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 matinée 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 to-night.”
“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 matinée 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 matinée 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; entrées, 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 matinée,
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.