In the light of the world’s attitude toward woman and her duties, the
nature of Carrie’s mental state deserves consideration. Actions such as
hers are measured by an arbitrary scale. Society possesses a
conventional standard whereby it judges all things. All men should be
good, all women virtuous. Wherefore, villain, hast thou failed?
For all the liberal analysis of Spencer and our modern naturalistic
philosophers, we have but an infantile perception of morals. There is
more in the subject than mere conformity to a law of evolution. It is
yet deeper than conformity to things of earth alone. It is more
involved than we, as yet, perceive. Answer, first, why the heart
thrills; explain wherefore some plaintive note goes wandering about the
world, undying; make clear the rose’s subtle alchemy evolving its ruddy
lamp in light and rain. In the essence of these facts lie the first
principles of morals.
“Oh,” thought Drouet, “how delicious is my conquest.”
“Ah,” thought Carrie, with mournful misgivings, “what is it I have
lost?”
Before this world-old proposition we stand, serious, interested,
confused; endeavouring to evolve the true theory of morals—the true
answer to what is right.
In the view of a certain stratum of society, Carrie was comfortably
established—in the eyes of the starveling, beaten by every wind and
gusty sheet of rain, she was safe in a halcyon harbour. Drouet had
taken three rooms, furnished, in Ogden Place, facing Union Park, on the
West Side. That was a little, green-carpeted breathing spot, than
which, to-day, there is nothing more beautiful in Chicago. It afforded
a vista pleasant to contemplate. The best room looked out upon the lawn
of the park, now sear and brown, where a little lake lay sheltered.
Over the bare limbs of the trees, which now swayed in the wintry wind,
rose the steeple of the Union Park Congregational Church, and far off
the towers of several others.
The rooms were comfortably enough furnished. There was a good Brussels
carpet on the floor, rich in dull red and lemon shades, and
representing large jardinières filled with gorgeous, impossible
flowers. There was a large pier-glass mirror between the two windows. A
large, soft, green, plush-covered couch occupied one corner, and
several rocking-chairs were set about. Some pictures, several rugs, a
few small pieces of bric-à-brac, and the tale of contents is told.
In the bedroom, off the front room, was Carrie’s trunk, bought by
Drouet, and in the wardrobe built into the wall quite an array of
clothing—more than she had ever possessed before, and of very becoming
designs. There was a third room for possible use as a kitchen, where
Drouet had Carrie establish a little portable gas stove for the
preparation of small lunches, oysters, Welsh rarebits, and the like, of
which he was exceedingly fond; and, lastly, a bath. The whole place was
cosey, in that it was lighted by gas and heated by furnace registers,
possessing also a small grate, set with an asbestos back, a method of
cheerful warming which was then first coming into use. By her industry
and natural love of order, which now developed, the place maintained an
air pleasing in the extreme.
Here, then, was Carrie, established in a pleasant fashion, free of
certain difficulties which most ominously confronted her, laden with
many new ones which were of a mental order, and altogether so turned
about in all of her earthly relationships that she might well have been
a new and different individual. She looked into her glass and saw a
prettier Carrie than she had seen before; she looked into her mind, a
mirror prepared of her own and the world’s opinions, and saw a worse.
Between these two images she wavered, hesitating which to believe.
“My, but you’re a little beauty,” Drouet was wont to exclaim to her.
She would look at him with large, pleased eyes.
“You know it, don’t you?” he would continue.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she would reply, feeling delight in the fact that
one should think so, hesitating to believe, though she really did, that
she was vain enough to think so much of herself.
Her conscience, however, was not a Drouet, interested to praise. There
she heard a different voice, with which she argued, pleaded, excused.
It was no just and sapient counsellor, in its last analysis. It was
only an average little conscience, a thing which represented the world,
her past environment, habit, convention, in a confused way. With it,
the voice of the people was truly the voice of God.
“Oh, thou failure!” said the voice.
“Why?” she questioned.
“Look at those about,” came the whispered answer. “Look at those who
are good. How would they scorn to do what you have done. Look at the
good girls; how will they draw away from such as you when they know you
have been weak. You had not tried before you failed.”
It was when Carrie was alone, looking out across the park, that she
would be listening to this. It would come infrequently—when something
else did not interfere, when the pleasant side was not too apparent,
when Drouet was not there. It was somewhat clear in utterance at first,
but never wholly convincing. There was always an answer, always the
December days threatened. She was alone; she was desireful; she was
fearful of the whistling wind. The voice of want made answer for her.
Once the bright days of summer pass by, a city takes on that sombre
garb of grey, wrapt in which it goes about its labours during the long
winter. Its endless buildings look grey, its sky and its streets assume
a sombre hue; the scattered, leafless trees and wind-blown dust and
paper but add to the general solemnity of colour. There seems to be
something in the chill breezes which scurry through the long, narrow
thoroughfares productive of rueful thoughts. Not poets alone, nor
artists, nor that superior order of mind which arrogates to itself all
refinement, feel this, but dogs and all men. These feel as much as the
poet, though they have not the same power of expression. The sparrow
upon the wire, the cat in the doorway, the dray horse tugging his weary
load, feel the long, keen breaths of winter. It strikes to the heart of
all life, animate and inanimate. If it were not for the artificial
fires of merriment, the rush of profit-seeking trade, and
pleasure-selling amusements; if the various merchants failed to make
the customary display within and without their establishments; if our
streets were not strung with signs of gorgeous hues and thronged with
hurrying purchasers, we would quickly discover how firmly the chill
hand of winter lays upon the heart; how dispiriting are the days during
which the sun withholds a portion of our allowance of light and warmth.
We are more dependent upon these things than is often thought. We are
insects produced by heat, and pass without it.
In the drag of such a grey day the secret voice would reassert itself,
feebly and more feebly.
Such mental conflict was not always uppermost. Carrie was not by any
means a gloomy soul. More, she had not the mind to get firm hold upon a
definite truth. When she could not find her way out of the labyrinth of
ill-logic which thought upon the subject created, she would turn away
entirely.
Drouet, all the time, was conducting himself in a model way for one of
his sort. He took her about a great deal, spent money upon her, and
when he travelled took her with him. There were times when she would be
alone for two or three days, while he made the shorter circuits of his
business, but, as a rule, she saw a great deal of him.
“Say, Carrie,” he said one morning, shortly after they had so
established themselves, “I’ve invited my friend Hurstwood to come out
some day and spend the evening with us.”
“Who is he?” asked Carrie doubtfully.
“Oh, he’s a nice man. He’s manager of Fitzgerald and Moy’s.”
“What’s that?” said Carrie.
“The finest resort in town. It’s a way-up, swell place.”
Carrie puzzled a moment. She was wondering what Drouet had told him,
what her attitude would be.
“That’s all right,” said Drouet, feeling her thought. “He doesn’t know
anything. You’re Mrs. Drouet now.”
There was something about this which struck Carrie as slightly
inconsiderate. She could see that Drouet did not have the keenest
sensibilities.
“Why don’t we get married?” she inquired, thinking of the voluble
promises he had made.
“Well, we will,” he said, “just as soon as I get this little deal of
mine closed up.”
He was referring to some property which he said he had, and which
required so much attention, adjustment, and what not, that somehow or
other it interfered with his free moral, personal actions.
“Just as soon as I get back from my Denver trip in January we’ll do
it.”
Carrie accepted this as basis for hope—it was a sort of salve to her
conscience, a pleasant way out. Under the circumstances, things would
be righted. Her actions would be justified. She really was not
enamoured of Drouet. She was more clever than he. In a dim way, she was
beginning to see where he lacked. If it had not been for this, if she
had not been able to measure and judge him in a way, she would have
been worse off than she was. She would have adored him. She would have
been utterly wretched in her fear of not gaining his affection, of
losing his interest, of being swept away and left without an anchorage.
As it was, she wavered a little, slightly anxious, at first, to gain
him completely, but later feeling at ease in waiting. She was not
exactly sure what she thought of him—what she wanted to do.
When Hurstwood called, she met a man who was more clever than Drouet in
a hundred ways. He paid that peculiar deference to women which every
member of the sex appreciates. He was not overawed, he was not
overbold. His great charm was attentiveness. Schooled in winning those
birds of fine feather among his own sex, the merchants and
professionals who visited his resort, he could use even greater tact
when endeavouring to prove agreeable to some one who charmed him. In a
pretty woman of any refinement of feeling whatsoever he found his
greatest incentive. He was mild, placid, assured, giving the impression
that he wished to be of service only—to do something which would make
the lady more pleased.
Drouet had ability in this line himself when the game was worth the
candle, but he was too much the egotist to reach the polish which
Hurstwood possessed. He was too buoyant, too full of ruddy life, too
assured. He succeeded with many who were not quite schooled in the art
of love. He failed dismally where the woman was slightly experienced
and possessed innate refinement. In the case of Carrie he found a woman
who was all of the latter, but none of the former. He was lucky in the
fact that opportunity tumbled into his lap, as it were. A few years
later, with a little more experience, the slightest tide of success,
and he had not been able to approach Carrie at all.
“You ought to have a piano here, Drouet,” said Hurstwood, smiling at
Carrie, on the evening in question, “so that your wife could play.”
Drouet had not thought of that.
“So we ought,” he observed readily.
“Oh, I don’t play,” ventured Carrie.
“It isn’t very difficult,” returned Hurstwood. “You could do very well
in a few weeks.”
He was in the best form for entertaining this evening. His clothes were
particularly new and rich in appearance. The coat lapels stood out with
that medium stiffness which excellent cloth possesses. The vest was of
a rich Scotch plaid, set with a double row of round mother-of-pearl
buttons. His cravat was a shiny combination of silken threads, not
loud, not inconspicuous. What he wore did not strike the eye so
forcibly as that which Drouet had on, but Carrie could see the elegance
of the material. Hurstwood’s shoes were of soft, black calf, polished
only to a dull shine. Drouet wore patent leather but Carrie could not
help feeling that there was a distinction in favour of the soft
leather, where all else was so rich. She noticed these things almost
unconsciously. They were things which would naturally flow from the
situation. She was used to Drouet’s appearance.
“Suppose we have a little game of euchre?” suggested Hurstwood, after a
light round of conversation. He was rather dexterous in avoiding
everything that would suggest that he knew anything of Carrie’s past.
He kept away from personalities altogether, and confined himself to
those things which did not concern individuals at all. By his manner,
he put Carrie at her ease, and by his deference and pleasantries he
amused her. He pretended to be seriously interested in all she said.
“I don’t know how to play,” said Carrie.
“Charlie, you are neglecting a part of your duty,” he observed to
Drouet most affably. “Between us, though,” he went on, “we can show
you.”
By his tact he made Drouet feel that he admired his choice. There was
something in his manner that showed that he was pleased to be there.
Drouet felt really closer to him than ever before. It gave him more
respect for Carrie. Her appearance came into a new light, under
Hurstwood’s appreciation. The situation livened considerably.
“Now, let me see,” said Hurstwood, looking over Carrie’s shoulder very
deferentially. “What have you?” He studied for a moment. “That’s rather
good,” he said.
“You’re lucky. Now, I’ll show you how to trounce your husband. You take
my advice.”
“Here,” said Drouet, “if you two are going to scheme together, I won’t
stand a ghost of a show. Hurstwood’s a regular sharp.”
“No, it’s your wife. She brings me luck. Why shouldn’t she win?”
Carrie looked gratefully at Hurstwood, and smiled at Drouet. The former
took the air of a mere friend. He was simply there to enjoy himself.
Anything that Carrie did was pleasing to him, nothing more.
“There,” he said, holding back one of his own good cards, and giving
Carrie a chance to take a trick. “I count that clever playing for a
beginner.”
The latter laughed gleefully as she saw the hand coming her way. It was
as if she were invincible when Hurstwood helped her.
He did not look at her often. When he did, it was with a mild light in
his eye. Not a shade was there of anything save geniality and kindness.
He took back the shifty, clever gleam, and replaced it with one of
innocence. Carrie could not guess but that it was pleasure with him in
the immediate thing. She felt that he considered she was doing a great
deal.
“It’s unfair to let such playing go without earning something,” he said
after a time, slipping his finger into the little coin pocket of his
coat. “Let’s play for dimes.”
“All right,” said Drouet, fishing for bills.
Hurstwood was quicker. His fingers were full of new ten-cent pieces.
“Here we are,” he said, supplying each one with a little stack.
“Oh, this is gambling,” smiled Carrie. “It’s bad.”
“No,” said Drouet, “only fun. If you never play for more than that, you
will go to Heaven.”
“Don’t you moralise,” said Hurstwood to Carrie gently, “until you see
what becomes of the money.”
Drouet smiled.
“If your husband gets them, he’ll tell you how bad it is.”
Drouet laughed loud.
There was such an ingratiating tone about Hurstwood’s voice, the
insinuation was so perceptible that even Carrie got the humour of it.
“When do you leave?” said Hurstwood to Drouet.
“On Wednesday,” he replied.
“It’s rather hard to have your husband running about like that, isn’t
it?” said Hurstwood, addressing Carrie.
“She’s going along with me this time,” said Drouet.
“You must both go with me to the theatre before you go.”
“Certainly,” said Drouet. “Eh, Carrie?”
“I’d like it ever so much,” she replied.
Hurstwood did his best to see that Carrie won the money. He rejoiced in
her success, kept counting her winnings, and finally gathered and put
them in her extended hand. They spread a little lunch, at which he
served the wine, and afterwards he used fine tact in going.
“Now,” he said, addressing first Carrie and then Drouet with his eyes,
“you must be ready at 7.30. I’ll come and get you.”
They went with him to the door and there was his cab waiting, its red
lamps gleaming cheerfully in the shadow.
“Now,” he observed to Drouet, with a tone of good-fellowship, “when you
leave your wife alone, you must let me show her around a little. It
will break up her loneliness.”
“Sure,” said Drouet, quite pleased at the attention shown.
“You’re so kind,” observed Carrie.
“Not at all,” said Hurstwood, “I would want your husband to do as much
for me.”
He smiled and went lightly away. Carrie was thoroughly impressed. She
had never come in contact with such grace. As for Drouet, he was
equally pleased.
“There’s a nice man,” he remarked to Carrie, as they returned to their
cosey chamber. “A good friend of mine, too.”
“He seems to be,” said Carrie.