nearlyeighty dollars a month to live."No," he said, in his sanest moments, "I can't do it. I'll getsomething else and save up."This getting-something proposition complicated itself the momenthe began to think of what it was he wanted to do. Manage aplace? Where should he get such a position? The papers containedno requests for managers. Such positions, he knew well enough,were either secured by long years of service or were bought witha half or third interest. Into a place important enough to needsuch a manager he had not money enough to buy.Nevertheless, he started out. His clothes were very good and hisappearance still excellent, but it involved the trouble ofdeluding. People, looking at him, imagined instantly that a manof his age, stout and well dressed, must be well off. Heappeared a comfortable owner of something, a man from whom thecommon run of mortals could well expect gratuities. Being nowforty-three years of age, and comfortably built, walking was noteasy. He had not been used to exercise for many years. His legstired, his shoulders ached, and his feet pained him at the closeof the day, even when he took street cars in almost everydirection. The mere getting up and down, if long continued,produced this result.The fact that people took him to be better off than he was, hewell understood. It was so painfully clear to him that itretarded his search. Not that he wished to be less well-appearing, but that he was ashamed to belie his appearance byincongruous appeals. So he hesitated, wondering what to do.He thought of the hotels, but instantly he remembered that he hadhad no experience as a clerk, and, what was more important, noacquaintances or friends in that line to whom he could go. Hedid know some hotel owners in several cities, including New York,but they knew of his dealings with Fitzgerald and Moy. He couldnot apply to them. He thought of other lines suggested by largebuildings or businesses which he knew of--wholesale groceries,hardware, insurance concerns, and the like--but he had had noexperience.How to go about getting anything was a bitter thought. Would hehave to go personally and ask; wait outside an office door, and,then, distinguished and affluent looking, announce that he waslooking for something to do? He strained painfully at thethought. No, he could not do that.He really strolled about, thinking, and then, the weather beingcold, stepped into a hotel. He knew hotels well enough to knowthat any decent individual was welcome to a chair in the lobby.This was in the Broadway Central, which was then one of the mostimportant hotels in the city. Taking a chair here was a painfulthing to him. To think he should come to this! He had heardloungers about hotels called chairwarmers. He had called themthat himself in his day. But here he was, despite thepossibility of meeting some one who knew him, shielding himselffrom cold and the weariness of the streets in a hotel lobby."I can't do this way," he said to himself. "There's no use of mystarting out mornings without first thinking up some place to go.I'll think of some places and then look them up."It occurred to him that the positions of bartenders weresometimes open, but he put this out of his mind. Bartender--he,the ex-manager!It grew awfully dull sitting in the hotel lobby, and so at fourhe went home. He tried to put on a business air as he went in,but it was a feeble imitation. The rocking chair in the dining-room was comfortable. He sank into it gladly, with severalpapers he had bought, and began to read.As she was going through the room to begin preparing dinner,Carrie said:"The man was here for the rent to-day.""Oh, was he?" said Hurstwood.The least wrinkle crept into his brow as he remembered that thiswas February 2d, the time the man always called. He fished downin his pocket for his purse, getting the first taste of payingout when nothing is coming in. He looked at the fat, green rollas a sick man looks at the one possible saving cure. Then hecounted off twenty-eight dollars."Here you are," he said to Carrie, when she came through again.He buried himself in his papers and read. Oh, the rest of it--the relief from walking and thinking! What Lethean waters werethese floods of telegraphed intelligence! He forgot his troubles,in part. Here was a young, handsome woman, if you might believethe newspaper drawing, suing a rich, fat, candy-making husband inBrooklyn for divorce. Here was another item detailing thewrecking of a vessel in ice and snow off Prince's Bay on StatenIsland. A long, bright column told of the doings in thetheatrical world--the plays produced, the actors appearing, themanagers making announcements. Fannie Davenport was just openingat the Fifth Avenue. Daly was producing "King Lear." He read ofthe early departure for the season of a party composed of theVanderbilts and their friends for Florida. An interestingshooting affray was on in the mountains of Kentucky. So he read,read, read, rocking in the warm room near the radiator andwaiting for dinner to be served.