Sister Carrie: A Novel
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