“Say, he’s a gouty old boy!” TMI, bro. Fun fact: gout is known as “the disease of kings” or “rich man’s disease.” I suppose that’s the way to go if you’re a rich asshole.
“Made a lot of money in his time, though, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, wads of it,” returned Drouet. “He won’t live much longer. Barely comes down to the office now.”
“Just one boy, hasn’t he?” asked Hurstwood.
“Yes, and a swift-pacer,” laughed Drouet.
“I guess he can’t hurt the business very much, though, with the other members all there.”
“No, he can’t injure that any, I guess.”
Hurstwood was standing, his coat open, his thumbs in his pockets, the light on his jewels and rings relieving them with agreeable distinctness. He was the picture of fastidious comfort. I like a human with meat on his bones, but the jewelry is overkill. In the animal kingdom, flashiness will cost you. He wouldn’t last a day outside of his snuggle sack.
To one not inclined to drink, and gifted with a more serious turn of mind, such a bubbling, chattering, glittering chamber must ever seem an anomaly, a strange commentary on nature and life. Here come the moths, in endless procession, to bask in the light of the flame. Such conversation as one may hear would not warrant a commendation of the scene upon intellectual grounds. It seems plain that schemers would choose more sequestered quarters to arrange their plans, that politicians would not gather here in company to discuss anything save formalities, where the sharp-eared may hear, and it would scarcely be justified on the score of thirst, for the majority of those who frequent these more gorgeous places have no craving for liquor. Nevertheless, the fact that here men gather, here chatter, here love to pass and rub elbows, must be explained upon some grounds. What’s there to explain, Dreiser? The bar is for stars and starfuckers, end of story. Pretty sure Dreiser just likes a beefed-up word count. It must be that a strange bundle of passions and vague desires give rise to such a curious social institution or it would not be.
Drouet, for one, was lured as much by his longing for pleasure as by his desire to shine among his betters. The many friends he met here dropped in because they craved, without, perhaps, consciously analyzing it, the company, the glow, the atmosphere which they found. One might take it, after all, as an augur of the better social order, for the things which they satisfied here, though sensory, were not evil. No evil could come out of the contemplation of an expensively decorated chamber. Tell that to Martha Stewart. The worst effect of such a thing would be, perhaps, to stir up in the material-minded an ambition to arrange their lives upon a similarly splendid basis. In the last analysis, that would scarcely be called the fault of the decorations, but rather of the innate trend of the mind. That such a scene might stir the less expensively dressed to emulate the more expensively dressed could scarcely be laid at the door of anything save the false ambition of the minds of those so affected. Remove the element so thoroughly and solely complained of—liquor—and there would not be one to gainsay the qualities of beauty and enthusiasm which would remain. In short, you need your drunk goggles on to keep yourself from gagging around these lizard shits. The pleased eye with which our modern restaurants of fashion are looked upon is proof of this assertion.
Yet, here is the fact of the lighted chamber, the dressy, greedy company, the small, self-interested palaver, the disorganized, aimless, wandering mental action which it represents—the love of light and show and finery which, to one outside, under the serene light of the eternal stars, must seem a strange and shiny thing. Under the stars and sweeping night winds, what a lamp-flower it must bloom; a strange, glittering night-flower, odor-yielding, insect-drawing, insect-infested rose of pleasure. What the fuck, Dreiser? I thought we were talking about wealth and superficiality? I don’t have time for this literary bullshit. I’m a plot ‘hog, and you’re dragging.
“See that fellow coming in there?” said Hurstwood, glancing at a gentleman just entering, arrayed in a high hat and Prince Albert coat, his fat cheeks puffed and red as with good eating.
“No, where?” said Drouet.
“There,” said Hurstwood, indicating the direction by a cast of his eye, “the man with the silk hat.”
“Oh, yes,” said Drouet, now affecting not to see. “Who is he?”
“That’s Jules Wallace, the spiritualist.” Apparently so-called psychics still commanded an iota of respect back then. Then again, you’re more likely to trust a “Jules Wallace” over a “Miss Cleo.”
Drouet followed him with his eyes, much interested.
“Doesn’t look much like a man who sees spirits, does he?” said Drouet.
“Oh, I don’t know,” returned Hurstwood. “He’s got the money, all right,” and a little twinkle passed over his eyes.
“I don’t go much on those things, do you?” asked Drouet.
“Well, you never can tell,” said Hurstwood. “There may be something to it. I wouldn’t bother about it myself, though. By the way,” he added, “are you going anywhere tonight?”
“‘The Hole in the Ground,’” said Drouet, mentioning the popular farce of the time.
“Well, you’d better be going. It’s half after eight already,” and he drew out his watch.
The crowd was already thinning out considerably—some bound for the theatres, some to their clubs, and some to that most fascinating of all the pleasures—for the type of man there represented, at least—the ladies.
“Yes, I will,” said Drouet.
“Come around after the show. I have something I want to show you,” said Hurstwood.
“Sure,” said Drouet, elated.
“You haven’t anything on hand for the night, have you?” added Hurstwood. “Not a thing.”
“Well, come round, then.”
“I struck a little peach coming in on the train Friday,” remarked Drouet, by way of parting. More like, verbally pummeling her into submission. “By George, that’s so, I must go and call on her before I go away.”
“Oh, never mind her,” Hurstwood remarked.
“Say, she was a little dandy, I tell you,” went on Drouet confidentially, and trying to impress his friend. I’d like to propose a cage match between Drouet and Hanson. A fight to the death, shirts versus skins. It goes without saying who’s skins, my dear.
“Twelve o’clock,” said Hurstwood.
“That’s right,” said Drouet, going out.
Thus was Carrie’s name bandied about in the most frivolous and gay of places, and that also when the little toiler was bemoaning her narrow lot, which was almost inseparable from the early stages of this, her unfolding fate. Once you’ve infiltrated the rich pricks, you’re in. Any Kardashian could’ve told you that.
THE MACHINE AND THE MAIDEN—A KNIGHT OF TODAY
At the flat that evening Carrie felt a new phase of its atmosphere. The fact that it was unchanged, while her feelings were different, increased her knowledge of its character. Minnie, after the good spirits Carrie manifested at first, expected a fair report. Hanson supposed that Carrie would be satisfied.
“Well,” he said, as he came in from the hall in his working clothes, and looked at Carrie through the dining-room door, “how did you make out?”
“Oh,” said Carrie, “it’s pretty hard. I don’t like it.” Should’ve stayed on the fucking farm. Willa Cather can tell you that you don’t have to