Sister Carrie: A Novel
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