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 matinée 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 matinée 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 matinée 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!