Let that be as it will. Exteriorly7 at least it is really a handsome affair, nine stories in height, with walls of cream-colored brick and gray stone trimmings, and a large, overhanging roof of dark-red curved tiles which suggests Florence and the South. Set apart in an open space it would be admirable. It is not, however, as its appearance would indicate, a hotel of any distinction of clientele, for it was built for an entirely8 different purpose. And, despite the aim and the dreams of those who sought to reach those who might be only temporarily embarrassed, rather than whose who were permanently9 so, and who might use this as a wayplace on their progress upward rather than on their way downward, still it is more the latter who frequent it most. It is really a rendezvous10 for those who are “down and out.”
174 About the time that it was built, or a little after, I myself was in a bad way. It was not exactly that I was financially helpless or that I could not have come by relief in one and another form, if my pride would have let me, as that my pride and a certain psyche11 which, like a fever or a passion, must take its course, would not permit me to do successfully any of the things that normally I could and would have done. I was nervous, really very sick mentally, and very depressed12. Life to me wore a somber13 and at most times a forbidding air, as though, indeed, there were furies between me and the way I would go. Yet, return I would not. And courage not lacking, a certain grim stubbornness that would not permit me to retreat nor yet to ask for help, at last for a brief period I took refuge here, as might one beset14 by a raging gale15 at sea take refuge in some seemingly quiet harbor, any port indeed, in order to forfend against utter annihilation.
A Wayplace of the Fallen
And a strange, sad harbor I found it to be indeed, a nondescript and fantastic affair, sheltering a nondescript and quite fantastic throng16. The thin-bodied and gray-bearded old men loitering out their last days here, and yet with a certain something about them that suggested courage or defiance17, or at least a vague and errant will to live. The lean and down-at-heels and erratic-looking young men, with queer, restless, nervous eyes, and queer, restless, deceptive18 and nervous manners. And the chronic19 ne’er-do-wells, and bums20 even, pan-handlers, street fiddle21 and horn players, street singers, street cripples and beggars of one kind and another. Some of them I had even encountered in the streets in175 my more prosperous hours and had given them dimes22, and here I encountered them again. They were all so poor, if not physically23 or materially at least spiritually, or so nearly all, as to make contact with them disconcerting, if not offensive. For they walked, the most of them, with an air of rundown, hopeless inadequacy24 that was really disturbing to look upon. All of them were garbed25 in clothing which was not good and yet which at all times could not be said to be absolutely ragged26. Rather, in many cases it was more of an intermediate character, such as you might expect to find on a person who was out of a job but who was still struggling to keep up appearances.
You would find, for instance, those whose suits were in a fair state of preservation27 but whose shoes were worn or torn. Again, there were those whose hats and shoes were good but whose trousers were worn and frayed28. Still others would show a good pair of trousers or a moderately satisfactory coat, but such a gleam of wretched linen29 or so poor and faded a tie, that one was compelled to notice it. And the mere30 sight of it, as they themselves seemed to realize by their furtive31 efforts at concealment32, was sufficient to convict them of want or worse. Between these grades and conditions there were so many other little gradations, such as the inadvertently revealed edge of a cotton shirt under a somewhat superior suit, the exposed end of a rag being used for a handkerchief, the shifting edge of a false shirt front, etc., so that by degrees one was moved to either sympathy or laughter, or both.
And the nature of the life here. It was such as to176 preclude33 any reasonable classification from the point of view, say, of happiness or comfort. For all its exterior6 pretentiousness34 and inner spaciousness35, it offered nothing really except two immense lounging-rooms or courts about which the various tiers or floors of rooms were built and which rose, uninterrupted, to the immense glass roofs or coverings nine stories above. There were several other large rooms—a reading-room, a smoking-room—equipped with chairs and tables, but which could only be occupied between 9 a.m. and 10 p.m., and which were watched over by as surly and disagreeable a type of orderly or guard as one would find anywhere—such orderlies or guards, for instance, as a prison or an institution of charity might employ. In fact, I never encountered an institution in which a charge was made for service which seemed to me more barren of courtesy, consideration or welcome.
We were all, as I soon found, here on sufferance. During a long day that began between 9 a.m., at which hour the room you occupied had to be vacated for the day, and 5 p.m., when it might be reoccupied once more, and not before, there was nothing to do but walk the streets if one was out of work, as most of these were, or sit in one or another of these same rooms filled with these same nondescripts, who looked and emanated36 the depression they felt and who were too taciturn or too evasive or shy or despondent37 to wish to talk to anybody. And in addition, neither these nor yourself were really welcome here. For, if you remained within these lobbies during the hours of nine and five daylight, these underlings surveyed you, if at all, with looks of indifference38 or177 contempt, as who should say, “Haven’t you anything at all to do?” and most of those with whom you were in contact could not help but feel this. It was too obvious to be mistaken.
But to return to the type of person who came here to lodge39. Where did they all come from? one was compelled to ask oneself. How did it happen that they were so varied40 as to age, vigor41 or the lack of it and the like? For not all were old or sick or poorly dressed. Some quite the contrary. And yet how did some of them manage to subsist42, even with the aid of such a place as this? What was before them? These thoughts, somehow, would intrude43 themselves whether one would or no. For some of them were so utterly44 hopeless looking. And others (I told myself) were the natural idlers of the world, or what was left of them, men too feeble, too vagrom in thought, or too indifferent to make an earnest effort in any direction. At least there was the possibility of many such being here. Again, there were those of better mood and substance, like myself, say, who were here because of stress, and who were temporarily driven to this form of economy, wretched as it was. Others were obviously criminals or drug fiends, or those suffering from some incurable45 or wasting disease, who probably had little money and no strength, or very little, and who were seeking to hide themselves away here, to rest and content themselves as obscurely and as cheaply as possible. (The maximum charges for a room and a free bath in the public bathroom, the same including towels and soap, ranged from twenty-five to forty cents a day. A meal in the hotel dining-room, such178 as it was, was fifteen cents. I ate several there.) Pick-pockets and thugs from other cities drifted in here, and it was not difficult to pick out an occasional detective studying those who chose to stay here. For the rest, they were of the flotsam and jetsam of all metropolitan46 life—the old, the young, the middle-aged47, the former and the latter having in the main passed the period of success without achieving anything, the others waiting and drifting, perhaps until they should come upon something better. Some of them looked to me to be men who had put up a good fight, but in vain. Life had worsted them. Others looked as though they had not put up any fight at all.
And, again, the nature of the rooms here offered (one of which I was compelled to accept), the air or illusion of cells in an institution or prison that characterized them! They were really not rooms at all, as I found, but cells partitioned or arranged in such a way as to provide the largest amount of renting space and personal supervision48 and espionage49 to the founder50 and manager but only a bare bed to the guest. As I have said, they were all arranged either about an inner court or the exterior walls, so as to have the advantage of interior or exterior lighting51, quite as all hotels and prisons are arranged. But the size of them and the amazingly small windows through which one looked, either into one or other of these courts or onto the streets outside! They were not more than five feet in width by eight in length, and contained each a small iron bed, a single chair, and a very small closet or wardrobe where some clothing might be installed, but so179 little that it could hardly be called a convenience.
And, again, the walls were really not walls at all, but marble partitions set upon iron legs or jacks52 two feet from the floor and reaching to within three feet of the ceiling, which permitted the observation of one’s neighbor’s legs from below, if you wished to observe those conveniences, or of studying his entire chamber53 if you chose to climb upon your bed and look over the top. These open spaces were of course protected by iron screens, which prevented any one entering save through the door.
It is obvious that any such arrangement would preclude any sense of privacy. When you were in your cell there came to you from all parts of the building the sounds of a general activity—the shuffling54 of feet, the clearing of throats, the rattling55 of dominoes in the reading-room below, voices in complaint or conversation, walkings to and fro, the slamming of doors here, there and everywhere, and what not. Coupled with this was the fact that the atmosphere of the whole building was permeated56 with tobacco smoke, and tainted57 or permeated with breaths in all degrees of strength from that of the drunkard to that of the drug fiend or consumptive. It was as though one were living in a weird58 dream. You were presumed to be alone, and yet you were not, and yet you were, only there was no sense of privacy, only a sense of being separated and then neglected and irritated.
And the way these noises and this atmosphere continued into the small hours of the morning was maddening. There is something, to begin with, about poverty180 and squalor that is as depressing and destructive as a gas or a chemic ferment59. Poverty has color and odor and radiation as strong as any gas or ferment. It speaks. It mourns, and these radiations are destructive. Hence the instinctive60 impulse to flee not only disease but poverty.
At ten o’clock all lights in the lobbies and halls were supposed to be put out, and they were put out. There being none in the rooms, all was dark. Before this you would hear the shuffling of this throng bedward, and the piling of chairs on tables in the lobbies for the night in order that the orderlies of the hotel might sweep afterwards. There followed a general opening and shutting of doors and the sound made by individuals here and there stirring among their effects in the dark or straightening their beds. Finally, during the small hours of the night, when peace was supposed to reign61, you would hear, whether you wished to or not, your neighbor and your neighbor’s neighbor, even to the extent of aisles62 and floors distant, snoring and coughing or complaining. There were raucous63 demands from the irritated to “cut it out” or “turn over,” and from others return remarks as “go to hell. Who do you think you are!”—retorts, sometimes brutal64, sometimes merely irritable65, which, however, kept the night vocal66 and one awake.
When, however, all these little difficulties had been finally ironed out and the last man had either quit grumbling67 or decided68 to dispose of his thoughts in a less audible way, there came an hour in which nature seemed truly able, even here, to “knit up the raveled sleeve of181 care.” The noisy had now become silent, the nervous peaceful. Throughout the whole establishment an audible, rhythmic69, synchronic breathing was now apparent. You felt as though some great chemic or psychic70 force were at work in the world, as though by some strange hocus-pocus of chemistry or physics, life was still capable of solving its difficulties, even though you were not, and as though these misfits of soul and body were still breathing in unison71 with something, as though silence and shadow were parts of some shrewd, huge plan to soothe72 the minds of the weary and to bring final order out of chaos73.
In the morning, however, one awoke once more (at least I did) to a still more painful realization74 of what it means to be very poor. There were no conveniences, as I found, at least none which were private. Your bath was a public one, a shower only, one; of a series of spouting75 discs in the basement, where you were compelled to foregather with others, taking your clothes with you—for unless you arose early you could not return to your room. The towels, fortunately, were separate, except for some roll-towels that served at washstands. The general toilet was either a long trough or a series of exposed closets, doorless segments extending along one wall. The shaving-room consisted of the mirrors above the washstands, nothing separate. Over all were the guards loitering to see that nothing was misused76.
There is no question as to the necessity of such rigid77, almost prison-like control, perhaps, but the general effect of it on one—or on me, let me say—was coarse and bitter.
182 “Blime me” (the attendants were for some curious reason mostly English), “you’d think there was no other time but nine for ’im to come start shaving. I say, you can’t do that. We’re closing ’ere now. Cut it out.”
This to a shabby soul with a three days’ growth of beard who has evidently not reached the stage where he understands the regulations of the institution.
“You’ll ’ave to quit splattering water ’ereabouts, I’m telling you. This ain’t no bawth. If you want to do that, go in the basement.”
This to one who was not as careful about his shaving as he might be.
“You’ll ’ave to be moving out o’ ’ere now.”
This to one who had fixed78 himself comfortably in the lobby and who might be in the way of some orderly who wanted to sweep or sprinkle a little sawdust. On every hand, at every time, as I noticed, it was the orderly or the hired servant, not the guest, who was the important and superior person. And it seemed to me, after a three days’ study of it, that they were really looking for flaws and slight mistakes on the part of guests in order that they might show their authority and proclaim to the world their strength. It was discouraging.
The saddest part of it was that this place, with all its drawbacks, was still beyond the purse of many. Some, as anyone could see, only came here between the hours of ten in the morning and ten at night, the hours when lounging in these lobbies was permitted, to loaf and keep warm. They could not afford one of these palatial79 rooms but must only loaf here by day. It was at least warm and bright, and so, up to ten o’clock at night, not183 unsatisfactory. But having no room to go to at ten at night, they must make their way out. And this necessity, exposing them for what they were, bench-warmers, soon made them known to the guards or orderlies, who could be seen eyeing them, sometimes speaking to them, suggesting that they come no more, that they “cut it out.” They were bums, benchers, really below the level of those who could afford to stop here, and so beneath that level of contempt which was regularly meted80 out to those who could stop here. I myself have seen them sidling or slipping out at 9:30 or 9:45, and with what an air—like that of a dog that is in danger of a booting. I have also seen a man at closing time count the remaining money in his possession, calculate a moment, and then rise and slip out into the night. Men such as these are not absolutely worthless, but they have reached the lowest rung of the ladder, are going down, not up, and beyond them is the Bowery, the hospital, and the river—the last, I think, the most merciful of all.
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1
deteriorated
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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hybrid
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| n.(动，植）杂种，混合物 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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exteriorly
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| adv.从外部，表面上 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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psyche
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| n.精神；灵魂 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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bums
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| n. 游荡者，流浪汉，懒鬼，闹饮，屁股 adj. 没有价值的，不灵光的，不合理的 vt. 令人失望，乞讨 vi. 混日子，以乞讨为生 | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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dimes
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| n.（美国、加拿大的）10分铸币( dime的名词复数 ) | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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inadequacy
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| n.无法胜任，信心不足 | |
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garbed
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| v.（尤指某类人穿的特定）服装，衣服，制服( garb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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preclude
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| vt.阻止，排除，防止；妨碍 | |
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pretentiousness
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| n.矫饰；炫耀；自负；狂妄 | |
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spaciousness
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emanated
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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espionage
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| n.间谍行为，谍报活动 | |
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Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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52
jacks
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| n.抓子游戏；千斤顶( jack的名词复数 )；（电）插孔；[电子学]插座；放弃 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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54
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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55
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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permeated
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| 弥漫( permeate的过去式和过去分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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69
rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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70
psychic
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| n.对超自然力敏感的人；adj.有超自然力的 | |
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71
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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72
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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73
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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74
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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75
spouting
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| n.水落管系统v.（指液体）喷出( spout的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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76
misused
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| v.使用…不当( misuse的过去式和过去分词 )；把…派作不正当的用途；虐待；滥用 | |
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77
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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78
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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79
palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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80
meted
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| v.（对某人）施以，给予（处罚等）( mete的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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