Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser

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The progress of the play did not improve matters for him.
Carrie, from now on, was easily the centre of interest. The
audience, which had been inclined to feel that nothing could be
good after the first gloomy impression, now went to the other
extreme and saw power where it was not. The general feeling
reacted on Carrie. She presented her part with some felicity,
though nothing like the intensity which had aroused the feeling
at the end of the long first act.

Both Hurstwood and Drouet viewed her pretty figure with rising
feelings. The fact that such ability should reveal itself in
her, that they should see it set forth under such effective
circumstances, framed almost in massy gold and shone upon by the
appropriate lights of sentiment and personality, heightened her
charm for them. She was more than the old Carrie to Drouet. He
longed to be at home with her until he could tell her. He
awaited impatiently the end, when they should go home alone.

Hurstwood, on the contrary, saw in the strength of her new
attractiveness his miserable predicament. He could have cursed
the man beside him. By the Lord, he could not even applaud
feelingly as he would. For once he must simulate when it left a
taste in his mouth.

It was in the last act that Carrie's fascination for her lovers
assumed its most effective character.

Hurstwood listened to its progress, wondering when Carrie would
come on. He had not long to wait. The author had used the
artifice of sending all the merry company for a drive, and now
Carrie came in alone. It was the first time that Hurstwood had
had a chance to see her facing the audience quite alone, for
nowhere else had she been without a foil of some sort. He
suddenly felt, as she entered, that her old strength--the power
that had grasped him at the end of the first act--had come back.
She seemed to be gaining feeling, now that the play was drawing
to a close and the opportunity for great action was passing.

"Poor Pearl," she said, speaking with natural pathos. "It is a
sad thing to want for happiness, but it is a terrible thing to
see another groping about blindly for it, when it is almost
within the grasp."

She was gazing now sadly out upon the open sea, her arm resting
listlessly upon the polished door-post.

Hurstwood began to feel a deep sympathy for her and for himself.
He could almost feel that she was talking to him. He was, by a
combination of feelings and entanglements, almost deluded by that
quality of voice and manner which, like a pathetic strain of
music, seems ever a personal and intimate thing. Pathos has this
quality, that it seems ever addressed to one alone.

"And yet, she can be very happy with him," went on the little
actress. "Her sunny temper, her joyous face will brighten any
home."

She turned slowly toward the audience without seeing. There was
so much simplicity in her movements that she seemed wholly alone.
Then she found a seat by a table, and turned over some books,
devoting a thought to them.

"With no longings for what I may not have," she breathed in
conclusion--and it was almost a sigh--"my existence hidden from
all save two in the wide world, and making my joy out of the joy
of that innocent girl who will soon be his wife."

Hurstwood was sorry when a character, known as Peach Blossom,
interrupted her. He stirred irritably, for he wished her to go
on. He was charmed by the pale face, the lissome figure, draped
in pearl grey, with a coiled string of pearls at the throat.
Carrie had the air of one who was weary and in need of
protection, and, under the fascinating make-believe of the
moment, he rose in feeling until he was ready in spirit to go to
her and ease her out of her misery by adding to his own delight.

In a moment Carrie was alone again, and was saying, with
animation:

"I must return to the city, no matter what dangers may lurk here.
I must go, secretly if I can; openly, if I must."

There was a sound of horses' hoofs outside, and then Ray's voice
saying:
"No, I shall not ride again. Put him up."

He entered, and then began a scene which had as much to do with
the creation of the tragedy of affection in Hurstwood as anything
in his peculiar and involved career. For Carrie had resolved to
make something of this scene, and, now that the cue had come, it
began to take a feeling hold upon her. Both Hurstwood and Drouet
noted the rising sentiment as she proceeded.

"I thought you had gone with Pearl," she said to her lover.

"I did go part of the way, but I left the Party a mile down the
road."

"You and Pearl had no disagreement?"

"No--yes; that is, we always have. Our social barometers always
stand at 'cloudy' and 'overcast.'"

"And whose fault is that?" she said, easily.

"Not mine," he answered, pettishly. "I know I do all I can--I
say all I can--but she----"

This was rather awkwardly put by Patton, but Carrie redeemed it
with a grace which was inspiring.

"But she is your wife," she said, fixing her whole attention upon
the stilled actor, and softening the quality of her voice until
it was again low and musical. "Ray, my friend, courtship is the
text from which the whole sermon of married life takes its theme.
Do not let yours be discontented and unhappy."

She put her two little hands together and pressed them
appealingly.

Hurstwood gazed with slightly parted lips. Drouet was fidgeting
with satisfaction.

"To be my wife, yes," went on the actor in a manner which was
weak by comparison, but which could not now spoil the tender
atmosphere which Carrie had created and maintained. She did not
seem to feel that he was wretched. She would have done nearly as
well with a block of wood. The accessories she needed were
within her own imagination. The acting of others could not
affect them.

"And you repent already?" she said, slowly.

"I lost you," he said, seizing her little hand, "and I was at the
mercy of any flirt who chose to give me an inviting look. It was
your fault--you know it was--why did you leave me?"

Carrie turned slowly away, and seemed to be mastering some
impulse in silence. Then she turned back.

"Ray," she said, "the greatest happiness I have ever felt has
been the thought that all your affection was forever bestowed
upon a virtuous woman, your equal in family, fortune, and
accomplishments. What a revelation do you make to me now! What
is it makes you continually war with your happiness?"

The last question was asked so simply that it came to the
audience and the lover as a personal thing.

At last it came to the part where the lover exclaimed, "Be to me
as you used to be."

Carrie answered, with affecting sweetness, "I cannot be that to
you, but I can speak in the spirit of the Laura who is dead to
you forever."

"Be it as you will," said Patton.

Hurstwood leaned forward. The whole audience was silent and
intent.

"Let the woman you look upon be wise or vain," said Carrie, her
eyes bent sadly upon the lover, who had sunk into a seat,
"beautiful or homely, rich or poor, she has but one thing she can
really give or refuse--her heart."

Drouet felt a scratch in his throat.

"Her beauty, her wit, her accomplishments, she may sell to you;
but her love is the treasure without money and without price."

The manager suffered this as a personal appeal. It came to him
as if they were alone, and he could hardly restrain the tears for
sorrow over the hopeless, pathetic, and yet dainty and appealing
woman whom he loved. Drouet also was beside himself. He was
resolving that he would be to Carrie what he had never been
before. He would marry her, by George! She was worth it.

"She asks only in return," said Carrie, scarcely hearing the
small, scheduled reply of her lover, and putting herself even
more in harmony with the plaintive melody now issuing from the
orchestra, "that when you look upon her your eyes shall speak
devotion; that when you address her your voice shall be gentle,
loving, and kind; that you shall not despise her because she
cannot understand all at once your vigorous thoughts and
ambitious designs; for, when misfortune and evil have defeated
your greatest purposes, her love remains to console you. You
look to the trees," she continued, while Hurstwood restrained his
feelings only by the grimmest repression, "for strength and
grandeur; do not despise the flowers because their fragrance is
all they have to give. Remember," she concluded, tenderly, "love
is all a woman has to give," and she laid a strange, sweet accent
on the all, "but it is the only thing which God permits us to
carry beyond the grave."

The two men were in the most harrowed state of affection. They
scarcely heard the few remaining words with which the scene
concluded. They only saw their idol, moving about with appealing
grace, continuing a power which to them was a revelation.

Hurstwood resolved a thousands things, Drouet as well. They
joined equally in the burst of applause which called Carrie out.
Drouet pounded his hands until they ached. Then he jumped up
again and started out. As he went, Carrie came out, and, seeing
an immense basket of flowers being hurried down the aisle toward
her she waited. They were Hurstwood's. She looked toward the
manager's box for a moment, caught his eye, and smiled. He could
have leaped out of the box to enfold her. He forgot the need of
circumspectness which his married state enforced. He almost
forgot that he had with him in the box those who knew him. By
the Lord, he would have that lovely girl if it took his all. He
would act at once. This should be the end of Drouet, and don't
you forget it. He would not wait another day. The drummer
should not have her.

He was so excited that he could not stay in the box. He went
into the lobby, and then into the street, thinking. Drouet did
not return. In a few minutes the last act was over, and he was
crazy to have Carrie alone. He cursed the luck that could keep
him smiling, bowing, shamming, when he wanted to tell her that he
loved her, when he wanted to whisper to her alone. He groaned as
he saw that his hopes were futile. He must even take her to
supper, shamming. He finally went about and asked how she was
getting along. The actors were all dressing, talking, hurrying
about. Drouet was palavering himself with the looseness of
excitement and passion. The manager mastered himself only by a
great effort.

"We are going to supper, of course," he said, with a voice that
was a mockery of his heart.

"Oh, yes," said Carrie, smiling.

The little actress was in fine feather. She was realising now
what it was to be petted. For once she was the admired, the
sought-for. The independence of success now made its first faint
showing. With the tables turned, she was looking down, rather
than up, to her lover. She did not fully realise that this was
so, but there was something in condescension coming from her
which was infinitely sweet. When she was ready they climbed into
the waiting coach and drove down town; once, only, did she find
an opportunity to express her feeling, and that was when the
manager preceded Drouet in the coach and sat beside her. Before
Drouet was fully in she had squeezed Hurstwood's hand in a
gentle, impulsive manner. The manager was beside himself with
affection. He could have sold his soul to be with her alone.
"Ah," he thought, "the agony of it."

Drouet hung on, thinking he was all in all. The dinner was
spoiled by his enthusiasm. Hurstwood went home feeling as if he
should die if he did not find affectionate relief. He whispered
"to-morrow" passionately to Carrie, and she understood. He
walked away from the drummer and his prize at parting feeling as
if he could slay him and not regret. Carrie also felt the misery
of it.

"Good-night," he said, simulating an easy friendliness.

"Good-night," said the little actress, tenderly.

"The fool!" he said, now hating Drouet. "The idiot! I'll do him
yet, and that quick! We'll see to-morrow."

"Well, if you aren't a wonder," Drouet was saying, complacently,
squeezing Carrie's arm. "You are the dandiest little girl on
earth."

Chapter XX

THE LURE OF THE SPIRIT--THE FLESH IN PURSUIT

Passion in a man of Hurstwood's nature takes a vigorous form. It
is no musing, dreamy thing. There is none of the tendency to
sing outside of my lady's window--to languish and repine in the
face of difficulties. In the night he was long getting to sleep
because of too much thinking, and in the morning he was early
awake, seizing with alacrity upon the same dear subject and
pursuing it with vigour. He was out of sorts physically, as well
as disordered mentally, for did he not delight in a new manner in
his Carrie, and was not Drouet in the way? Never was man more
harassed than he by the thoughts of his love being held by the
elated, flush-mannered drummer. He would have given anything, it
seemed to him, to have the complication ended--to have Carrie
acquiesce to an arrangement which would dispose of Drouet
effectually and forever.

What to do. He dressed thinking. He moved about in the same
chamber with his wife, unmindful of her presence.

At breakfast he found himself without an appetite. The meat to
which he helped himself remained on his plate untouched. His
coffee grew cold, while he scanned the paper indifferently. Here
and there he read a little thing, but remembered nothing.
Jessica had not yet come down. His wife sat at one end of the
table revolving thoughts of her own in silence. A new servant
had been recently installed and had forgot the napkins. On this
account the silence was irritably broken by a reproof.

"I've told you about this before, Maggie," said Mrs. Hurstwood.
"I'm not going to tell you again."

Hurstwood took a glance at his wife. She was frowning. Just now
her manner irritated him excessively. Her next remark was
addressed to him.

"Have you made up your mind, George, when you will take your
vacation?"

It was customary for them to discuss the regular summer outing at
this season of the year.

"Not yet," he said, "I'm very busy just now."

"Well, you'll want to make up your mind pretty soon, won't you,
if we're going?" she returned.

"I guess we have a few days yet," he said.

"Hmff," she returned. "Don't wait until the season's over."

She stirred in aggravation as she said this.

"There you go again," he observed. "One would think I never did
anything, the way you begin."

"Well, I want to know about it," she reiterated.

"You've got a few days yet," he insisted. "You'll not want to
start before the races are over."

He was irritated to think that this should come up when he wished
to have his thoughts for other purposes.

"Well, we may. Jessica doesn't want to stay until the end of the
races."

"What did you want with a season ticket, then?"

"Uh!" she said, using the sound as an exclamation of disgust,
"I'll not argue with you," and therewith arose to leave the
table.

"Say," he said, rising, putting a note of determination in his
voice which caused her to delay her departure, "what's the matter
with you of late? Can't I talk with you any more?"

"Certainly, you can TALK with me," she replied, laying emphasis
on the word.

"Well, you wouldn't think so by the way you act. Now, you want
to know when I'll be ready--not for a month yet. Maybe not
then."

"We'll go without you."

"You will, eh?" he sneered.

"Yes, we will."

He was astonished at the woman's determination, but it only
irritated him the more.

"Well, we'll see about that. It seems to me you're trying to run
things with a pretty high hand of late. You talk as though you
settled my affairs for me. Well, you don't. You don't regulate
anything that's connected with me. If you want to go, go, but
you won't hurry me by any such talk as that."

He was thoroughly aroused now. His dark eyes snapped, and he
crunched his paper as he laid it down. Mrs. Hurstwood said
nothing more. He was just finishing when she turned on her heel
and went out into the hall and upstairs. He paused for a moment,
as if hesitating, then sat down and drank a little coffee, and
thereafter arose and went for his hat and gloves upon the main
floor.

His wife had really not anticipated a row of this character. She
had come down to the breakfast table feeling a little out of
sorts with herself and revolving a scheme which she had in her
mind. Jessica had called her attention to the fact that the
races were not what they were supposed to be. The social
opportunities were not what they had thought they would be this
year. The beautiful girl found going every day a dull thing.
There was an earlier exodus this year of people who were anybody
to the watering places and Europe. In her own circle of
acquaintances several young men in whom she was interested had
gone to Waukesha. She began to feel that she would like to go
too, and her mother agreed with her.

Accordingly, Mrs. Hurstwood decided to broach the subject. She
was thinking this over when she came down to the table, but for
some reason the atmosphere was wrong. She was not sure, after it
was all over, just how the trouble had begun. She was determined
now, however, that her husband was a brute, and that, under no
circumstances, would she let this go by unsettled. She would
have more lady-like treatment or she would know why.

For his part, the manager was loaded with the care of this new
argument until he reached his office and started from there to
meet Carrie. Then the other complications of love, desire, and
opposition possessed him. His thoughts fled on before him upon
eagles' wings. He could hardly wait until he should meet Carrie
face to face. What was the night, after all, without her--what
the day? She must and should be his.

For her part, Carrie had experienced a world of fancy and feeling
since she had left him, the night before. She had listened to
Drouet's enthusiastic maunderings with much regard for that part
which concerned herself, with very little for that which affected
his own gain. She kept him at such lengths as she could, because
her thoughts were with her own triumph. She felt Hurstwood's
passion as a delightful background to her own achievement, and
she wondered what he would have to say. She was sorry for him,
too, with that peculiar sorrow which finds something
complimentary to itself in the misery of another. She was now
experiencing the first shades of feeling of that subtle change
which removes one out of the ranks of the suppliants into the
lines of the dispensers of charity. She was, all in all,
exceedingly happy.

On the morrow, however, there was nothing in the papers
concerning the event, and, in view of the flow of common,
everyday things about, it now lost a shade of the glow of the
previous evening. Drouet himself was not talking so much OF as
FOR her. He felt instinctively that, for some reason or other,
he needed reconstruction in her regard.

"I think," he said, as he spruced around their chambers the next
morning, preparatory to going down town, "that I'll straighten
out that little deal of mine this month and then we'll get
married. I was talking with Mosher about that yesterday."

"No, you won't," said Carrie, who was coming to feel a certain
faint power to jest with the drummer.

"Yes, I will," he exclaimed, more feelingly than usual, adding,
with the tone of one who pleads, "Don't you believe what I've
told you?"

Carrie laughed a little.

"Of course I do," she answered.

Drouet's assurance now misgave him. Shallow as was his mental
observation, there was that in the things which had happened
which made his little power of analysis useless. Carrie was
still with him, but not helpless and pleading. There was a lilt
in her voice which was new. She did not study him with eyes
expressive of dependence. The drummer was feeling the shadow of
something which was coming. It coloured his feelings and made
him develop those little attentions and say those little words
which were mere forefendations against danger.

Shortly afterward he departed, and Carrie prepared for her
meeting with Hurstwood. She hurried at her toilet, which was
soon made, and hastened down the stairs. At the corner she
passed Drouet, but they did not see each other.

The drummer had forgotten some bills which he wished to turn into
his house. He hastened up the stairs and burst into the room,
but found only the chambermaid, who was cleaning up.

"Hello," he exclaimed, half to himself, "has Carrie gone?"

"Your wife? Yes, she went out just a few minutes ago."

"That's strange," thought Drouet. "She didn't say a word to me.
I wonder where she went?"

He hastened about, rummaging in his valise for what he wanted,
and finally pocketing it. Then he turned his attention to his
fair neighbour, who was good-looking and kindly disposed towards
him.

"What are you up to?" he said, smiling.

"Just cleaning," she replied, stopping and winding a dusting
towel about her hand.

"Tired of it?"

"Not so very."

"Let me show you something," he said, affably, coming over and
taking out of his pocket a little lithographed card which had
been issued by a wholesale tobacco company. On this was printed
a picture of a pretty girl, holding a striped parasol, the
colours of which could be changed by means of a revolving disk in
the back, which showed red, yellow, green, and blue through
little interstices made in the ground occupied by the umbrella
top.

"Isn't that clever?" he said, handing it to her and showing her
how it worked. "You never saw anything like that before."

"Isn't it nice?" she answered.

"You can have it if you want it," he remarked.

"That's a pretty ring you have," he said, touching a commonplace
setting which adorned the hand holding the card he had given her.

"Do you think so?"

"That's right," he answered, making use of a pretence at
examination to secure her finger. "That's fine."

The ice being thus broken, he launched into further observation
pretending to forget that her fingers were still retained by his.
She soon withdrew them, however, and retreated a few feet to rest
against the window-sill.

"I didn't see you for a long time," she said, coquettishly,
repulsing one of his exuberant approaches. "You must have been
away."

"I was," said Drouet.

"Do you travel far?"

"Pretty far--yes."

"Do you like it?"

"Oh, not very well. You get tired of it after a while."

"I wish I could travel," said the girl, gazing idly out of the
window.

"What has become of your friend, Mr. Hurstwood?" she suddenly
asked, bethinking herself of the manager, who, from her own
observation, seemed to contain promising material.

"He's here in town. What makes you ask about him?"

"Oh, nothing, only he hasn't been here since you got back."

"How did you come to know him?"

"Didn't I take up his name a dozen times in the last month?"

"Get out," said the drummer, lightly. "He hasn't called more
than half a dozen times since we've been here."

"He hasn't, eh?" said the girl, smiling. "That's all you know
about it."

Drouet took on a slightly more serious tone. He was uncertain as
to whether she was joking or not.

"Tease," he said, "what makes you smile that way?"

"Oh, nothing."

"Have you seen him recently?"

"Not since you came back," she laughed.

"Before?"

"Certainly."

"How often?"

"Why, nearly every day."

She was a mischievous newsmonger, and was keenly wondering what
the effect of her words would be.

"Who did he come to see?" asked the drummer, incredulously.

"Mrs. Drouet."

He looked rather foolish at this answer, and then attempted to
correct himself so as not to appear a dupe.

"Well," he said, "what of it?"

"Nothing," replied the girl, her head cocked coquettishly on one
side.

"He's an old friend," he went on, getting deeper into the mire.

He would have gone on further with his little flirtation, but the
taste for it was temporarily removed. He was quite relieved when
the girl's named was called from below.

"I've got to go," she said, moving away from him airily.

"I'll see you later," he said, with a pretence of disturbance at
being interrupted.

When she was gone, he gave freer play to his feelings. His face,
never easily controlled by him, expressed all the perplexity and
disturbance which he felt. Could it be that Carrie had received
so many visits and yet said nothing about them? Was Hurstwood
lying? What did the chambermaid mean by it, anyway? He had
thought there was something odd about Carrie's manner at the
time. Why did she look so disturbed when he had asked her how
many times Hurstwood had called? By George! He remembered now.
There was something strange about the whole thing.

He sat down in a rocking-chair to think the better, drawing up
one leg on his knee and frowning mightily. His mind ran on at a
great rate.

And yet Carrie hadn't acted out of the ordinary. It couldn't be,
by George, that she was deceiving him. She hadn't acted that
way. Why, even last night she had been as friendly toward him as
could be, and Hurstwood too. Look how they acted! He could
hardly believe they would try to deceive him.

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