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But now see wherein the parallel
changes. A fortune, like a man,
is an organism which draws to itself other minds and other strength than
that inherent in the founder. Beside
the young minds drawn to it by salaries, it becomes allied with young
forces, which make for its existence even when the strength and wisdom of
the founder are fading. It may
be conserved by the growth of a community or of a state.
It may be involved in providing something for which there is a
growing demand. This removes it
at once beyond the special care of the founder.
It needs not so much foresight now as direction.
The man wanes, the need continues or grows, and the fortune, fallen
into whose hands it may, continues. Hence,
some men never recognise the turning in the tide of their abilities.
It is only in chance cases, where a fortune or a state of success is
wrested from them, that the lack of ability to do as they did formerly
becomes apparent. Hurstwood, set down under new conditions, was in a
position to see that he was no longer young. If he did not, it was due wholly to the fact that his state
was so well balanced that an absolute change for the worse did not show.
Not trained to reason or
introspect himself, he could not analyse the change that was taking place in
his mind, and hence his body, but he felt the depression of it. Constant comparison between his old state and his new showed
a balance for the worse, which produced a constant state of gloom or, at
least, depression. Now, it has been shown experimentally that a constantly
subdued frame of mind produces certain poisons in the blood, called
katastates, just as virtuous feelings of pleasure and delight produce
helpful chemicals called anastates. The
poisons generated by remorse inveigh against the system, and eventually
produce marked physical deterioration.
To these Hurstwood was subject.
In the course of time it told
upon his temper. His eye no
longer possessed that buoyant, searching shrewdness which had characterised
it in Adams Street. His step
was not as sharp and firm. He
was given to thinking, thinking, thinking.
The new friends he made were not celebrities.
They were of a cheaper, a slightly more sensual and cruder, grade. He could not possibly take the pleasure in this company that
he had in that of those fine frequenters of the Chicago resort.
He was left to brood.
Slowly, exceedingly slowly, his
desire to greet, conciliate, and make at home these people who visited the
Warren Street place passed from him. More
and more slowly the significance of the realm he had left began to be clear.
It did not seem so wonderful to be in it when he was in it.
It had seemed very easy for any one to get up there and have ample
raiment and money to spend, but now that he was out of it, how far off it
became. He began to see as one sees a city with a wall about it.
Men were posted at the gates. You
could not get in. Those inside
did not care to come out to see who you were.
They were so merry inside there that all those outside were
forgotten, and he was on the outside.
Each day he could read in the
evening papers of the doings within this walled city.
In the notices of passengers for Europe he read the names of eminent
frequenters of his old resort. In
the theatrical column appeared, from time to time, announcements of the
latest successes of men he had known. He
knew that they were at their old gayeties.
Pullmans were hauling them to and fro about the land, papers were
greeting them with interesting mentions, the elegant lobbies of hotels and
the glow of polished dining-rooms were keeping them close within the walled
city. Men whom he had known,
men whom he had tipped glasses with--rich men, and he was forgotten! Who was
Mr. Wheeler? What was the Warren Street resort? Bah!
If one thinks that such thoughts
do not come to so common a type of mind--that such feelings require a higher
mental development-- I would urge for their consideration the fact that it
is the higher mental development that does away with such thoughts.
It is the higher mental development which induces philosophy and that
fortitude which refuses to dwell upon such things--refuses to be made to
suffer by their consideration. The
common type of mind is exceedingly keen on all matters which relate to its
physical welfare--exceedingly keen. It
is the unintellectual miser who sweats blood at the loss of a hundred
dollars. It is the Epictetus
who smiles when the last vestige of physical welfare is removed.
The time came, in the third year,
when this thinking began to produce results in the Warren Street place.
The tide of patronage dropped a little below what it had been at its
best since he had been there. This irritated and worried him.
There came a night when he
confessed to Carrie that the business was not doing as well this month as it
had the month before. This was in lieu of certain suggestions she had made
concerning little things she wanted to buy.
She had not failed to notice that he did not seem to consult her
about buying clothes for himself. For
the first time, it struck her as a ruse, or that he said it so that she
would not think of asking for things. Her
reply was mild enough, but her thoughts were rebellious.
He was not looking after her at all.
She was depending for her enjoyment upon the Vances.
And now the latter announced that
they were going away. It was
approaching spring, and they were going North.
"Oh, yes," said Mrs.
Vance to Carrie, "we think we might as well give up the flat and store
our things. We'll be gone for
the summer, and it would be a useless expense.
I think we'll settle a little farther down town when we come
back."
Carrie heard this with genuine
sorrow. She had enjoyed Mrs.
Vance's companionship so much. There
was no one else in the house whom she knew.
Again she would be all alone.
Hurstwood's gloom over the slight
decrease in profits and the departure of the Vances came together.
So Carrie had loneliness and this mood of her husband to enjoy at the
same time. It was a grievous
thing. She became restless and
dissatisfied, not exactly, as she thought, with Hurstwood, but with life.
What was it? A very dull round indeed.
What did she have? Nothing but this narrow, little flat.
The Vances could travel, they could do the things worth doing, and
here she was. For what was she
made, anyhow? More thought followed, and then tears--tears seemed justified,
and the only relief in the world.
For another period this state
continued, the twain leading a rather monotonous life, and then there was a
slight change for the worse. One
evening, Hurstwood, after thinking about a way to modify Carrie's desire for
clothes and the general strain upon his ability to provide, said:
"I don't think I'll ever be
able to do much with Shaughnessy."
"What's the matter?"
said Carrie.
"Oh, he's a slow, greedy 'mick'!
He won't agree to anything to improve the place, and it won't ever pay
without it."
"Can't you make him?"
said Carrie.
"No; I've tried.
The only thing I can see, if I want to improve, is to get hold of a
place of my own."
"Why don't you?" said
Carrie.
"Well, all I have is tied up
in there just now. If I had a
chance to save a while I think I could open a place that would give us
plenty of money."
"Can't we save?" said
Carrie.
"We might try it," he
suggested. "I've been
thinking that if we'd take a smaller flat down town and live economically
for a year, I would have enough, with what I have invested, to open a good
place. Then we could arrange to
live as you want to."
"It would suit me all
right," said Carrie, who, nevertheless, felt badly to think it had come
to this. Talk of a smaller flat
sounded like poverty.
"There are lots of nice
little flats down around Sixth Avenue, below Fourteenth Street. We might get one down there."
"I'll look at them if you
say so," said Carrie.
"I think I could break away
from this fellow inside of a year," said Hurstwood.
"Nothing will ever come of this arrangement as it's going on
now."
"I'll look around,"
said Carrie, observing that the proposed change seemed to be a serious thing
with him.
The upshot of this was that the
change was eventually effected; not without great gloom on the part of
Carrie. It really affected her
more seriously than anything that had yet happened. She began to look upon
Hurstwood wholly as a man, and not as a lover or husband.
She felt thoroughly bound to him as a wife, and that her lot was cast
with his, whatever it might be; but she began to see that he was gloomy and
taciturn, not a young, strong, and buoyant man.
He looked a little bit old to her about the eyes and mouth now, and
there were other things which placed him in his true rank, so far as her
estimation was concerned. She began to feel that she had made a mistake.
Incidentally, she also began to recall the fact that he had
practically forced her to flee with him.
The new flat was located in
Thirteenth Street, a half block west of Sixth Avenue, and contained only
four rooms. The new
neighbourhood did not appeal to Carrie as much.
There were no trees here, no west view of the river.
The street was solidly built up.
There were twelve families here, respectable enough, but nothing like
the Vances. Richer people
required more space.
Being left alone in this little
place, Carrie did without a girl. She made it charming enough, but could not
make it delight her. Hurstwood was not inwardly pleased to think that they
should have to modify their state, but he argued that he could do nothing.
He must put the best face on it, and let it go at that.
He tried to show Carrie that
there was no cause for financial alarm, but only congratulation over the
chance he would have at the end of the year by taking her rather more
frequently to the theatre and by providing a liberal table.
This was for the time only. He
was getting in the frame of mind where he wanted principally to be alone and
to be allowed to think. The
disease of brooding was beginning to claim him as a victim.
Only the newspapers and his own thoughts were worth while.
The delight of love had again slipped away.
It was a case of live, now, making the best you can out of a very
commonplace station in life.
The road downward has but few
landings and level places. The
very state of his mind, superinduced by his condition, caused the breach to
widen between him and his partner. At
last that individual began to wish that Hurstwood was out of it.
It so happened, however, that a real estate deal on the part of the
owner of the land arranged things even more effectually than ill- will could
have schemed.
"Did you see that?"
said Shaughnessy one morning to Hurstwood, pointing to the real estate
column in a copy of the "Herald," which he held.
"No, what is it?" said
Hurstwood, looking down the items of news.
"The man who owns this
ground has sold it."
"You don't say so?"
said Hurstwood.
He looked, and there was the
notice. Mr. August Viele had
yesterday registered the transfer of the lot, 25 x 75 feet, at the corner of
Warren and Hudson Streets, to J. F. Slawson for the sum of $57,000.
"Our lease expires
when?" asked Hurstwood, thinking.
"Next February, isn't it?"
"That's right," said
Shaughnessy.
"It doesn't say what the new
man's going to do with it," remarked Hurstwood, looking back to the
paper.
"We'll hear, I guess, soon
enough," said Shaughnessy.
Sure enough, it did develop.
Mr. Slawson owned the property adjoining, and was going to put up a
modern office building. The present one was to be torn down. It would take probably a year and a half to complete the
other one.
All these things developed by
degrees, and Hurstwood began to ponder over what would become of the saloon.
One day he spoke about it to his partner.
"Do you think it would be
worth while to open up somewhere else in the neighbourhood?"
"What would be the
use?" said Shaughnessy. "We
couldn't get another corner around here."
"It wouldn't pay anywhere
else, do you think?"
"I wouldn't try it,"
said the other. The approaching change now took on a most serious aspect to
Hurstwood. Dissolution meant
the loss of his thousand dollars, and he could not save another thousand in
the time. He understood that
Shaughnessy was merely tired of the arrangement, and would probably lease
the new corner, when completed, alone. He began to worry about the necessity
of a new connection and to see impending serious financial straits unless
something turned up. This left
him in no mood to enjoy his flat or Carrie, and consequently the depression
invaded that quarter.
Meanwhile, he took such time as
he could to look about, but opportunities were not numerous. More, he had not the same impressive personality which he had
when he first came to New York. Bad
thoughts had put a shade into his eyes which did not impress others
favourably. Neither had he
thirteen hundred dollars in hand to talk with.
About a month later, finding that he had not made any progress,
Shaughnessy reported definitely that Slawson would not extend the lease.
"I guess this thing's got to
come to an end," he said, affecting an air of concern.
"Well, if it has, it
has," answered Hurstwood, grimly.
He would not give the other a key to his opinions, whatever they
were. He should not have the
satisfaction.
A day or two later he saw that he
must say something to Carrie.
"You know," he said,
"I think I'm going to get the worst of my deal down there."
"How is that?" asked
Carrie in astonishment.
"Well, the man who owns the
ground has sold it. and the new
owner won't release it to us. The
business may come to an end."
"Can't you start somewhere
else?"
"There doesn't seem to be
any place. Shaughnessy doesn't
want to."
"Do you lose what you put
in?"
"Yes," said Hurstwood,
whose face was a study.
"Oh, isn't that too
bad?" said Carrie.
"It's a trick," said
Hurstwood. "That's all.
They'll start another place there all right."
Carrie looked at him, and
gathered from his whole demeanour what it meant.
It was serious, very serious.
"Do you think you can get
something else?" she ventured, timidly.
Hurstwood thought a while.
It was all up with the bluff about money and investment.
She could see now that he was "broke."
"I don't know," he said
solemnly; "I can try."
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