A PET OF GOOD FORTUNE: BROADWAY FLAUNTS ITS JOYS
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 sub-consciously 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 one 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!