Sister Carrie: A Novel
Going to Miss Osborne’s that afternoon, she found that little lady
packing and singing.
“Why don’t you come over with me to-day?” she asked.
“Oh, I can’t,” said Carrie. “I’ll be there Friday. Would you mind
lending me the twenty-five dollars you spoke of?”
“Why, no,” said Lola, going for her purse.
“I want to get some other things,” said Carrie.
“Oh, that’s all right,” answered the little girl, good-naturedly, glad
to be of service. It had been days since Hurstwood had done more than
go to the grocery or to the news-stand. Now the weariness of indoors
was upon him—had been for two days—but chill, grey weather had held him
back. Friday broke fair and warm. It was one of those lovely harbingers
of spring, given as a sign in dreary winter that earth is not forsaken
of warmth and beauty. The blue heaven, holding its one golden orb,
poured down a crystal wash of warm light. It was plain, from the voice
of the sparrows, that all was halcyon outside. Carrie raised the front
windows, and felt the south wind blowing.
“It’s lovely out to-day,” she remarked.
“Is it?” said Hurstwood.
After breakfast, he immediately got his other clothes.
“Will you be back for lunch?” asked Carrie nervously.
“No,” he said.
He went out into the streets and tramped north, along Seventh Avenue,
idly fixing upon the Harlem River as an objective point. He had seen
some ships up there, the time he had called upon the brewers. He
wondered how the territory thereabouts was growing.
Passing Fifty-ninth Street, he took the west side of Central Park,
which he followed to Seventy-eighth Street. Then he remembered the
neighbourhood and turned over to look at the mass of buildings erected.
It was very much improved. The great open spaces were filling up.
Coming back, he kept to the Park until 110th Street, and then turned
into Seventh Avenue again, reaching the pretty river by one o’clock.
There it ran winding before his gaze, shining brightly in the clear
light, between the undulating banks on the right and the tall,
tree-covered heights on the left. The spring-like atmosphere woke him
to a sense of its loveliness, and for a few moments he stood looking at
it, folding his hands behind his back. Then he turned and followed it
toward the east side, idly seeking the ships he had seen. It was four
o’clock before the waning day, with its suggestion of a cooler evening,
caused him to return. He was hungry and would enjoy eating in the warm
room.
When he reached the flat by half-past five, it was still dark. He knew
that Carrie was not there, not only because there was no light showing
through the transom, but because the evening papers were stuck between
the outside knob and the door. He opened with his key and went in.
Everything was still dark. Lighting the gas, he sat down, preparing to
wait a little while. Even if Carrie did come now, dinner would be late.
He read until six, then got up to fix something for himself.
As he did so, he noticed that the room seemed a little queer. What was
it? He looked around, as if he missed something, and then saw an
envelope near where he had been sitting. It spoke for itself, almost
without further action on his part.
Reaching over, he took it, a sort of chill settling upon him even while
he reached. The crackle of the envelope in his hands was loud. Green
paper money lay soft within the note.
“Dear George,” he read, crunching the money in one hand, “I’m
going away. I’m not coming back any more. It’s no use trying to
keep up the flat; I can’t do it. I wouldn’t mind helping you, if I
could, but I can’t support us both, and pay the rent. I need what
little I make to pay for my clothes. I’m leaving twenty dollars.
It’s all I have just now. You can do whatever you like with the
furniture. I won’t want it.—CARRIE.”
He dropped the note and looked quietly round. Now he knew what he
missed. It was the little ornamental clock, which was hers. It had gone
from the mantelpiece. He went into the front room, his bedroom, the
parlour, lighting the gas as he went. From the chiffonier had gone the
knick-knacks of silver and plate. From the table-top, the lace
coverings. He opened the wardrobe—no clothes of hers. He opened the
drawers—nothing of hers. Her trunk was gone from its accustomed place.
Back in his own room hung his old clothes, just as he had left them.
Nothing else was gone.
He stepped into the parlour and stood for a few moments looking
vacantly at the floor. The silence grew oppressive. The little flat
seemed wonderfully deserted. He wholly forgot that he was hungry, that
it was only dinner-time. It seemed later in the night.
Suddenly, he found that the money was still in his hands. There were
twenty dollars in all, as she had said. Now he walked back, leaving the
lights ablaze, and feeling as if the flat were empty.
“I’ll get out of this,” he said to himself.
Then the sheer loneliness of his situation rushed upon him in full.
“Left me!” he muttered, and repeated, “left me!”
The place that had been so comfortable, where he had spent so many days
of warmth, was now a memory. Something colder and chillier confronted
him. He sank down in his chair, resting his chin in his hand—mere
sensation, without thought, holding him.
Then something like a bereaved affection and self-pity swept over him.
“She needn’t have gone away,” he said. “I’d have got something.”
He sat a long while without rocking, and added quite clearly, out loud:
“I tried, didn’t I?”
At midnight he was still rocking, staring at the floor.
Chapter XLIII. THE WORLD TURNS FLATTERER: AN EYE IN THE DARK
Installed in her comfortable room, Carrie wondered how Hurstwood had
taken her departure. She arranged a few things hastily and then left
for the theatre, half expecting to encounter him at the door. Not
finding him, her dread lifted, and she felt more kindly toward him. She
quite forgot him until about to come out, after the show, when the
chance of his being there frightened her. As day after day passed and
she heard nothing at all, the thought of being bothered by him passed.
In a little while she was, except for occasional thoughts, wholly free
of the gloom with which her life had been weighed in the flat.
It is curious to note how quickly a profession absorbs one. Carrie
became wise in theatrical lore, hearing the gossip of little Lola. She
learned what the theatrical papers were, which ones published items
about actresses and the like. She began to read the newspaper notices,
not only of the opera in which she had so small a part, but of others.
Gradually the desire for notice took hold of her. She longed to be
renowned like others, and read with avidity all the complimentary or
critical comments made concerning others high in her profession. The
showy world in which her interest lay completely absorbed her.
It was about this time that the newspapers and magazines were beginning
to pay that illustrative attention to the beauties of the stage which
has since become fervid. The newspapers, and particularly the Sunday
newspapers, indulged in large decorative theatrical pages, in which the
faces and forms of well-known theatrical celebrities appeared, enclosed
with artistic scrolls. The magazines also or at least one or two of the
newer ones—published occasional portraits of pretty stars, and now and
again photos of scenes from various plays. Carrie watched these with
growing interest. When would a scene from her opera appear? When would
some paper think her photo worth while?
The Sunday before taking her new part she scanned the theatrical pages
for some little notice. It would have accorded with her expectations if
nothing had been said, but there in the squibs, tailing off several
more substantial items, was a wee notice. Carrie read it with a
tingling body:
“The part of Katisha, the country maid, in ‘The Wives of Abdul’ at
the Broadway, heretofore played by Inez Carew, will be hereafter
filled by Carrie Madenda, one of the cleverest members of the
chorus.”
Carrie hugged herself with delight. Oh, wasn’t it just fine! At last!
The first, the long-hoped for, the delightful notice! And they called
her clever. She could hardly restrain herself from laughing loudly. Had
Lola seen it?
“They’ve got a notice here of the part I’m going to play to-morrow
night,” said Carrie to her friend.
“Oh, jolly! Have they?” cried Lola, running to her. “That’s all right,”
she said, looking. “You’ll get more now, if you do well. I had my
picture in the ‘World’ once.”
“Did you?” asked Carrie.
“Did I? Well, I should say,” returned the little girl. “They had a
frame around it.”
Carrie laughed.
“They’ve never published my picture.”
“But they will,” said Lola. “You’ll see. You do better than most that
get theirs in now.”
Carrie felt deeply grateful for this. She almost loved Lola for the
sympathy and praise she extended. It was so helpful to her—so almost
necessary.
Fulfilling her part capably brought another notice in the papers that
she was doing her work acceptably. This pleased her immensely. She
began to think the world was taking note of her.
The first week she got her thirty-five dollars, it seemed an enormous
sum. Paying only three dollars for room rent seemed ridiculous. After
giving Lola her twenty-five, she still had seven dollars left. With
four left over from previous earnings, she had eleven. Five of this
went to pay the regular installment on the clothes she had to buy. The
next week she was even in greater feather. Now, only three dollars need
be paid for room rent and five on her clothes. The rest she had for
food and her own whims.
“You’d better save a little for summer,” cautioned Lola. “We’ll
probably close in May.”
“I intend to,” said Carrie.
The regular entrance of thirty-five dollars a week to one who has
endured scant allowances for several years is a demoralising thing.
Carrie found her purse bursting with good green bills of comfortable
denominations. Having no one dependent upon her, she began to buy
pretty clothes and pleasing trinkets, to eat well, and to ornament her
room. Friends were not long in gathering about. She met a few young men
who belonged to Lola’s staff. The members of the opera company made her
acquaintance without the formality of introduction. One of these
discovered a fancy for her. On several occasions he strolled home with
her.
“Let’s stop in and have a rarebit,” he suggested one midnight.
“Very well,” said Carrie.
In the rosy restaurant, filled with the merry lovers of late hours, she
found herself criticising this man. He was too stilted, too
self-opinionated. He did not talk of anything that lifted her above the
common run of clothes and material success. When it was all over, he
smiled most graciously.
“Got to go straight home, have you?” he said.
“Yes,” she answered, with an air of quiet understanding.
“She’s not so inexperienced as she looks,” he thought, and thereafter
his respect and ardour were increased.
She could not help sharing in Lola’s love for a good time. There were
days when they went carriage riding, nights when after the show they
dined, afternoons when they strolled along Broadway, tastefully
dressed. She was getting in the metropolitan whirl of pleasure.
At last her picture appeared in one of the weeklies. She had not known
of it, and it took her breath. “Miss Carrie Madenda,” it was labelled.
“One of the favourites of ‘The Wives of Abdul’ company.” At Lola’s
advice she had had some pictures taken by Sarony. They had got one
there. She thought of going down and buying a few copies of the paper,
but remembered that there was no one she knew well enough to send them