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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
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 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 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 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!
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