Sister Carrie: A Novel
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!
Chapter XXXII. THE FEAST OF BELSHAZZAR: A SEER TO TRANSLATE
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