["[Event happened on 2024-01-01 The user is reading a book]\n<User> The immediate result of this was nothing. Results from such things\nare usually long in growing. Morning brings a change of feeling. The\nexistent condition invariably pleads for itself. It is only at odd\nmoments that we get glimpses of the misery of things. The heart\nunderstands when it is confronted with contrasts. Take them away and the\nache subsides. Carrie went on, leading much this same life for six months thereafter or\nmore. She did not see Ames any more. He called once upon the Vances, but\nshe only heard about it through the young wife. Then he went West,\nand there was a gradual subsidence of whatever personal attraction had\nexisted. The mental effect of the thing had not gone, however, and never\nwould entirely. She had an ideal to contrast men by--particularly men\nclose to her. During all this time--a period rapidly approaching three\nyears--Hurstwood had been moving along in an even path. There was no\napparent slope downward, and distinctly none upward, so far as the\ncasual observer might have seen. But psychologically there was a change,\nwhich was marked enough to suggest the future very distinctly indeed. This was in the mere matter of the halt his career had received when he\ndeparted from Chicago. A man's fortune or material progress is very much\nthe same as his bodily growth. Either he is growing stronger, healthier,\nwiser, as the youth approaching manhood, or he is growing weaker, older,\nless incisive mentally, as the man approaching old age. There are no\nother states. Frequently there is a period between the cessation of\nyouthful accretion and the setting in, in the case of the middle-aged\nman, of the tendency toward decay when the two processes are almost\nperfectly balanced and there is little doing in either direction. Given\ntime enough, however, the balance becomes a sagging to the grave side. Slowly at first, then with a modest momentum, and at last the graveward\nprocess is in the full swing. So it is frequently with man's fortune. If its process of accretion is never halted, if the balancing stage is\nnever reached, there will be no toppling. Rich men are, frequently,\nin these days, saved from this dissolution of their fortune by their\nability to hire younger brains. These younger brains look upon the\ninterests of the fortune as their own, and so steady and direct its\nprogress. If each individual were left absolutely to the care of his own\ninterests, and were given time enough in which to grow exceedingly old,\nhis fortune would pass as his strength and will. He and his would be\nutterly dissolved and scattered unto the four winds of the heavens. But now see wherein the parallel changes. A fortune, like a man, is an\norganism which draws to itself other minds and other strength than that\ninherent in the founder. Beside the young minds drawn to it by salaries,\nit becomes allied with young forces, which make for its existence\neven when the strength and wisdom of the founder are fading. It may be\nconserved by the growth of a community or of a state. It may be involved\nin providing something for which there is a growing demand. This removes\nit at once beyond the special care of the founder. It needs not so much\nforesight now as direction. The man wanes, the need continues or grows,\nand the fortune, fallen into whose hands it may, continues. Hence, some\nmen never recognise the turning in the tide of their abilities. It is\nonly in chance cases, where a fortune or a state of success is wrested\nfrom them, that the lack of ability to do as they did formerly becomes\napparent. Hurstwood, set down under new conditions, was in a position to\nsee that he was no longer young. If he did not, it was due wholly to the\nfact that his state was so well balanced that an absolute change for the\nworse did not show. Not trained to reason or introspect himself, he could not analyse the\nchange that was taking place in his mind, and hence his body, but he\nfelt the depression of it. Constant comparison between his old state and\nhis new showed a balance for the worse, which produced a constant state\nof gloom or, at least, depression. Now, it has been shown experimentally\nthat a constantly subdued frame of mind produces certain poisons in\nthe blood, called katastates, just as virtuous feelings of pleasure\nand delight produce helpful chemicals called anastates. The poisons\ngenerated by remorse inveigh against the system, and eventually produce\nmarked physical deterioration. To these Hurstwood was subject. In the course of time it told upon his temper. His eye no longer\npossessed that buoyant, searching shrewdness which had characterised\nit in Adams Street. His step was not as sharp and firm. He was given\nto thinking, thinking, thinking. The new friends he made were not\ncelebrities. They were of a cheaper, a slightly more sensual and cruder,\ngrade. He could not possibly take the pleasure in this company that he\nhad in that of those fine frequenters of the Chicago resort. He was left\nto brood. Slowly, exceedingly slowly, his desire to greet, conciliate, and make at\nhome these people who visited the Warren Street place passed from him. More and more slowly the significance of the realm he had left began to\nbe clear. It did not seem so wonderful to be in it when he was in it. It\nhad seemed very easy for any one to get up there and have ample raiment\nand money to spend, but now that he was out of it, how far off it\nbecame. He began to see as one sees a city with a wall about it. Men\nwere posted at the gates. You could not get in. Those inside did not\ncare to come out to see who you were. They were so merry inside there\nthat all those outside were forgotten, and he was on the outside. Each day he could read in the evening papers of the doings within this\nwalled city. In the notices of passengers for Europe he read the names\nof eminent frequenters of his old resort. In the theatrical column\nappeared, from time to time, announcements of the latest successes of\nmen he had known. He knew that they were at their old gayeties. Pullmans\nwere hauling them to and fro about the land, papers were greeting them\nwith interesting mentions, the elegant lobbies of hotels and the glow\nof polished dining-rooms were keeping them close within the walled city. Men whom he had known, men whom he had tipped glasses with--rich men,\nand he was forgotten! Who was Mr. Wheeler? What was the Warren Street\nresort? Bah! If one thinks that such thoughts do not come to so common a type of\nmind--that such feelings require a higher mental development--I would\nurge for their consideration the fact that it is the higher mental\ndevelopment that does away with such thoughts. It is the higher mental\ndevelopment which induces philosophy and that fortitude which refuses\nto dwell upon such things--refuses to be made to suffer by their\nconsideration. The common type of mind is exceedingly keen on all\nmatters which relate to its physical welfare--exceedingly keen. It\nis the unintellectual miser who sweats blood at the loss of a hundred\ndollars. It is the Epictetus who smiles when the last vestige of\nphysical welfare is removed. The time came, in the third year, when this thinking began to produce\nresults in the Warren Street place. The tide of patronage dropped a\nlittle below what it had been at its best since he had been there. This\nirritated and worried him. There came a night when he confessed to Carrie that the business was not\ndoing as well this month as it had the month before. This was in lieu of\ncertain suggestions she had made concerning little things she wanted to\nbuy. She had not failed to notice that he did not seem to consult her\nabout buying clothes for himself. For the first time, it struck her as\na ruse, or that he said it so that she would not think of asking for\nthings. Her reply was mild enough, but her thoughts were rebellious. He\nwas not looking after her at all. She was depending for her enjoyment\nupon the Vances. And now the latter announced that they were going away. It was\napproaching spring, and they were going North. \"Oh, yes,\" said Mrs. Vance to Carrie, \"we think we might as well give\nup the flat and store our things. We'll be gone for the summer, and it\nwould be a useless expense. I think we'll settle a little farther down\ntown when we come back.\" Carrie heard this with genuine sorrow. She had enjoyed Mrs. Vance's\ncompanionship so much. There was no one else in the house whom she knew. Again she would be all alone. Hurstwood's gloom over the slight decrease in profits and the departure\nof the Vances came together. So Carrie had loneliness and this mood\nof her husband to enjoy at the same time.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-01, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-04 The user is reading a book]\n<User> It was a grievous thing. She\nbecame restless and dissatisfied, not exactly, as she thought, with\nHurstwood, but with life. What was it? A very dull round indeed. What\ndid she have? Nothing but this narrow, little flat. The Vances could\ntravel, they could do the things worth doing, and here she was. For\nwhat was she made, anyhow? More thought followed, and then tears--tears\nseemed justified, and the only relief in the world. For another period this state continued, the twain leading a rather\nmonotonous life, and then there was a slight change for the worse. One\nevening, Hurstwood, after thinking about a way to modify Carrie's desire\nfor clothes and the general strain upon his ability to provide, said:\n\n\"I don't think I'll ever be able to do much with Shaughnessy.\" \"What's the matter?\" said Carrie. \"Oh, he's a slow, greedy 'mick'! He won't agree to anything to improve\nthe place, and it won't ever pay without it.\" \"Can't you make him?\" said Carrie. \"No; I've tried. The only thing I can see, if I want to improve, is to\nget hold of a place of my own.\" \"Why don't you?\" said Carrie. \"Well, all I have is tied up in there just now. If I had a chance to\nsave a while I think I could open a place that would give us plenty of\nmoney.\" \"Can't we save?\" said Carrie. \"We might try it,\" he suggested. \"I've been thinking that if we'd take\na smaller flat down town and live economically for a year, I would have\nenough, with what I have invested, to open a good place. Then we could\narrange to live as you want to.\" \"It would suit me all right,\" said Carrie, who, nevertheless, felt\nbadly to think it had come to this. Talk of a smaller flat sounded like\npoverty. \"There are lots of nice little flats down around Sixth Avenue, below\nFourteenth Street. We might get one down there.\" \"I'll look at them if you say so,\" said Carrie. \"I think I could break away from this fellow inside of a year,\" said\nHurstwood. \"Nothing will ever come of this arrangement as it's going on\nnow.\" \"I'll look around,\" said Carrie, observing that the proposed change\nseemed to be a serious thing with him. The upshot of this was that the change was eventually effected; not\nwithout great gloom on the part of Carrie. It really affected her more\nseriously than anything that had yet happened. She began to look upon\nHurstwood wholly as a man, and not as a lover or husband. She felt\nthoroughly bound to him as a wife, and that her lot was cast with\nhis, whatever it might be; but she began to see that he was gloomy and\ntaciturn, not a young, strong, and buoyant man. He looked a little bit\nold to her about the eyes and mouth now, and there were other things\nwhich placed him in his true rank, so far as her estimation was\nconcerned. She began to feel that she had made a mistake. Incidentally,\nshe also began to recall the fact that he had practically forced her to\nflee with him. The new flat was located in Thirteenth Street, a half block west of\nSixth Avenue, and contained only four rooms. The new neighbourhood did\nnot appeal to Carrie as much. There were no trees here, no west view of\nthe river. The street was solidly built up. There were twelve families\nhere, respectable enough, but nothing like the Vances. Richer people\nrequired more space. Being left alone in this little place, Carrie did without a girl. She\nmade it charming enough, but could not make it delight her. Hurstwood\nwas not inwardly pleased to think that they should have to modify their\nstate, but he argued that he could do nothing. He must put the best face\non it, and let it go at that. He tried to show Carrie that there was no cause for financial alarm, but\nonly congratulation over the chance he would have at the end of the year\nby taking her rather more frequently to the theatre and by providing a\nliberal table. This was for the time only. He was getting in the frame\nof mind where he wanted principally to be alone and to be allowed to\nthink. The disease of brooding was beginning to claim him as a victim. Only the newspapers and his own thoughts were worth while. The delight\nof love had again slipped away. It was a case of live, now, making the\nbest you can out of a very commonplace station in life. The road downward has but few landings and level places. The very state\nof his mind, superinduced by his condition, caused the breach to widen\nbetween him and his partner. At last that individual began to wish that\nHurstwood was out of it. It so happened, however, that a real estate\ndeal on the part of the owner of the land arranged things even more\neffectually than ill-will could have schemed. \"Did you see that?\" said Shaughnessy one morning to Hurstwood, pointing\nto the real estate column in a copy of the \"Herald,\" which he held. \"No, what is it?\" said Hurstwood, looking down the items of news. \"The man who owns this ground has sold it.\" \"You don't say so?\" said Hurstwood. He looked, and there was the notice. Mr. August Viele had yesterday\nregistered the transfer of the lot, 25 x 75 feet, at the corner of\nWarren and Hudson Streets, to J. F. Slawson for the sum of $57,000. \"Our lease expires when?\" asked Hurstwood, thinking. \"Next February,\nisn't it?\" \"That's right,\" said Shaughnessy. \"It doesn't say what the new man's going to do with it,\" remarked\nHurstwood, looking back to the paper. \"We'll hear, I guess, soon enough,\" said Shaughnessy. Sure enough, it did develop. Mr. Slawson owned the property adjoining,\nand was going to put up a modern office building. The present one was to\nbe torn down. It would take probably a year and a half to complete the\nother one. All these things developed by degrees, and Hurstwood began to ponder\nover what would become of the saloon. One day he spoke about it to his\npartner. \"Do you think it would be worth while to open up somewhere else in the\nneighbourhood?\" \"What would be the use?\" said Shaughnessy. \"We couldn't get another\ncorner around here.\" \"It wouldn't pay anywhere else, do you think?\" \"I wouldn't try it,\" said the other. The approaching change now took on\na most serious aspect to Hurstwood. Dissolution meant the loss of his\nthousand dollars, and he could not save another thousand in the time. He understood that Shaughnessy was merely tired of the arrangement, and\nwould probably lease the new corner, when completed, alone. He began\nto worry about the necessity of a new connection and to see impending\nserious financial straits unless something turned up. This left him in\nno mood to enjoy his flat or Carrie, and consequently the depression\ninvaded that quarter. Meanwhile, he took such time as he could to look about, but\nopportunities were not numerous. More, he had not the same impressive\npersonality which he had when he first came to New York. Bad thoughts\nhad put a shade into his eyes which did not impress others favourably. Neither had he thirteen hundred dollars in hand to talk with. About\na month later, finding that he had not made any progress, Shaughnessy\nreported definitely that Slawson would not extend the lease. \"I guess this thing's got to come to an end,\" he said, affecting an air\nof concern. \"Well, if it has, it has,\" answered Hurstwood, grimly. He would not give\nthe other a key to his opinions, whatever they were. He should not have\nthe satisfaction. A day or two later he saw that he must say something to Carrie. \"You know,\" he said, \"I think I'm going to get the worst of my deal down\nthere.\" \"How is that?\" asked Carrie in astonishment. \"Well, the man who owns the ground has sold it, and the new owner won't\nrelease it to us. The business may come to an end.\" \"Can't you start somewhere else?\" \"There doesn't seem to be any place. Shaughnessy doesn't want to.\" \"Do you lose what you put in?\" \"Yes,\" said Hurstwood, whose face was a study. \"Oh, isn't that too bad?\" said Carrie. \"It's a trick,\" said Hurstwood. \"That's all. They'll start another place\nthere all right.\" Carrie looked at him, and gathered from his whole demeanour what it\nmeant.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-04, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-05 The user is reading a book]\n<User> It was serious, very serious. \"Do you think you can get something else?\" she ventured, timidly. Hurstwood thought a while. It was all up with the bluff about money and\ninvestment. She could see now that he was \"broke.\" \"I don't know,\" he said solemnly; \"I can try.\" Carrie pondered over this situation as consistently as Hurstwood, once\nshe got the facts adjusted in her mind. It took several days for her\nto fully realise that the approach of the dissolution of her husband's\nbusiness meant commonplace struggle and privation. Her mind went back to\nher early venture in Chicago, the Hansons and their flat, and her heart\nrevolted. That was terrible! Everything about poverty was terrible. She\nwished she knew a way out. Her recent experiences with the Vances had\nwholly unfitted her to view her own state with complacence. The glamour\nof the high life of the city had, in the few experiences afforded her by\nthe former, seized her completely. She had been taught how to dress\nand where to go without having ample means to do either. Now, these\nthings--ever-present realities as they were--filled her eyes and mind. The more circumscribed became her state, the more entrancing seemed this\nother. And now poverty threatened to seize her entirely and to remove\nthis other world far upward like a heaven to which any Lazarus might\nextend, appealingly, his hands. So, too, the ideal brought into her life by Ames remained. He had gone,\nbut here was his word that riches were not everything; that there was a\ngreat deal more in the world than she knew; that the stage was good, and\nthe literature she read poor. He was a strong man and clean--how much\nstronger and better than Hurstwood and Drouet she only half formulated\nto herself, but the difference was painful. It was something to which\nshe voluntarily closed her eyes. During the last three months of the Warren Street connection, Hurstwood\ntook parts of days off and hunted, tracking the business advertisements. It was a more or less depressing business, wholly because of the thought\nthat he must soon get something or he would begin to live on the\nfew hundred dollars he was saving, and then he would have nothing to\ninvest--he would have to hire out as a clerk. Everything he discovered in his line advertised as an opportunity,\nwas either too expensive or too wretched for him. Besides, winter was\ncoming, the papers were announcing hardships, and there was a general\nfeeling of hard times in the air, or, at least, he thought so. In his\nworry, other people's worries became apparent. No item about a firm\nfailing, a family starving, or a man dying upon the streets, supposedly\nof starvation, but arrested his eye as he scanned the morning papers. Once the \"World\" came out with a flaring announcement about \"80,000\npeople out of employment in New York this winter,\" which struck as a\nknife at his heart. \"Eighty thousand!\" he thought. \"What an awful thing that is.\" This was new reasoning for Hurstwood. In the old days the world had\nseemed to be getting along well enough. He had been wont to see similar\nthings in the \"Daily News,\" in Chicago, but they did not hold his\nattention. Now, these things were like grey clouds hovering along the\nhorizon of a clear day. They threatened to cover and obscure his life\nwith chilly greyness. He tried to shake them off, to forget and brace\nup. Sometimes he said to himself, mentally:\n\n\"What's the use worrying? I'm not out yet. I've got six weeks more. Even\nif worst comes to worst, I've got enough to live on for six months.\" Curiously, as he troubled over his future, his thoughts occasionally\nreverted to his wife and family. He had avoided such thoughts for the\nfirst three years as much as possible. He hated her, and he could get\nalong without her. Let her go. He would do well enough. Now, however,\nwhen he was not doing well enough, he began to wonder what she was\ndoing, how his children were getting along. He could see them living as\nnicely as ever, occupying the comfortable house and using his property. \"By George! it's a shame they should have it all,\" he vaguely thought to\nhimself on several occasions. \"I didn't do anything.\" As he looked back now and analysed the situation which led up to his\ntaking the money, he began mildly to justify himself. What had he\ndone--what in the world--that should bar him out this way and heap such\ndifficulties upon him? It seemed only yesterday to him since he was\ncomfortable and well-to-do. But now it was all wrested from him. \"She didn't deserve what she got out of me, that is sure. I didn't do so\nmuch, if everybody could just know.\" There was no thought that the facts ought to be advertised. It was only\na mental justification he was seeking from himself--something that would\nenable him to bear his state as a righteous man. One afternoon, five weeks before the Warren Street place closed up, he\nleft the saloon to visit three or four places he saw advertised in the\n\"Herald.\" One was down in Gold Street, and he visited that, but did not\nenter. It was such a cheap looking place he felt that he could not\nabide it. Another was on the Bowery, which he knew contained many showy\nresorts. It was near Grand Street, and turned out to be very handsomely\nfitted up. He talked around about investments for fully three-quarters\nof an hour with the proprietor, who maintained that his health was poor,\nand that was the reason he wished a partner. \"Well, now, just how much money would it take to buy a half interest\nhere?\" said Hurstwood, who saw seven hundred dollars as his 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 might really buy;\nbut his eyes showed gloom. He wound up by saying he would think it over,\nand came away. The man he had been talking to sensed his condition in a\nvague way. \"I don't think he wants to buy,\" he said to himself. \"He doesn't talk\nright.\" The afternoon was as grey as lead and cold. It was blowing up a\ndisagreeable winter wind. He visited a place far up on the east side,\nnear Sixty-ninth Street, and it was five o'clock, and growing dim, when\nhe reached there. A portly German kept this place. \"How about this ad of yours?\" asked Hurstwood, who rather objected to\nthe 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 to advertise\nfor?\" Wholly depressed, he started for Thirteenth Street. The flat had only a\nlight in the kitchen, where Carrie was working. He struck a match and,\nlighting the gas, sat down in the dining-room without 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 he had\nbought. Carrie saw things were wrong with him. He was not so handsome when\ngloomy. The lines at the sides of the eyes were deepened. Naturally\ndark of skin, gloom made him look slightly sinister. He was quite a\ndisagreeable 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 exceedingly wretched. \"Won't you eat now?\" she asked. He folded his paper and drew near, silence holding for a time, except\nfor the \"Pass me's.\" \"It's been gloomy to-day, hasn't it?\" ventured Carrie, after a time. \"Yes,\" he said. He only picked at his food. \"Are you still sure to close up?\" said Carrie, venturing to take up the\nsubject which they had discussed often enough. \"Of course we are,\" he said, with the slightest modification of\nsharpness. This retort angered Carrie. She had had a dreary day of it herself. \"You needn't talk like that,\" she said. \"Oh!\" he exclaimed, pushing back from the table, as if to say more,\nbut letting it go at that. Then he picked up his paper. Carrie left her\nseat, containing herself with difficulty.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-05, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-08 The user is reading a book]\n<User> He saw she was hurt. \"Don't go 'way,\" he said, as she started back into the kitchen. \"Eat\nyour dinner.\" She passed, not answering. He looked at the paper a few moments, and then rose up and put on his\ncoat. \"I'm going downtown, Carrie,\" he said, coming out. \"I'm out of sorts\nto-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 at her\ndishes. \"Good-bye!\" he said finally, and went out. This was the first strong result of the situation between them, but with\nthe nearing of the last day of the business the gloom became almost\na permanent thing. Hurstwood could not conceal his feelings about the\nmatter. Carrie could not help wondering where she was drifting. It got\nso that they talked even less than usual, and yet it was not Hurstwood\nwho felt any objection to Carrie. It was Carrie who shied away from him. This he noticed. It aroused an objection to her becoming indifferent\nto him. He made the possibility of friendly intercourse almost a giant\ntask, and then noticed with discontent that Carrie added to it by her\nmanner and made it more impossible. At last the final day came. When it actually arrived, Hurstwood, who\nhad got his mind into such a state where a thunderclap and raging storm\nwould have seemed highly appropriate, was rather relieved to find\nthat it was a plain, ordinary day. The sun shone, the temperature was\npleasant. He felt, as he came to the breakfast table, that it wasn't so\nterrible, 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 have lost a\nload. \"I'll go down for a little while,\" he said after breakfast, \"and then\nI'll look around. To-morrow I'll spend the whole day looking about. I\nthink I can get something, now this thing's off my hands.\" He went out smiling and visited the place. Shaughnessy was there. They\nhad made all arrangements to share according to their interests. When,\nhowever, he had been there several hours, gone out three more, and\nreturned, his elation had departed. As much as he had objected to the\nplace, now that it was no longer to exist, he felt sorry. He wished that\nthings were different. Shaughnessy was coolly businesslike. \"Well,\" he said at five o'clock, \"we might as well count the change and\ndivide.\" They did so. The fixtures had already been sold and the sum divided. \"Good-night,\" said Hurstwood at the final moment, in a last effort to be\ngenial. \"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 ride up,\nHurstwood 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 was now. 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\nanxiety and hope. \"I guess I will,\" he said reflectively. For some days thereafter he put on his overcoat regularly in the morning\nand sallied forth. On these ventures he first consoled himself with the\nthought that with the seven hundred dollars he had he could still make\nsome advantageous arrangement. He thought about going to some brewery,\nwhich, as he knew, frequently controlled saloons which they leased, and\nget them to help him. Then he remembered that he would have to pay out\nseveral hundred any way for fixtures and that he would have nothing left\nfor his monthly expenses. It was costing him nearly eighty dollars a\nmonth to live. \"No,\" he said, in his sanest moments, \"I can't do it. I'll get something\nelse and save up.\" This getting-something proposition complicated itself the moment he\nbegan to think of what it was he wanted to do. Manage a place? Where\nshould he get such a position? The papers contained no requests for\nmanagers. Such positions, he knew well enough, were either secured by\nlong years of service or were bought with a half or third interest. Into\na place important enough to need such a manager he had not money enough\nto buy. Nevertheless, he started out. His clothes were very good and his\nappearance still excellent, but it involved the trouble of deluding. People, looking at him, imagined instantly that a man of his age, stout\nand well dressed, must be well off. He appeared a comfortable owner of\nsomething, a man from whom the common run of mortals could well expect\ngratuities. Being now forty-three years of age, and comfortably built,\nwalking was not easy. He had not been used to exercise for many years. His legs tired, his shoulders ached, and his feet pained him at\nthe close of the day, even when he took street cars in almost every\ndirection. The mere getting up and down, if long continued, produced\nthis result. The fact that people took him to be better off than he was, he well\nunderstood. It was so painfully clear to him that it retarded his\nsearch. Not that he wished to be less well-appearing, but that he was\nashamed to belie his appearance by incongruous appeals. So he hesitated,\nwondering what to do. He thought of the hotels, but instantly he remembered that he had had no\nexperience as a clerk, and, what was more important, no acquaintances or\nfriends in that line to whom he could go. He did know some hotel owners\nin several cities, including New York, but they knew of his dealings\nwith Fitzgerald and Moy. He could not apply to them. He thought of\nother lines suggested by large buildings or businesses which he knew\nof--wholesale groceries, hardware, insurance concerns, and the like--but\nhe had had no experience. How to go about getting anything was a bitter thought. Would he have\nto go personally and ask; wait outside an office door, and, then,\ndistinguished and affluent looking, announce that he was looking for\nsomething to do? He strained painfully at the thought. No, he could not\ndo that. He really strolled about, thinking, and then, the weather being cold,\nstepped into a hotel. He knew hotels well enough to know that any decent\nindividual was welcome to a chair in the lobby. This was in the Broadway\nCentral, which was then one of the most important hotels in the city. Taking a chair here was a painful thing to him. To think he should come\nto this! He had heard loungers about hotels called chairwarmers. He\nhad called them that himself in his day. But here he was, despite the\npossibility of meeting some one who knew him, shielding himself from\ncold 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 my\nstarting out mornings without first thinking up some place to go. I'll\nthink of some places and then look them up.\" It occurred to him that the positions of bartenders were sometimes open,\nbut he put this out of his mind. Bartender--he, the ex-manager! It grew awfully dull sitting in the hotel lobby, and so at four he went\nhome. He tried to put on a business air as he went in, but it was a\nfeeble imitation. The rocking chair in the dining-room was comfortable. He sank into it gladly, with several papers he had bought, and began to\nread. As she was going through the room to begin preparing dinner, Carrie\nsaid:\n\n\"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 this was\nFebruary 2d, the time the man always called. He fished down in his\npocket for his purse, getting the first taste of paying out when nothing\nis coming in. He looked at the fat, green roll as a sick man looks at\nthe one possible saving cure. Then he counted 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\nfrom walking and thinking! What Lethean waters were these floods of\ntelegraphed intelligence! He forgot his troubles, in part.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-08, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-10 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Here was a\nyoung, handsome woman, if you might believe the newspaper drawing, suing\na rich, fat, candy-making husband in Brooklyn for divorce. Here was\nanother item detailing the wrecking of a vessel in ice and snow off\nPrince's Bay on Staten Island. A long, bright column told of the doings\nin the theatrical world--the plays produced, the actors appearing, the\nmanagers making announcements. Fannie Davenport was just opening at\nthe Fifth Avenue. Daly was producing \"King Lear.\" He read of the early\ndeparture for the season of a party composed of the Vanderbilts and\ntheir friends for Florida. An interesting shooting affray was on in the\nmountains of Kentucky. So he read, read, read, rocking in the warm room\nnear the radiator and waiting for dinner to be served. The next morning he looked over the papers and waded through a long\nlist of advertisements, making a few notes. Then he turned to the\nmale-help-wanted column, but with disagreeable feelings. The day was\nbefore him--a long day in which to discover something--and this was\nhow he must begin to discover. He scanned the long column, which mostly\nconcerned bakers, bushelmen, cooks, compositors, drivers, and the like,\nfinding two things only which arrested his eye. One was a cashier wanted\nin a wholesale furniture house, and the other a salesman for a whiskey\nhouse. He had never thought of the latter. At once he decided to look\nthat up. The firm in question was Alsbery & Co., whiskey brokers. He was admitted almost at once to the manager on his appearance. \"Good-morning, sir,\" said the latter, thinking at first that he was\nencountering one of his out-of-town customers. \"Good-morning,\" said Hurstwood. \"You advertised, I believe, for a\nsalesman?\" \"Oh,\" said the man, showing plainly the enlightenment which had come to\nhim. \"Yes. Yes, I did.\" \"I thought I'd drop in,\" said Hurstwood, with dignity. \"I've had some\nexperience in that line myself.\" \"Oh, have you?\" said the man. \"What experience have you had?\" \"Well, I've managed several liquor houses in my time. Recently I owned a\nthird-interest in a saloon at Warren and Hudson streets.\" \"I see,\" said the man. Hurstwood ceased, waiting for some suggestion. \"We did want a salesman,\" said the man. \"I don't know as it's anything\nyou'd care to take hold of, though.\" \"I see,\" said Hurstwood. \"Well, I'm in no position to choose, just at\npresent. If it were open, I should be glad to get it.\" The man did not take kindly at all to his \"No position to choose.\" He\nwanted some one who wasn't thinking of a choice or something better. Especially not an old man. He wanted some one young, active, and glad to\nwork actively for a moderate sum. Hurstwood did not please him at all. He had more of an air than his employers. \"Well,\" he said in answer, \"we'd be glad to consider your application. We shan't decide for a few days yet. Suppose you send us your\nreferences.\" \"I will,\" said Hurstwood. He nodded good-morning and came away. At the corner he looked at the\nfurniture company's address, and saw that it was in West Twenty-third\nStreet. Accordingly, he went up there. The place was not large enough,\nhowever. It looked moderate, the men in it idle and small salaried. He\nwalked by, glancing in, and then decided not to go in there. \"They want a girl, probably, at ten a week,\" he said. At one o'clock he thought of eating, and went to a restaurant in Madison\nSquare. There he pondered over places which he might look up. He was\ntired. It was blowing up grey again. Across the way, through Madison\nSquare Park, stood the great hotels, looking down upon a busy scene. He\ndecided to go over to the lobby of one and sit a while. It was warm in\nthere and bright. He had seen no one he knew at the Broadway Central. In\nall likelihood he would encounter no one here. Finding a seat on one\nof the red plush divans close to the great windows which look out on\nBroadway's busy rout, he sat musing. His state did not seem so bad\nin here. Sitting still and looking out, he could take some slight\nconsolation in the few hundred dollars he had in his purse. He could\nforget, in a measure, the weariness of the street and his tiresome\nsearches. Still, it was only escape from a severe to a less severe\nstate. He was still gloomy and disheartened. There, minutes seemed to go\nvery slowly. An hour was a long, long time in passing. It was filled for\nhim with observations and mental comments concerning the actual\nguests of the hotel, who passed in and out, and those more prosperous\npedestrians whose good fortune showed in their clothes and spirits as\nthey passed along Broadway, outside. It was nearly the first time\nsince he had arrived in the city that his leisure afforded him ample\nopportunity to contemplate this spectacle. Now, being, perforce, idle\nhimself, he wondered at the activity of others. How gay were the youths\nhe saw, how pretty the women. Such fine clothes they all wore. They\nwere so intent upon getting somewhere. He saw coquettish glances cast\nby magnificent girls. Ah, the money it required to train with such--how\nwell he knew! How long it had been since he had had the opportunity to\ndo so! The clock outside registered four. It was a little early, but he thought\nhe would go back to the flat. This going back to the flat was coupled with the thought that Carrie\nwould think he was sitting around too much if he came home early. He\nhoped he wouldn't have to, but the day hung heavily on his hands. Over\nthere he was on his own ground. He could sit in his rocking-chair and\nread. This busy, distracting, suggestive scene was shut out. He could\nread his papers. Accordingly, he went home. Carrie was reading, quite\nalone. It was rather dark in the flat, shut in as it was. \"You'll hurt your eyes,\" he said when he saw her. After taking off his coat, he felt it incumbent upon him to make some\nlittle report of his day. \"I've been talking with a wholesale liquor company,\" he said. \"I may go\non the road.\" \"Wouldn't that be nice!\" said Carrie. \"It wouldn't be such a bad thing,\"\nhe answered. Always from the man at the corner now he bought two papers--the \"Evening\nWorld\" and \"Evening Sun.\" So now he merely picked his papers up, as he\ncame by, without stopping. He drew up his chair near the radiator and lighted the gas. Then it was\nas the evening before. His difficulties vanished in the items he so well\nloved to read. The next day was even worse than the one before, because now he could\nnot think of where to go. Nothing he saw in the papers he studied--till\nten o'clock--appealed to him. He felt that he ought to go out, and yet\nhe sickened at the thought. Where to, where to? \"You mustn't forget to leave me my money for this week,\" said Carrie,\nquietly. They had an arrangement by which he placed twelve dollars a week in her\nhands, out of which to pay current expenses. He heaved a little sigh as\nshe said this, and drew out his purse. Again he felt the dread of the\nthing. Here he was taking off, taking off, and nothing coming in. \"Lord!\" he said, in his own thoughts, \"this can't go on.\" To Carrie he said nothing whatsoever. She could feel that her request\ndisturbed him. To pay her would soon become a distressing thing. \"Yet, what have I got to do with it?\" she thought. \"Oh, why should I be\nmade to worry?\" Hurstwood went out and made for Broadway. He wanted to think up some\nplace. Before long, though, he reached the Grand Hotel at Thirty-first\nStreet. He knew of its comfortable lobby. He was cold after his twenty\nblocks' walk. \"I'll go in their barber shop and get a shave,\" he thought. Thus he justified himself in sitting down in here after his tonsorial\ntreatment. Again, time hanging heavily on his hands, he went home early, and this\ncontinued for several days, each day the need to hunt paining him, and\neach day disgust, depression, shamefacedness driving him into lobby\nidleness. At last three days came in which a storm prevailed, and he did not go\nout at all. The snow began to fall late one afternoon.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-10, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-13 The user is reading a book]\n<User> It was a regular\nflurry of large, soft, white flakes. In the morning it was still coming\ndown with a high wind, and the papers announced a blizzard. From out the\nfront windows one could see a deep, soft bedding. \"I guess I'll not try to go out to-day,\" he said to Carrie at breakfast. \"It's going to be awful bad, so the papers say.\" \"The man hasn't brought my coal, either,\" said Carrie, who ordered by\nthe bushel. \"I'll go over and see about it,\" said Hurstwood. This was the first time\nhe had ever suggested doing an errand, but, somehow, the wish to sit\nabout the house prompted it as a sort of compensation for the privilege. All day and all night it snowed, and the city began to suffer from a\ngeneral blockade of traffic. Great attention was given to the details of\nthe storm by the newspapers, which played up the distress of the poor in\nlarge type. Hurstwood sat and read by his radiator in the corner. He did not try to\nthink about his need of work. This storm being so terrific, and tying up\nall things, robbed him of the need. He made himself wholly comfortable\nand toasted his feet. Carrie observed his ease with some misgiving. For all the fury of\nthe storm she doubted his comfort. He took his situation too\nphilosophically. Hurstwood, however, read on and on. He did not pay much attention to\nCarrie. She fulfilled her household duties and said little to disturb\nhim. The next day it was still snowing, and the next, bitter cold. Hurstwood\ntook the alarm of the paper and sat still. Now he volunteered to do a\nfew other little things. One was to go to the butcher, another to\nthe grocery. He really thought nothing of these little services in\nconnection with their true significance. He felt as if he were not\nwholly useless--indeed, in such a stress of weather, quite worth while\nabout the house. On the fourth day, however, it cleared, and he read that the storm was\nover. Now, however, he idled, thinking how sloppy the streets would be. It was noon before he finally abandoned his papers and got under way. Owing to the slightly warmer temperature the streets were bad. He\nwent across Fourteenth Street on the car and got a transfer south on\nBroadway. One little advertisement he had, relating to a saloon down in\nPearl Street. When he reached the Broadway Central, however, he changed\nhis mind. \"What's the use?\" he thought, looking out upon the slop and snow. \"I\ncouldn't buy into it. It's a thousand to one nothing comes of it. I\nguess I'll get off,\" and off he got. In the lobby he took a seat and\nwaited again, wondering what he could do. While he was idly pondering, satisfied to be inside, a well-dressed\nman passed up the lobby, stopped, looked sharply, as if not sure of his\nmemory, and then approached. Hurstwood recognised Cargill, the owner of\nthe large stables in Chicago of the same name, whom he had last seen at\nAvery Hall, the night Carrie appeared there. The remembrance of how this\nindividual brought up his wife to shake hands on that occasion was also\non the instant clear. Hurstwood was greatly abashed. His eyes expressed the difficulty he\nfelt. \"Why, it's Hurstwood!\" said Cargill, remembering now, and sorry that he\nhad not recognised him quickly enough in the beginning to have avoided\nthis meeting. \"Yes,\" said Hurstwood. \"How are you?\" \"Very well,\" said Cargill, troubled for something to talk about. \"Stopping here?\" \"No,\" said Hurstwood, \"just keeping an appointment.\" \"I knew you had\nleft Chicago. I was wondering what had become of you.\" \"Oh, I'm here now,\" answered Hurstwood, anxious to get away. \"Doing well, I suppose?\" \"Excellent.\" \"Glad to hear it.\" They looked at one another, rather embarrassed. \"Well, I have an engagement with a friend upstairs. I'll leave you. So\nlong.\" Hurstwood nodded his head. \"Damn it all,\" he murmured, turning toward the door. \"I knew that would\nhappen.\" He walked several blocks up the street. His watch only registered 1.30. He tried to think of some place to go or something to do. The day was so\nbad he wanted only to be inside. Finally his feet began to feel wet and\ncold, and he boarded a car. This took him to Fifty-ninth Street, which\nwas as good as anywhere else. Landed here, he turned to walk back along\nSeventh Avenue, but the slush was too much. The misery of lounging about\nwith nowhere to go became intolerable. He felt as if he were catching\ncold. Stopping at a corner, he waited for a car south bound. This was no day\nto be out; he would go home. Carrie was surprised to see him at a quarter of three. \"It's a miserable day out,\" was all he said. Then he took off his coat\nand changed his shoes. That night he felt a cold coming on and took quinine. He was feverish\nuntil morning, and sat about the next day while Carrie waited on him. He was a helpless creature in sickness, not very handsome in a\ndull-coloured bath gown and his hair uncombed. He looked haggard about\nthe eyes and quite old. Carrie noticed this, and it did not appeal to\nher. She wanted to be good-natured and sympathetic, but something about\nthe man held her aloof. Toward evening he looked so badly in the weak light that she suggested\nhe go to bed. \"You'd better sleep alone,\" she said, \"you'll feel better. I'll open\nyour bed for you now.\" \"All right,\" he said. As she did all these things, she was in a most despondent state. \"What a life! What a life!\" was her one thought. Once during the day, when he sat near the radiator, hunched up and\nreading, she passed through, and seeing him, wrinkled her brows. In the\nfront room, where it was not so warm, she sat by the window and cried. This was the life cut out for her, was it? To live cooped up in a small\nflat with some one who was out of work, idle, and indifferent to her. She was merely a servant to him now, nothing more. This crying made her eyes red, and when, in preparing his bed, she\nlighted the gas, and, having prepared it, called him in, he noticed the\nfact. \"What's the matter with you?\" he asked, looking into her face. His voice\nwas hoarse and his unkempt head only added to its grewsome quality. \"Nothing,\" said Carrie, weakly. \"You've been crying,\" he said. \"I haven't, either,\" she answered. It was not for love of him, that he knew. \"You needn't cry,\" he said, getting into bed. \"Things will come out all\nright.\" In a day or two he was up again, but rough weather holding, he stayed\nin. The Italian newsdealer now delivered the morning papers, and these\nhe read assiduously. A few times after that he ventured out, but meeting\nanother of his old-time friends, he began to feel uneasy sitting about\nhotel corridors. Every day he came home early, and at last made no pretence of going\nanywhere. Winter was no time to look for anything. Naturally, being about the house, he noticed the way Carrie did things. She was far from perfect in household methods and economy, and her\nlittle deviations on this score first caught his eye. Not, however,\nbefore her regular demand for her allowance became a grievous thing. Sitting around as he did, the weeks seemed to pass very quickly. Every\nTuesday Carrie asked for her money. \"Do you think we live as cheaply as we might?\" he asked one Tuesday\nmorning. \"I do the best I can,\" said Carrie. Nothing was added to this at the moment, but the next day he said:\n\n\"Do you ever go to the Gansevoort Market over here?\" \"I didn't know there was such a market,\" said Carrie. \"They say you can get things lots cheaper there.\" Carrie was very indifferent to the suggestion. These were things which\nshe did not like at all. \"How much do you pay for a pound of meat?\" he asked one day. \"Oh, there are different prices,\" said Carrie. \"Sirloin steak is\ntwenty-two cents.\" \"That's steep, isn't it?\" he answered. So he asked about other things, until finally, with the passing days, it\nseemed to become a mania with him. He learned the prices and remembered\nthem.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-13, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-14 The user is reading a book]\n<User> His errand-running capacity also improved. It began in a small\nway, of course. Carrie, going to get her hat one morning, was stopped by\nhim. \"Where are you going, Carrie?\" he asked. \"Over to the baker's,\" she answered. \"I'd just as leave go for you,\" he said. She acquiesced, and he went. Each afternoon he would go to the corner\nfor the papers. \"Is there anything you want?\" he would say. By degrees she began to use him. Doing this, however, she lost the\nweekly payment of twelve dollars. \"You want to pay me to-day,\" she said one Tuesday, about this time. \"How much?\" he asked. She understood well enough what it meant. \"Well, about five dollars,\" she answered. \"I owe the coal man.\" The same day he said:\n\n\"I think this Italian up here on the corner sells coal at twenty-five\ncents a bushel. I'll trade with him.\" Carrie heard this with indifference. \"All right,\" she said. Then it came to be:\n\n\"George, I must have some coal to-day,\" or, \"You must get some meat of\nsome kind for dinner.\" He would find out what she needed and order. Accompanying this plan came skimpiness. \"I only got a half-pound of steak,\" he said, coming in one afternoon\nwith his papers. \"We never seem to eat very much.\" These miserable details ate the heart out of Carrie. They blackened her\ndays and grieved her soul. Oh, how this man had changed! All day and\nall day, here he sat, reading his papers. The world seemed to have no\nattraction. Once in a while he would go out, in fine weather, it might\nbe four or five hours, between eleven and four. She could do nothing but\nview him with gnawing contempt. It was apathy with Hurstwood, resulting from his inability to see his\nway out. Each month drew from his small store. Now, he had only five\nhundred dollars left, and this he hugged, half feeling as if he could\nstave off absolute necessity for an indefinite period. Sitting around\nthe house, he decided to wear some old clothes he had. This came first\nwith the bad days. Only once he apologised in the very beginning:\n\n\"It's so bad to-day, I'll just wear these around.\" Eventually these\nbecame the permanent thing. Also, he had been wont to pay fifteen cents for a shave, and a tip of\nten cents. In his first distress, he cut down the tip to five, then to\nnothing. Later, he tried a ten-cent barber shop, and, finding that the\nshave was satisfactory, patronised regularly. Later still, he put off\nshaving to every other day, then to every third, and so on, until once a\nweek became the rule. On Saturday he was a sight to see. Of course, as his own self-respect vanished, it perished for him in\nCarrie. She could not understand what had gotten into the man. He had\nsome money, he had a decent suit remaining, he was not bad looking when\ndressed up. She did not forget her own difficult struggle in Chicago,\nbut she did not forget either that she had never ceased trying. He never\ntried. He did not even consult the ads in the papers any more. Finally, a distinct impression escaped from her. \"What makes you put so much butter on the steak?\" he asked her one\nevening, standing around in the kitchen. \"To make it good, of course,\" she answered. \"Butter is awful dear these days,\" he suggested. \"You wouldn't mind it if you were working,\" she answered. He shut up after this, and went in to his paper, but the retort rankled\nin his mind. It was the first cutting remark that had come from her. That same evening, Carrie, after reading, went off to the front room\nto bed. This was unusual. When Hurstwood decided to go, he retired, as\nusual, without a light. It was then that he discovered Carrie's absence. \"That's funny,\" he said; \"maybe she's sitting up.\" He gave the matter no more thought, but slept. In the morning she was\nnot beside him. Strange to say, this passed without comment. Night approaching, and a slightly more conversational feeling\nprevailing, Carrie said:\n\n\"I think I'll sleep alone to-night. I have a headache.\" \"All right,\" said Hurstwood. The third night she went to her front bed without apologies. This was a grim blow to Hurstwood, but he never mentioned it. \"All right,\" he said to himself, with an irrepressible frown, \"let her\nsleep alone.\"\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-14, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far."]
[{"question": "Summarize the content of the book I read from 2024-01-01 to 2024-01-14", "answer": "Carrie, Ames, Hurstwood, Drouet, Warren Street, New York hotels, maid dismissal, smaller apartment, lease expiration, winter, $700, saloons, physical deterioration, katastates, remorse, brooding, newspaper reading, Lethean waters, household errands, forced to flee, loss of love, loss of income, aging, depression, isolation, relationship decline, financial hardship, appearance decline, sleeping alone, cutting expenses, radiator, telegraphed intelligence"}]