Sister Carrie - Theodore Dreiser (good non fiction books to read txt) 📗

series of appeals to pedestrians, in which he had been refused and refused⁠—every one hastening from contact.

“Give me a little something, will you, mister?” he said to the last one. “For God’s sake, do; I’m starving.”

“Aw, get out,” said the man, who happened to be a common type himself. “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. I had money. I’m going to quit this,” and, with death in his heart, he started down toward the Bowery. People had turned on the gas before and died; why shouldn’t he? He remembered a lodging-house where there were little, close rooms, with gas-jets in them, almost prearranged, he thought, for what he wanted to do, which rented for fifteen cents. Then he remembered that he had 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 man boldly.

The gentleman looked him over and fished for a dime. Nothing but quarters 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, bright coin pleased him a little. He remembered that he was hungry and that he could get a bed for ten cents. With this, the idea of death passed, for the time being, out of his mind. It was only when he could get nothing but insults that death seemed worth while.

One day, in the middle of the winter, the sharpest spell of the season set in. It broke grey and cold in the first day, and on the second snowed. Poor luck pursuing him, he had secured but ten cents by nightfall, and this he had spent for food. At evening he found himself at the Boulevard and Sixty-seventh Street, where he finally turned his face Bowery-ward. Especially fatigued because of the wandering propensity which had seized him in the morning, he now half dragged his wet feet, shuffling the soles upon the sidewalk. An old, thin coat was turned up about his red ears⁠—his cracked derby hat was pulled down until it turned 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 already blazing brightly. Crowds were hastening to dine. Through bright windows, at every corner, might be seen gay companies in luxuriant restaurants. There were coaches and crowded cable cars.

In his weary and hungry state, he should never have come here. The contrast was too sharp. Even he was recalled keenly to better things.

“What’s the use?” he thought. “It’s all up with me. I’ll quit this.”

People turned to look after him, so uncouth was his shambling figure. Several officers followed him with their eyes, to see that he did not beg of anybody.

Once he paused in an aimless, incoherent sort of way and looked through the windows of an imposing restaurant, before which blazed a fire sign, and through the large, plate windows of which could be seen the red and gold decorations, the palms, the white napery, and shining glassware, and, above all, the comfortable crowd. Weak as his mind had become, his hunger was sharp enough to show the importance of this. He stopped stock still, his frayed trousers soaking in the slush, and peered foolishly in.

“Eat,” he mumbled. “That’s right, eat. Nobody else wants any.”

Then his voice dropped even lower, and his mind half lost the fancy it had.

“It’s mighty cold,” he said. “Awful cold.”

At Broadway and Thirty-ninth Street was blazing, in incandescent fire, Carrie’s name. “Carrie Madenda,” it read, “and the Casino Company.” All the wet, snowy sidewalk was bright with this radiated fire. It was so bright that it attracted Hurstwood’s gaze. He looked up, and then at a large, gilt-framed poster-board, on which was a fine lithograph of Carrie, life-size.

Hurstwood gazed at it a moment, snuffling and hunching one shoulder, as if something were scratching him. He was so run down, however, that his mind was not exactly clear.

“That’s you,” he said at last, addressing her. “Wasn’t good enough for you, was I? Huh!”

He lingered, trying to think logically. This was no longer possible with him.

“She’s got it,” he said, incoherently, thinking of money. “Let her give me some.”

He started around to the side door. Then he forgot what he was going for and paused, pushing his hands deeper to warm the wrists. Suddenly it returned. The stage door! That was it.

He approached that entrance and went in.

“Well?” said the attendant, staring at him. Seeing him pause, he went 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 no strength to resist.

“I want to see Miss Madenda,” he tried to explain, even as he was being 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 some vague sense of shame returned. He began to cry and swear foolishly.

“God damned dog!” he said. “Damned old cur,” wiping the slush from his worthless coat. “I⁠—I hired such people as you once.”

Now a fierce feeling against Carrie welled up⁠—just one fierce, angry thought before the whole thing slipped out of his mind.

“She owes me something to eat,” he said. “She owes it to me.”

Hopelessly he turned back into Broadway again and slopped onward and away, begging, crying, losing track of his thoughts, one after another, as a mind decayed and disjointed is wont to do.

It was truly a wintry evening, a few days later, when his one distinct mental decision was reached. Already, at four o’clock, the sombre hue of night was