_ Such feelings as were generated in Carrie by this walk put her in
an exceedingly receptive mood for the pathos which followed in
the play. The actor whom they had gone to see had achieved his
popularity by presenting a mellow type of comedy, in which
sufficient sorrow was introduced to lend contrast and relief to
humour. For Carrie, as we well know, the stage had a great
attraction. She had never forgotten her one histrionic
achievement in Chicago. It dwelt in her mind and occupied her
consciousness during many long afternoons in which her rocking-
chair and her latest novel contributed the only pleasures of her
state. Never could she witness a play without having her own
ability vividly brought to consciousness. Some scenes made her
long to be a part of them--to give expression to the feelings
which she, in the place of the character represented, would feel.
Almost invariably she would carry the vivid imaginations away
with her and brood over them the next day alone. She lived as
much in these things as in the realities which made up her daily
life.
It was not often that she came to the play stirred to her heart's
core by actualities. To-day a low song of longing had been set
singing in her heart by the finery, the merriment, the beauty she
had seen. Oh, these women who had passed her by, hundreds and
hundreds strong, who were they? Whence came the rich, elegant
dresses, the astonishingly coloured buttons, the knick-knacks of
silver and gold? Where were these lovely creatures housed? Amid
what elegancies of carved furniture, decorated walls, elaborate
tapestries did they move? Where were their rich apartments,
loaded with all that money could provide? In what stables champed
these sleek, nervous horses and rested the gorgeous carriages?
Where lounged the richly groomed footmen? Oh, the mansions, the
lights, the perfume, the loaded boudoirs and tables! New York
must be filled with such bowers, or the beautiful, insolent,
supercilious creatures could not be. Some hothouses held them.
It ached her to know that she was not one of them--that, alas,
she had dreamed a dream and it had not come true. She wondered
at her own solitude these two years past--her indifference to the
fact that she had never achieved what she had expected.
The play was one of those drawing-room concoctions in which
charmingly overdressed ladies and gentlemen suffer the pangs of
love and jealousy amid gilded surroundings. Such bon-mots are
ever enticing to those who have all their days longed for such
material surroundings and have never had them gratified. They
have the charm of showing suffering under ideal conditions. Who
would not grieve upon a gilded chair? Who would not suffer amid
perfumed tapestries, cushioned furniture, and liveried servants?
Grief under such circumstances becomes an enticing thing. Carrie
longed to be of it. She wanted to take her sufferings, whatever
they were, in such a world, or failing that, at least to simulate
them under such charming conditions upon the stage. So affected
was her mind by what she had seen, that the play now seemed an
extraordinarily beautiful thing. She was soon lost in the world
it represented, and wished that she might never return. Between
the acts she studied the galaxy of matinee attendants in front
rows and boxes, and conceived a new idea of the possibilities of
New York. She was sure she had not seen it all--that the city
was one whirl of pleasure and delight.
Going out, the same Broadway taught her a sharper lesson. The
scene she had witnessed coming down was now augmented and at its
height. Such a crush of finery and folly she had never seen. It
clinched her convictions concerning her state. She had not
lived, could not lay claim to having lived, until something of
this had come into her own life. Women were spending money like
water; she could see that in every elegant shop she passed.
Flowers, candy, jewelry, seemed the principal things in which the
elegant dames were interested. And she--she had scarcely enough
pin money to indulge in such outings as this a few times a month.
That night the pretty little flat seemed a commonplace thing. It
was not what the rest of the world was enjoying. She saw the
servant working at dinner with an indifferent eye. In her mind
were running scenes of the play. Particularly she remembered one
beautiful actress--the sweetheart who had been wooed and won.
The grace of this woman had won Carrie's heart. Her dresses had
been all that art could suggest, her sufferings had been so real.
The anguish which she had portrayed Carrie could feel. It was
done as she was sure she could do it. There were places in which
she could even do better. Hence she repeated the lines to
herself. Oh, if she could only have such a part, how broad would
be her life! She, too, could act appealingly.
When Hurstwood came, Carrie was moody. She was sitting, rocking
and thinking, and did not care to have her enticing imaginations
broken in upon; so she said little or nothing.
"What's the matter, Carrie?" said Hurstwood after a time,
noticing her quiet, almost moody state.
"Nothing," said Carrie. "I don't feel very well tonight."
"Not sick, are you?" he asked, approaching very close.
"Oh, no," she said, almost pettishly, "I just don't feel very
good."
"That's too bad," he said, stepping away and adjusting his vest
after his slight bending over. "I was thinking we might go to a
show to-night."
"I don't want to go," said Carrie, annoyed that her fine visions
should have thus been broken into and driven out of her mind.
"I've been to the matinee this afternoon."
"Oh, you have?" said Hurstwood. "What was it?"
"A Gold Mine."
"How was it?"
"Pretty good," said Carrie.
"And you don't want to go again to night?"
"I don't think I do," she said.
Nevertheless, wakened out of her melancholia and called to the
dinner table, she changed her mind. A little food in the stomach
does wonders. She went again, and in so doing temporarily
recovered her equanimity. The great awakening blow had, however,
been delivered. As often as she might recover from these
discontented thoughts now, they would occur again. Time and
repetition--ah, the wonder of it! The dropping water and the
solid stone--how utterly it yields at last!
Not long after this matinee experience--perhaps a month--Mrs.
Vance invited Carrie to an evening at the theatre with them. She
heard Carrie say that Hurstwood was not coming home to dinner.
"Why don't you come with us? Don't get dinner for yourself.
We're going down to Sherry's for dinner and then over to the
Lyceum. Come along with us."
"I think I will," answered Carrie.
She began to dress at three o'clock for her departure at half-
past five for the noted dining-room which was then crowding
Delmonico's for position in society. In this dressing Carrie
showed the influence of her association with the dashing Mrs.
Vance. She had constantly had her attention called by the latter
to novelties in everything which pertains to a woman's apparel.
"Are you going to get such and such a hat?" or, "Have you seen
the new gloves with the oval pearl buttons?" were but sample
phrases out of a large selection.
"The next time you get a pair of shoes, dearie," said Mrs. Vance,
"get button, with thick soles and patent-leather tips. They're
all the rage this fall."
"I will," said Carrie.
"Oh, dear, have you seen the new shirtwaists at Altman's? They
have some of the loveliest patterns. I saw one there that I know
would look stunning on you. I said so when I saw it."
Carrie listened to these things with considerable interest, for
they were suggested with more of friendliness than is usually
common between pretty women. Mrs. Vance liked Carrie's stable
good-nature so well that she really took pleasure in suggesting
to her the latest things.
"Why don't you get yourself one of those nice serge skirts
they're selling at Lord & Taylor's?" she said one day. "They're
the circular style, and they're going to be worn from now on. A
dark blue one would look so nice on you."
Carrie listened with eager ears. These things never came up
between her and Hurstwood. Nevertheless, she began to suggest
one thing and another, which Hurstwood agreed to without any
expression of opinion. He noticed the new tendency on Carrie's
part, and finally, hearing much of Mrs. Vance and her delightful
ways, suspected whence the change came. He was not inclined to
offer the slightest objection so soon, but he felt that Carrie's
wants were expanding. This did not appeal to him exactly, but he
cared for her in his own way, and so the thing stood. Still,
there was something in the details of the transactions which
caused Carrie to feel that her requests were not a delight to
him. He did not enthuse over the purchases. This led her to
believe that neglect was creeping in, and so another small wedge
was entered.
Nevertheless, one of the results of Mrs. Vance's suggestions was
the fact that on this occasion Carrie was dressed somewhat to her
own satisfaction. She had on her best, but there was comfort in
the thought that if she must confine herself to a best, it was
neat and fitting. She looked the well-groomed woman of twenty-
one, and Mrs. Vance praised her, which brought colour to her
plump cheeks and a noticeable brightness into her large eyes. It
was threatening rain, and Mr. Vance, at his wife's request, had
called a coach.
"Your husband isn't coming?" suggested Mr. Vance, as he met
Carrie in his little parlour.
"No; he said he wouldn't be home for dinner."
"Better leave a little note for him, telling him where we are.
He might turn up."
"I will," said Carrie, who had not thought of it before.
"Tell him we'll be at Sherry's until eight o'clock. He knows,
though I guess."
Carrie crossed the hall with rustling skirts, and scrawled the
note, gloves on. When she returned a newcomer was in the Vance
flat.
"Mrs. Wheeler, let me introduce Mr. Ames, a cousin of mine," said
Mrs. Vance. "He's going along with us, aren't you, Bob?"
"I'm very glad to meet you," said Ames, bowing politely to
Carrie.
The latter caught in a glance the dimensions of a very stalwart
figure. She also noticed that he was smooth-shaven, good
looking, and young, but nothing more.
"Mr. Ames is just down in New York for a few days," put in Vance,
"and we're trying to show him around a little."
"Oh, are you?" said Carrie, taking another glance at the
newcomer.
"Yes; I am just on here from Indianapolis for a week or so," said
young Ames, seating himself on the edge of a chair to wait while
Mrs. Vance completed the last touches of her toilet.
"I guess you find New York quite a thing to see, don't you?" said
Carrie, venturing something to avoid a possible deadly silence.
"It is rather large to get around in a week," answered Ames,
pleasantly.
He was an exceedingly genial soul, this young man, and wholly
free of affectation. It seemed to Carrie he was as yet only
overcoming the last traces of the bashfulness of youth. He did
not seem apt at conversation, but he had the merit of being well
dressed and wholly courageous. Carrie felt as if it were not
going to be hard to talk to him.
"Well, I guess we're ready now. The coach is outside."
"Come on, people," said Mrs. Vance, coming in smiling. "Bob,
you'll have to look after Mrs. Wheeler."
"I'll try to," said Bob smiling, and edging closer to Carrie.
"You won't need much watching, will you?" he volunteered, in a
sort of ingratiating and help-me-out kind of way.
"Not very, I hope," said Carrie.
They descended the stairs, Mrs. Vance offering suggestions, and
climbed into the open coach.
"All right," said Vance, slamming the coach door, and the
conveyance rolled away.
"What is it we're going to see?" asked Ames.
"Sothern," said Vance, "in 'Lord Chumley.'"
"Oh, he is so good!" said Mrs. Vance. "He's just the funniest
man."
"I notice the papers praise it," said Ames.
"I haven't any doubt," put in Vance, "but we'll all enjoy it very
much."
Ames had taken a seat beside Carrie, and accordingly he felt it
his bounden duty to pay her some attention. He was interested to
find her so young a wife, and so pretty, though it was only a
respectful interest. There was nothing of the dashing lady's man
about him. He had respect for the married state, and thought
only of some pretty marriageable girls in Indianapolis.
"Are you a born New Yorker?" asked Ames of Carrie.
"Oh, no; I've only been here for two years."
"Oh, well, you've had time to see a great deal of it, anyhow."
"I don't seem to have," answered Carrie. "It's about as strange
to me as when I first came here."
"You're not from the West, are you?"
"Yes. I'm from Wisconsin," she answered.
"Well, it does seem as if most people in this town haven't been
here so very long. I hear of lots of Indiana people in my line
who are here."
"What is your line?" asked Carrie.
"I'm connected with an electrical company," said the youth.
Carrie followed up this desultory conversation with occasional
interruptions from the Vances. Several times it became general
and partially humorous, and in that manner the restaurant was
reached.
Carrie had noticed the appearance of gayety and pleasure-seeking
in the streets which they were following. Coaches were numerous,
pedestrians many, and in Fifty-ninth Street the street cars were
crowded. At Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue a blaze of
lights from several new hotels which bordered the Plaza Square
gave a suggestion of sumptuous hotel life. Fifth Avenue, the
home of the wealthy, was noticeably crowded with carriages, and
gentlemen in evening dress. At Sherry's an imposing doorman
opened the coach door and helped them out. Young Ames held
Carrie's elbow as he helped her up the steps. They entered the
lobby already swarming with patrons, and then, after divesting
themselves of their wraps, went into a sumptuous dining-room.
In all Carrie's experience she had never seen anything like this.
In the whole time she had been in New York Hurstwood's modified
state had not permitted his bringing her to such a place. There
was an almost indescribable atmosphere about it which convinced
the newcomer that this was the proper thing. Here was the place
where the matter of expense limited the patrons to the moneyed or
pleasure-loving class. Carrie had read of it often in the
"Morning" and "Evening World." She had seen notices of dances,
parties, balls, and suppers at Sherry's. The Misses So-and-so
would give a party on Wednesday evening at Sherry's. Young Mr.
So-and-So would entertain a party of friends at a private
luncheon on the sixteenth, at Sherry's. The common run of
conventional, perfunctory notices of the doings of society, which
she could scarcely refrain from scanning each day, had given her
a distinct idea of the gorgeousness and luxury of this wonderful
temple of gastronomy. Now, at last, she was really in it. She
had come up the imposing steps, guarded by the large and portly
doorman. She had seen the lobby, guarded by another large and
portly gentleman, and been waited upon by uniformed youths who
took care of canes, overcoats, and the like. Here was the
splendid dining-chamber, all decorated and aglow, where the
wealthy ate. Ah, how fortunate was Mrs. Vance; young, beautiful,
and well off--at least, sufficiently so to come here in a coach.
What a wonderful thing it was to be rich.
Vance led the way through lanes of shining tables, at which were
seated parties of two, three, four, five, or six. The air of
assurance and dignity about it all was exceedingly noticeable to
the novitiate. Incandescent lights, the reflection of their glow
in polished glasses, and the shine of gilt upon the walls,
combined into one tone of light which it requires minutes of
complacent observation to separate and take particular note of.
The white shirt fronts of the gentlemen, the bright costumes of
the ladies, diamonds, jewels, fine feathers--all were exceedingly
noticeable.
Carrie walked with an air equal to that of Mrs. Vance, and
accepted the seat which the head waiter provided for her. She
was keenly aware of all the little things that were done--the
little genuflections and attentions of the waiters and head
waiter which Americans pay for. The air with which the latter
pulled out each chair, and the wave of the hand with which he
motioned them to be seated, were worth several dollars in
themselves.
Once seated, there began that exhibition of showy, wasteful, and
unwholesome gastronomy as practised by wealthy Americans, which
is the wonder and astonishment of true culture and dignity the
world over. The large bill of fare held an array of dishes
sufficient to feed an army, sidelined with prices which made
reasonable expenditure a ridiculous impossibility--an order of
soup at fifty cents or a dollar, with a dozen kinds to choose
from; oysters in forty styles and at sixty cents the half-dozen;
entrees, fish, and meats at prices which would house one over
night in an average hotel. One dollar fifty and two dollars
seemed to be the most common figures upon this most tastefully
printed bill of fare.
Carrie noticed this, and in scanning it the price of spring
chicken carried her back to that other bill of fare and far
different occasion when, for the first time, she sat with Drouet
in a good restaurant in Chicago. It was only momentary--a sad
note as out of an old song--and then it was gone. But in that
flash was seen the other Carrie--poor, hungry, drifting at her
wits' ends, and all Chicago a cold and closed world, from which
she only wandered because she could not find work.
On the walls were designs in colour, square spots of robin's-egg
blue, set in ornate frames of gilt, whose corners were elaborate
mouldings of fruit and flowers, with fat cupids hovering in
angelic comfort. On the ceilings were coloured traceries with
more gilt, leading to a centre where spread a cluster of lights--
incandescent globes mingled with glittering prisms and stucco
tendrils of gilt. The floor was of a reddish hue, waxed and
polished, and in every direction were mirrors--tall, brilliant,
bevel-edged mirrors--reflecting and re-reflecting forms, faces,
and candelabra a score and a hundred times.
The tables were not so remarkable in themselves, and yet the
imprint of Sherry upon the napery, the name of Tiffany upon the
silverware, the name of Haviland upon the china, and over all the
glow of the small, red-shaded candelabra and the reflected tints
of the walls on garments and faces, made them seem remarkable.
Each waiter added an air of exclusiveness and elegance by the
manner in which he bowed, scraped, touched, and trifled with
things. The exclusively personal attention which he devoted to
each one, standing half bent, ear to one side, elbows akimbo,
saying: "Soup--green turtle, yes. One portion, yes. Oysters--
certainly--half-dozen--yes. Asparagus. Olives--yes."
It would be the same with each one, only Vance essayed to order
for all, inviting counsel and suggestions. Carrie studied the
company with open eyes. So this was high life in New York. It
was so that the rich spent their days and evenings. Her poor
little mind could not rise above applying each scene to all
society. Every fine lady must be in the crowd on Broadway in the
afternoon, in the theatre at the matinee, in the coaches and
dining-halls at night. It must be glow and shine everywhere,
with coaches waiting, and footmen attending, and she was out of
it all. In two long years she had never even been in such a
place as this.
Vance was in his element here, as Hurstwood would have been in
former days. He ordered freely of soup, oysters, roast meats,
and side dishes, and had several bottles of wine brought, which
were set down beside the table in a wicker basket.
Ames was looking away rather abstractedly at the crowd and showed
an interesting profile to Carrie. His forehead was high, his
nose rather large and strong, his chin moderately pleasing. He
had a good, wide, well-shaped mouth, and his dark-brown hair was
parted slightly on one side. He seemed to have the least touch
of boyishness to Carrie, and yet he was a man full grown.
"Do you know," he said, turning back to Carrie, after his
reflection, "I sometimes think it is a shame for people to spend
so much money this way."
Carrie looked at him a moment with the faintest touch of surprise
at his seriousness. He seemed to be thinking about something
over which she had never pondered.
"Do you?" she answered, interestedly.
"Yes," he said, "they pay so much more than these things are
worth. They put on so much show."
"I don't know why people shouldn't spend when they have it," said
Mrs. Vance.
"It doesn't do any harm," said Vance, who was still studying the
bill of fare, though he had ordered.
Ames was looking away again, and Carrie was again looking at his
forehead. To her he seemed to be thinking about strange things.
As he studied the crowd his eye was mild.
"Look at that woman's dress over there," he said, again turning
to Carrie, and nodding in a direction.
"Where?" said Carrie, following his eyes.
"Over there in the corner--way over. Do you see that brooch?"
"Isn't it large?" said Carrie.
"One of the largest clusters of jewels I have ever seen," said
Ames.
"It is, isn't it?" said Carrie. She felt as if she would like to
be agreeable to this young man, and also there came with it, or
perhaps preceded it, the slightest shade of a feeling that he was
better educated than she was--that his mind was better. He
seemed to look it, and the saving grace in Carrie was that she
could understand that people could be wiser. She had seen a
number of people in her life who reminded her of what she had
vaguely come to think of as scholars. This strong young man
beside her, with his clear, natural look, seemed to get a hold of
things which she did not quite understand, but approved of. It
was fine to be so, as a man, she thought.
The conversation changed to a book that was having its vogue at
the time--"Moulding a Maiden," by Albert Ross. Mrs. Vance had
read it. Vance had seen it discussed in some of the papers.
"A man can make quite a strike writing a book," said Vance. "I
notice this fellow Ross is very much talked about." He was
looking at Carrie as he spoke.
"I hadn't heard of him," said Carrie, honestly.
"Oh, I have," said Mrs. Vance. "He's written lots of things.
This last story is pretty good."
"He doesn't amount to much," said Ames.
Carrie turned her eyes toward him as to an oracle.
"His stuff is nearly as bad as 'Dora Thorne,'" concluded Ames.
Carrie felt this as a personal reproof. She read "Dora Thorne,"
or had a great deal in the past. It seemed only fair to her, but
she supposed that people thought it very fine. Now this clear-
eyed, fine-headed youth, who looked something like a student to
her, made fun of it. It was poor to him, not worth reading. She
looked down, and for the first time felt the pain of not
understanding.
Yet there was nothing sarcastic or supercilious in the way Ames
spoke. He had very little of that in him. Carrie felt that it
was just kindly thought of a high order--the right thing to
think, and wondered what else was right, according to him. He
seemed to notice that she listened and rather sympathised with
him, and from now on he talked mostly to her.
As the waiter bowed and scraped about, felt the dishes to see if
they were hot enough, brought spoons and forks, and did all those
little attentive things calculated to impress the luxury of the
situation upon the diner, Ames also leaned slightly to one side
and told her of Indianapolis in an intelligent way. He really
had a very bright mind, which was finding its chief development
in electrical knowledge. His sympathies for other forms of
information, however, and for types of people, were quick and
warm. The red glow on his head gave it a sandy tinge and put a
bright glint in his eye. Carrie noticed all these things as he
leaned toward her and felt exceedingly young. This man was far
ahead of her. He seemed wiser than Hurstwood, saner and brighter
than Drouet. He seemed innocent and clean, and she thought that
he was exceedingly pleasant. She noticed, also, that his
interest in her was a far-off one. She was not in his life, nor
any of the things that touched his life, and yet now, as he spoke
of these things, they appealed to her.
"I shouldn't care to be rich," he told her, as the dinner
proceeded and the supply of food warmed up his sympathies; "not
rich enough to spend my money this way."
"Oh, wouldn't you?" said Carrie, the, to her, new attitude
forcing itself distinctly upon her for the first time.
"No," he said. "What good would it do? A man doesn't need this
sort of thing to be happy."
Carrie thought of this doubtfully; but, coming from him, it had
weight with her.
"He probably could be happy," she thought to herself, "all alone.
He's so strong."
Mr. and Mrs. Vance kept up a running fire of interruptions, and
these impressive things by Ames came at odd moments. They were
sufficient, however, for the atmosphere that went with this youth
impressed itself upon Carrie without words. There was something
in him, or the world he moved in, which appealed to her. He
reminded her of scenes she had seen on the stage--the sorrows and
sacrifices that always went with she knew not what. He had taken
away some of the bitterness of the contrast between this life and
her life, and all by a certain calm indifference which concerned
only him.
As they went out, he took her arm and helped her into the coach,
and then they were off again, and so to the show.
During the acts Carrie found herself listening to him very
attentively. He mentioned things in the play which she most
approved of--things which swayed her deeply.
"Don't you think it rather fine to be an actor?" she asked once.
"Yes, I do," he said, "to be a good one. I think the theatre a
great thing."
Just this little approval set Carrie's heart bounding. Ah, if
she could only be an actress--a good one! This man was wise--he
knew--and he approved of it. If she were a fine actress, such
men as he would approve of her. She felt that he was good to
speak as he had, although it did not concern her at all. She did
not know why she felt this way.
At the close of the show it suddenly developed that he was not
going back with them.
"Oh, aren't you?" said Carrie, with an unwarrantable feeling.
"Oh, no," he said; "I'm stopping right around here in Thirty-
third Street."
Carrie could not say anything else, but somehow this development
shocked her. She had been regretting the wane of a pleasant
evening, but she had thought there was a half-hour more. Oh, the
half-hours, the minutes of the world; what miseries and griefs
are crowded into them!
She said good-bye with feigned indifference. What matter could
it make? Still, the coach seemed lorn.
When she went into her own flat she had this to think about. She
did not know whether she would ever see this man any more. What
difference could it make--what difference could it make?
Hurstwood had returned, and was already in bed. His clothes were
scattered loosely about. Carrie came to the door and saw him,
then retreated. She did not want to go in yet a while. She
wanted to think. It was disagreeable to her.
Back in the dining-room she sat in her chair and rocked. Her
little hands were folded tightly as she thought. Through a fog
of longing and conflicting desires she was beginning to see. Oh,
ye legions of hope and pity--of sorrow and pain! She was rocking,
and beginning to see. _