_ The effect of the city and his own situation on Hurstwood was
paralleled in the case of Carrie, who accepted the things which
fortune provided with the most genial good-nature. New York,
despite her first expression of disapproval, soon interested her
exceedingly. Its clear atmosphere, more populous thoroughfares,
and peculiar indifference struck her forcibly. She had never
seen such a little flat as hers, and yet it soon enlisted her
affection. The new furniture made an excellent showing, the
sideboard which Hurstwood himself arranged gleamed brightly. The
furniture for each room was appropriate, and in the so-called
parlour, or front room, was installed a piano, because Carrie
said she would like to learn to play. She kept a servant and
developed rapidly in household tactics and information. For the
first time in her life she felt settled, and somewhat justified
in the eyes of society as she conceived of it. Her thoughts were
merry and innocent enough. For a long while she concerned
herself over the arrangement of New York flats, and wondered at
ten families living in one building and all remaining strange and
indifferent to each other. She also marvelled at the whistles of
the hundreds of vessels in the harbour--the long, low cries of
the Sound steamers and ferry-boats when fog was on. The mere
fact that these things spoke from the sea made them wonderful.
She looked much at what she could see of the Hudson from her west
windows and of the great city building up rapidly on either hand.
It was much to ponder over, and sufficed to entertain her for
more than a year without becoming stale.
For another thing, Hurstwood was exceedingly interesting in his
affection for her. Troubled as he was, he never exposed his
difficulties to her. He carried himself with the same self-
important air, took his new state with easy familiarity, and
rejoiced in Carrie's proclivities and successes. Each evening he
arrived promptly to dinner, and found the little dining-room a
most inviting spectacle. In a way, the smallness of the room
added to its luxury. It looked full and replete. The white-
covered table was arrayed with pretty dishes and lighted with a
four-armed candelabra, each light of which was topped with a red
shade. Between Carrie and the girl the steaks and chops came out
all right, and canned goods did the rest for a while. Carrie
studied the art of making biscuit, and soon reached the stage
where she could show a plate of light, palatable morsels for her
labour.
In this manner the second, third, and fourth months passed.
Winter came, and with it a feeling that indoors was best, so that
the attending of theatres was not much talked of. Hurstwood made
great efforts to meet all expenditures without a show of feeling
one way or the other. He pretended that he was reinvesting his
money in strengthening the business for greater ends in the
future. He contented himself with a very moderate allowance of
personal apparel, and rarely suggested anything for Carrie. Thus
the first winter passed.
In the second year, the business which Hurstwood managed did
increase somewhat. He got out of it regularly the $150 per month
which he had anticipated. Unfortunately, by this time Carrie had
reached certain conclusions, and he had scraped up a few
acquaintances.
Being of a passive and receptive rather than an active and
aggressive nature, Carrie accepted the situation. Her state
seemed satisfactory enough. Once in a while they would go to a
theatre together, occasionally in season to the beaches and
different points about the city, but they picked up no
acquaintances. Hurstwood naturally abandoned his show of fine
manners with her and modified his attitude to one of easy
familiarity. There were no misunderstandings, no apparent
differences of opinion. In fact, without money or visiting
friends, he led a life which could neither arouse jealousy nor
comment. Carrie rather sympathised with his efforts and thought
nothing upon her lack of entertainment such as she had enjoyed in
Chicago. New York as a corporate entity and her flat temporarily
seemed sufficient.
However, as Hurstwood's business increased, he, as stated, began
to pick up acquaintances. He also began to allow himself more
clothes. He convinced himself that his home life was very
precious to him, but allowed that he could occasionally stay away
from dinner. The first time he did this he sent a message saying
that he would be detained. Carrie ate alone, and wished that it
might not happen again. The second time, also, he sent word, but
at the last moment. The third time he forgot entirely and
explained afterwards. These events were months apart, each.
"Where were you, George?" asked Carrie, after the first absence.
"Tied up at the office," he said genially. "There were some
accounts I had to straighten."
"I'm sorry you couldn't get home," she said kindly. "I was
fixing to have such a nice dinner."
The second time he gave a similar excuse, but the third time the
feeling about it in Carrie's mind was a little bit out of the
ordinary.
"I couldn't get home," he said, when he came in later in the
evening, "I was so busy."
"Couldn't you have sent me word?" asked Carrie.
"I meant to," he said, "but you know I forgot it until it was too
late to do any good."
"And I had such a good dinner!" said Carrie.
Now, it so happened that from his observations of Carrie he began
to imagine that she was of the thoroughly domestic type of mind.
He really thought, after a year, that her chief expression in
life was finding its natural channel in household duties.
Notwithstanding the fact that he had observed her act in Chicago,
and that during the past year he had only seen her limited in her
relations to her flat and him by conditions which he made, and
that she had not gained any friends or associates, he drew this
peculiar conclusion. With it came a feeling of satisfaction in
having a wife who could thus be content, and this satisfaction
worked its natural result. That is, since he imagined he saw her
satisfied, he felt called upon to give only that which
contributed to such satisfaction. He supplied the furniture, the
decorations, the food, and the necessary clothing. Thoughts of
entertaining her, leading her out into the shine and show of
life, grew less and less. He felt attracted to the outer world,
but did not think she would care to go along. Once he went to
the theatre alone. Another time he joined a couple of his new
friends at an evening game of poker. Since his money-feathers
were beginning to grow again he felt like sprucing about. All
this, however, in a much less imposing way than had been his wont
in Chicago. He avoided the gay places where he would be apt to
meet those who had known him.
Now, Carrie began to feel this in various sensory ways. She was
not the kind to be seriously disturbed by his actions. Not
loving him greatly, she could not be jealous in a disturbing way.
In fact, she was not jealous at all. Hurstwood was pleased with
her placid manner, when he should have duly considered it. When
he did not come home it did not seem anything like a terrible
thing to her. She gave him credit for having the usual
allurements of men--people to talk to, places to stop, friends to
consult with. She was perfectly willing that he should enjoy
himself in his way, but she did not care to be neglected herself.
Her state still seemed fairly reasonable, however. All she did
observe was that Hurstwood was somewhat different.
Some time in the second year of their residence in Seventy-eighth
Street the flat across the hall from Carrie became vacant, and
into it moved a very handsome young woman and her husband, with
both of whom Carrie afterwards became acquainted. This was
brought about solely by the arrangement of the flats, which were
united in one place, as it were, by the dumb-waiter. This useful
elevator, by which fuel, groceries, and the like were sent up
from the basement, and garbage and waste sent down, was used by
both residents of one floor; that is, a small door opened into it
from each flat.
If the occupants of both flats answered to the whistle of the
janitor at the same time, they would stand face to face when they
opened the dumb-waiter doors. One morning, when Carrie went to
remove her paper, the newcomer, a handsome brunette of perhaps
twenty-three years of age, was there for a like purpose. She was
in a night-robe and dressing-gown, with her hair very much
tousled, but she looked so pretty and good-natured that Carrie
instantly conceived a liking for her. The newcomer did no more
than smile shamefacedly, but it was sufficient. Carrie felt that
she would like to know her, and a similar feeling stirred in the
mind of the other, who admired Carrie's innocent face.
"That's a real pretty woman who has moved in next door," said
Carrie to Hurstwood at the breakfast table.
"Who are they?" asked Hurstwood.
"I don't know," said Carrie. "The name on the bell is Vance.
Some one over there plays beautifully. I guess it must be she."
"Well, you never can tell what sort of people you're living next
to in this town, can you?" said Hurstwood, expressing the
customary New York opinion about neighbours.
"Just think," said Carrie, "I have been in this house with nine
other families for over a year and I don't know a soul. These
people have been here over a month and I haven't seen any one
before this morning."
"It's just as well," said Hurstwood. 'You never know who you're
going to get in with. Some of these people are pretty bad
company."
"I expect so," said Carrie, agreeably.
The conversation turned to other things, and Carrie thought no
more upon the subject until a day or two later, when, going out
to market, she encountered Mrs. Vance coming in. The latter
recognised her and nodded, for which Carrie returned a smile.
This settled the probability of acquaintanceship. If there had
been no faint recognition on this occasion, there would have been
no future association.
Carrie saw no more of Mrs. Vance for several weeks, but she heard
her play through the thin walls which divided the front rooms of
the flats, and was pleased by the merry selection of pieces and
the brilliance of their rendition. She could play only
moderately herself, and such variety as Mrs. Vance exercised
bordered, for Carrie, upon the verge of great art. Everything
she had seen and heard thus far--the merest scraps and shadows--
indicated that these people were, in a measure, refined and in
comfortable circumstances. So Carrie was ready for any extension
of the friendship which might follow.
One day Carrie's bell rang and the servant, who was in the
kitchen, pressed the button which caused the front door of the
general entrance on the ground floor to be electrically
unlatched. When Carrie waited at her own door on the third floor
to see who it might be coming up to call on her, Mrs. Vance
appeared.
"I hope you'll excuse me," she said. "I went out a while ago and
forgot my outside key, so I thought I'd ring your bell."
This was a common trick of other residents of the building,
whenever they had forgotten their outside keys. They did not
apologise for it, however.
"Certainly," said Carrie. "I'm glad you did. I do the same
thing sometimes."
"Isn't it just delightful weather?" said Mrs. Vance, pausing for
a moment.
Thus, after a few more preliminaries, this visiting acquaintance
was well launched, and in the young Mrs. Vance Carrie found an
agreeable companion.
On several occasions Carrie visited her and was visited. Both
flats were good to look upon, though that of the Vances tended
somewhat more to the luxurious.
"I want you to come over this evening and meet my husband," said
Mrs. Vance, not long after their intimacy began. "He wants to
meet you. You play cards, don't you?"
"A little," said Carrie.
"Well, we'll have a game of cards. If your husband comes home
bring him over."
"He's not coming to dinner to-night," said Carrie.
"Well, when he does come we'll call him in."
Carrie acquiesced, and that evening met the portly Vance, an
individual a few years younger than Hurstwood, and who owed his
seemingly comfortable matrimonial state much more to his money
than to his good looks. He thought well of Carrie upon the first
glance and laid himself out to be genial, teaching her a new game
of cards and talking to her about New York and its pleasures.
Mrs. Vance played some upon the piano, and at last Hurstwood
came.
"I am very glad to meet you," he said to Mrs. Vance when Carrie
introduced him, showing much of the old grace which had
captivated Carrie.
"Did you think your wife had run away?" said Mr. Vance, extending
his hand upon introduction.
"I didn't know but what she might have found a better husband,"
said Hurstwood.
He now turned his attention to Mrs. Vance, and in a flash Carrie
saw again what she for some time had subconsciously missed in
Hurstwood--the adroitness and flattery of which he was capable.
She also saw that she was not well dressed--not nearly as well
dressed--as Mrs. Vance. These were not vague ideas any longer.
Her situation was cleared up for her. She felt that her life was
becoming stale, and therein she felt cause for gloom. The old
helpful, urging melancholy was restored. The desirous Carrie was
whispered to concerning her possibilities.
There were no immediate results to this awakening, for Carrie had
little power of initiative; but, nevertheless, she seemed ever
capable of getting herself into the tide of change where she
would be easily borne along. Hurstwood noticed nothing. He had
been unconscious of the marked contrasts which Carrie had
observed.
He did not even detect the shade of melancholy which settled in
her eyes. Worst of all, she now began to feel the loneliness of
the flat and seek the company of Mrs. Vance, who liked her
exceedingly.
"Let's go to the matinee this afternoon," said Mrs. Vance, who
had stepped across into Carrie's flat one morning, still arrayed
in a soft pink dressing-gown, which she had donned upon rising.
Hurstwood and Vance had gone their separate ways nearly an hour
before.
"All right," said Carrie, noticing the air of the petted and
well-groomed woman in Mrs. Vance's general appearance. She
looked as though she was dearly loved and her every wish
gratified. "What shall we see?"
"Oh, I do want to see Nat Goodwin," said Mrs. Vance. "I do think
he is the jolliest actor. The papers say this is such a good
play."
"What time will we have to start?" asked Carrie.
"Let's go at once and walk down Broadway from Thirty-fourth
Street," said Mrs. Vance. "It's such an interesting walk. He's
at the Madison Square."
"I'll be glad to go," said Carrie. "How much will we have to pay
for seats?"
"Not more than a dollar," said Mrs. Vance.
The latter departed, and at one o'clock reappeared, stunningly
arrayed in a dark-blue walking dress, with a nobby hat to match.
Carrie had gotten herself up charmingly enough, but this woman
pained her by contrast. She seemed to have so many dainty little
things which Carrie had not. There were trinkets of gold, an
elegant green leather purse set with her initials, a fancy
handkerchief, exceedingly rich in design, and the like. Carrie
felt that she needed more and better clothes to compare with this
woman, and that any one looking at the two would pick Mrs. Vance
for her raiment alone. It was a trying, though rather unjust
thought, for Carrie had now developed an equally pleasing figure,
and had grown in comeliness until she was a thoroughly attractive
type of her colour of beauty. There was some difference in the
clothing of the two, both of quality and age, but this difference
was not especially noticeable. It served, however, to augment
Carrie's dissatisfaction with her state.
The walk down Broadway, then as now, was one of the remarkable
features of the city. There gathered, before the matinee and
afterwards, not only all the pretty women who love a showy
parade, but the men who love to gaze upon and admire them. It
was a very imposing procession of pretty faces and fine clothes.
Women appeared in their very best hats, shoes, and gloves, and
walked arm in arm on their way to the fine shops or theatres
strung along from Fourteenth to Thirty-fourth Streets. Equally
the men paraded with the very latest they could afford. A tailor
might have secured hints on suit measurements, a shoemaker on
proper lasts and colours, a hatter on hats. It was literally
true that if a lover of fine clothes secured a new suit, it was
sure to have its first airing on Broadway. So true and well
understood was this fact, that several years later a popular
song, detailing this and other facts concerning the afternoon
parade on matinee days, and entitled "What Right Has He on
Broadway?" was published, and had quite a vogue about the music-
halls of the city.
In all her stay in the city, Carrie had never heard of this showy
parade; had never even been on Broadway when it was taking place.
On the other hand, it was a familiar thing to Mrs. Vance, who not
only knew of it as an entity, but had often been in it, going
purposely to see and be seen, to create a stir with her beauty
and dispel any tendency to fall short in dressiness by
contrasting herself with the beauty and fashion of the town.
Carrie stepped along easily enough after they got out of the car
at Thirty-fourth Street, but soon fixed her eyes upon the lovely
company which swarmed by and with them as they proceeded. She
noticed suddenly that Mrs. Vance's manner had rather stiffened
under the gaze of handsome men and elegantly dressed ladies,
whose glances were not modified by any rules of propriety. To
stare seemed the proper and natural thing. Carrie found herself
stared at and ogled. Men in flawless top-coats, high hats, and
silver-headed walking sticks elbowed near and looked too often
into conscious eyes. Ladies rustled by in dresses of stiff
cloth, shedding affected smiles and perfume. Carrie noticed
among them the sprinkling of goodness and the heavy percentage of
vice. The rouged and powdered cheeks and lips, the scented hair,
the large, misty, and languorous eye, were common enough. With a
start she awoke to find that she was in fashion's crowd, on
parade in a show place--and such a show place! Jewellers' windows
gleamed along the path with remarkable frequency. Florist shops,
furriers, haberdashers, confectioners--all followed in rapid
succession. The street was full of coaches. Pompous doormen in
immense coats, shiny brass belts and buttons, waited in front of
expensive salesrooms. Coachmen in tan boots, white tights, and
blue jackets waited obsequiously for the mistresses of carriages
who were shopping inside. The whole street bore the flavour of
riches and show, and Carrie felt that she was not of it. She
could not, for the life of her, assume the attitude and smartness
of Mrs. Vance, who, in her beauty, was all assurance. She could
only imagine that it must be evident to many that she was the
less handsomely dressed of the two. It cut her to the quick, and
she resolved that she would not come here again until she looked
better. At the same time she longed to feel the delight of
parading here as an equal. Ah, then she would be happy! _