Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser

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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."

Chapter XXXIV

THE GRIND OF THE MILLSTONES--A SAMPLE OF CHAFF

Carrie pondered over this situation as consistently as Hurstwood,
once she got the facts adjusted in her mind. It took several
days for her to fully realise that the approach of the
dissolution of her husband's business meant commonplace struggle
and privation. Her mind went back to her early venture in
Chicago, the Hansons and their flat, and her heart revolted.
That was terrible! Everything about poverty was terrible. She
wished she knew a way out. Her recent experiences with the
Vances had wholly unfitted her to view her own state with
complacence. The glamour of the high life of the city had, in
the few experiences afforded her by the former, seized her
completely. She had been taught how to dress and where to go
without having ample means to do either. Now, these things--
ever-present realities as they were--filled her eyes and mind.
The more circumscribed became her state, the more entrancing
seemed this other. And now poverty threatened to seize her
entirely and to remove this other world far upward like a heaven
to which any Lazarus might extend, appealingly, his hands.

So, too, the ideal brought into her life by Ames remained. He
had gone, but here was his word that riches were not everything;
that there was a great deal more in the world than she knew; that
the stage was good, and the literature she read poor. He was a
strong man and clean--how much stronger and better than Hurstwood
and Drouet she only half formulated to herself, but the
difference was painful. It was something to which she
voluntarily closed her eyes.

During the last three months of the Warren Street connection,
Hurstwood took parts of days off and hunted, tracking the
business advertisements. It was a more or less depressing
business, wholly because of the thought that he must soon get
something or he would begin to live on the few hundred dollars he
was saving, and then he would have nothing to invest--he would
have to hire out as a clerk.

Everything he discovered in his line advertised as an
opportunity, was either too expensive or too wretched for him.
Besides, winter was coming, the papers were announcing hardships,
and there was a general feeling of hard times in the air, or, at
least, he thought so. In his worry, other people's worries
became apparent. No item about a firm failing, a family
starving, or a man dying upon the streets, supposedly of
starvation, but arrested his eye as he scanned the morning
papers. Once the "World" came out with a flaring announcement
about "80,000 people out of employment in New York this winter,"
which struck as a knife at his heart.

"Eighty thousand!" he thought. "What an awful thing that is."

This was new reasoning for Hurstwood. In the old days the world
had seemed to be getting along well enough. He had been wont to
see similar things in the "Daily News," in Chicago, but they did
not hold his attention. Now, these things were like grey clouds
hovering along the horizon of a clear day. They threatened to
cover and obscure his life with chilly greyness. He tried to
shake them off, to forget and brace up. Sometimes he said to
himself, mentally:

"What's the use worrying? I'm not out yet. I've got six weeks
more. Even if worst comes to worst, I've got enough to live on
for six months."

Curiously, as he troubled over his future, his thoughts
occasionally reverted to his wife and family. He had avoided
such thoughts for the first three years as much as possible. He
hated her, and he could get along without her. Let her go. He
would do well enough. Now, however, when he was not doing well
enough, he began to wonder what she was doing, how his children
were getting along. He could see them living as nicely as ever,
occupying the comfortable house and using his property.

"By George! it's a shame they should have it all," he vaguely
thought to himself on several occasions. "I didn't do anything."

As he looked back now and analysed the situation which led up to
his taking the money, he began mildly to justify himself. What
had he done--what in the world--that should bar him out this way
and heap such difficulties upon him? It seemed only yesterday to
him since he was comfortable and well-to-do. But now it was all
wrested from him.

"She didn't deserve what she got out of me, that is sure. I
didn't do so much, if everybody could just know."

There was no thought that the facts ought to be advertised. It
was only a mental justification he was seeking from himself--
something that would enable him to bear his state as a righteous
man.

One afternoon, five weeks before the Warren Street place closed
up, he left the saloon to visit three or four places he saw
advertised in the "Herald." One was down in Gold Street, and he
visited that, but did not enter. It was such a cheap looking
place he felt that he could not abide it. Another was on the
Bowery, which he knew contained many showy resorts. It was near
Grand Street, and turned out to be very handsomely fitted up. He
talked around about investments for fully three-quarters of an
hour with the proprietor, who maintained that his health was
poor, and that was the reason he wished a partner.

"Well, now, just how much money would it take to buy a half
interest here?" said Hurstwood, who saw seven hundred dollars as
his limit.

"Three thousand," said the man.

Hurstwood's jaw fell.

"Cash?" he said.

"Cash."

He tried to put on an air of deliberation, as one who might
really buy; but his eyes showed gloom. He wound up by saying he
would think it over, and came away. The man he had been talking
to sensed his condition in a vague way.

"I don't think he wants to buy," he said to himself. "He doesn't
talk right."

The afternoon was as grey as lead and cold. It was blowing up a
disagreeable winter wind. He visited a place far up on the east
side, near Sixty-ninth Street, and it was five o'clock, and
growing dim, when he reached there. A portly German kept this
place.

"How about this ad of yours?" asked Hurstwood, who rather
objected to the looks of the place.

"Oh, dat iss all over," said the German. "I vill not sell now."

"Oh, is that so?"

"Yes; dere is nothing to dat. It iss all over."

"Very well," said Hurstwood, turning around.

The German paid no more attention to him, and it made him angry.

"The crazy ass!" he said to himself. "What does he want to
advertise for?"

Wholly depressed, he started for Thirteenth Street. The flat had
only a light in the kitchen, where Carrie was working. He struck
a match and, lighting the gas, sat down in the dining-room
without even greeting her. She came to the door and looked in.

"It's you, is it?" she said, and went back.

"Yes," he said, without even looking up from the evening paper he
had bought.

Carrie saw things were wrong with him. He was not so handsome
when gloomy. The lines at the sides of the eyes were deepened.
Naturally dark of skin, gloom made him look slightly sinister.
He was quite a disagreeable figure.

Carrie set the table and brought in the meal.

"Dinner's ready," she said, passing him for something.

He did not answer, reading on.

She came in and sat down at her place, feeling exceedingly
wretched.

"Won't you eat now?" she asked.

He folded his paper and drew near, silence holding for a time,
except for the "Pass me's."

"It's been gloomy to-day, hasn't it?" ventured Carrie, after a
time.

"Yes," he said.

He only picked at his food.

"Are you still sure to close up?" said Carrie, venturing to take
up the subject which they had discussed often enough.

"Of course we are," he said, with the slightest modification of
sharpness.

This retort angered Carrie. She had had a dreary day of it
herself.

"You needn't talk like that," she said.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, pushing back from the table, as if to say
more, but letting it go at that. Then he picked up his paper.
Carrie left her seat, containing herself with difficulty. He saw
she was hurt.

"Don't go 'way," he said, as she started back into the kitchen.
"Eat your dinner."

She passed, not answering.

He looked at the paper a few moments, and then rose up and put on
his coat.

"I'm going downtown, Carrie," he said, coming out. "I'm out of
sorts to-night."

She did not answer.

"Don't be angry," he said. "It will be all right to morrow."

He looked at her, but she paid no attention to him, working at
her dishes.

"Good-bye!" he said finally, and went out.

This was the first strong result of the situation between them,
but with the nearing of the last day of the business the gloom
became almost a permanent thing. Hurstwood could not conceal his
feelings about the matter. Carrie could not help wondering where
she was drifting. It got so that they talked even less than
usual, and yet it was not Hurstwood who felt any objection to
Carrie. It was Carrie who shied away from him. This he noticed.
It aroused an objection to her becoming indifferent to him. He
made the possibility of friendly intercourse almost a giant task,
and then noticed with discontent that Carrie added to it by her
manner and made it more impossible.

At last the final day came. When it actually arrived, Hurstwood,
who had got his mind into such a state where a thunderclap and
raging storm would have seemed highly appropriate, was rather
relieved to find that it was a plain, ordinary day. The sun
shone, the temperature was pleasant. He felt, as he came to the
breakfast table, that it wasn't so terrible, after all.

"Well," he said to Carrie, "to-day's my last day on earth."

Carrie smiled in answer to his humour.

Hurstwood glanced over his paper rather gayly. He seemed to have
lost a load.

"I'll go down for a little while," he said after breakfast, "and
then I'll look around. To-morrow I'll spend the whole day
looking about. I think I can get something, now this thing's off
my hands."

He went out smiling and visited the place. Shaughnessy was
there. They had made all arrangements to share according to
their interests. When, however, he had been there several hours,
gone out three more, and returned, his elation had departed. As
much as he had objected to the place, now that it was no longer
to exist, he felt sorry. He wished that things were different.

Shaughnessy was coolly businesslike.

"Well," he said at five o'clock, "we might as well count the
change and divide."

They did so. The fixtures had already been sold and the sum
divided.

"Good-night," said Hurstwood at the final moment, in a last
effort to be genial.

"So long," said Shaughnessy, scarcely deigning a notice.

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