Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser

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Carrie remembered this with a start. Where to get the money? She
had none laid up for such an emergency. Rent day was drawing
near.

"I'll not do it," she said, remembering her necessity. "I don't
use the flat. I'm not going to give up my money this time. I'll
move."

Fitting into this came another appeal from Miss Osborne, more
urgent than ever.

"Come live with me, won't you?" she pleaded. "We can have the
loveliest room. It won't cost you hardly anything that way."

"I'd like to," said Carrie, frankly.

"Oh, do," said Lola. "We'll have such a good time."

Carrie thought a while.

"I believe I will," she said, and then added: "I'll have to see
first, though."
With the idea thus grounded, rent day approaching, and clothes
calling for instant purchase, she soon found excuse in
Hurstwood's lassitude. He said less and drooped more than ever.

As rent day approached, an idea grew in him. It was fostered by
the demands of creditors and the impossibility of holding up many
more. Twenty-eight dollars was too much for rent. "It's hard on
her," he thought. "We could get a cheaper place."

Stirred with this idea, he spoke at the breakfast table.

"Don't you think we pay too much rent here?" he asked.

"Indeed I do," said Carrie, not catching his drift.

"I should think we could get a smaller place," he suggested. "We
don't need four rooms."

Her countenance, had he been scrutinising her, would have
exhibited the disturbance she felt at this evidence of his
determination to stay by her. He saw nothing remarkable in
asking her to come down lower.

"Oh, I don't know," she answered, growing wary.

"There must be places around here where we could get a couple of
rooms, which would do just as well."

Her heart revolted. "Never!" she thought. Who would furnish the
money to move? To think of being in two rooms with him! She
resolved to spend her money for clothes quickly, before something
terrible happened. That very day she did it. Having done so,
there was but one other thing to do.

"Lola," she said, visiting her friend, "I think I'll come."

"Oh, jolly!" cried the latter.

"Can we get it right away?" she asked, meaning the room.

"Certainly," cried Lola.

They went to look at it. Carrie had saved ten dollars from her
expenditures--enough for this and her board beside. Her enlarged
salary would not begin for ten days yet--would not reach her for
seventeen. She paid half of the six dollars with her friend.

"Now, I've just enough to get on to the end of the week," she
confided.

"Oh, I've got some," said Lola. "I've got twenty-five dollars,
if you need it."

"No," said Carrie. "I guess I'll get along."

They decided to move Friday, which was two days away. Now that
the thing was settled, Carrie's heart misgave her. She felt very
much like a criminal in the matter. Each day looking at
Hurstwood, she had realised that, along with the disagreeableness
of his attitude, there was something pathetic.

She looked at him the same evening she had made up her mind to
go, and now he seemed not so shiftless and worthless, but run
down and beaten upon by chance. His eyes were not keen, his face
marked, his hands flabby. She thought his hair had a touch of
grey. All unconscious of his doom, he rocked and read his paper,
while she glanced at him.

Knowing that the end was so near, she became rather solicitous.

"Will you go over and get some canned peaches?" she asked
Hurstwood, laying down a two-dollar bill.

"Certainly," he said, looking in wonder at the money.

"See if you can get some nice asparagus," she added. "I'll cook
it for dinner."

Hurstwood rose and took the money, slipping on his overcoat and
getting his hat. Carrie noticed that both of these articles of
apparel were old and poor looking in appearance. It was plain
enough before, but now it came home with peculiar force. Perhaps
he couldn't help it, after all. He had done well in Chicago.
She remembered his fine appearance the days he had met her in the
park. Then he was so sprightly, so clean. Had it been all his
fault?

He came back and laid the change down with the food.

"You'd better keep it," she observed. "We'll need other things."

"No," he said, with a sort of pride; "you keep it."

"Oh, go on and keep it," she replied, rather unnerved. "There'll
be other things."

He wondered at this, not knowing the pathetic figure he had
become in her eyes. She restrained herself with difficulty from
showing a quaver in her voice.

To say truly, this would have been Carrie's attitude in any case.
She had looked back at times upon her parting from Drouet and had
regretted that she had served him so badly. She hoped she would
never meet him again, but she was ashamed of her conduct. Not
that she had any choice in the final separation. She had gone
willingly to seek him, with sympathy in her heart, when Hurstwood
had reported him ill. There was something cruel somewhere, and
not being able to track it mentally to its logical lair, she
concluded with feeling that he would never understand what
Hurstwood had done and would see hard-hearted decision in her
deed; hence her shame. Not that she cared for him. She did not
want to make any one who had been good to her feel badly.

She did not realise what she was doing by allowing these feelings
to possess her. Hurstwood, noticing the kindness, conceived
better of her. "Carrie's good-natured, anyhow," he thought.

Going to Miss Osborne's that afternoon, she found that little
lady packing and singing.

"Why don't you come over with me today?" 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 to. Only Lola,
apparently, in all the world was interested.

The metropolis is a cold place socially, and Carrie soon found
that a little money brought her nothing. The world of wealth and
distinction was quite as far away as ever. She could feel that
there was no warm, sympathetic friendship back of the easy
merriment with which many approached her. All seemed to be
seeking their own amusement, regardless of the possible sad
consequence to others. So much for the lessons of Hurstwood and
Drouet.

In April she learned that the opera would probably last until the
middle or the end of May, according to the size of the audiences.
Next season it would go on the road. She wondered if she would
be with it. As usual, Miss Osborne, owing to her moderate
salary, was for securing a home engagement.

"They're putting on a summer play at the Casino," she announced,
after figuratively putting her ear to the ground. "Let's try and
get in that."

"I'm willing," said Carrie.

They tried in time and were apprised of the proper date to apply
again. That was May 16th. Meanwhile their own show closed May
5th.

"Those that want to go with the show next season," said the
manager, "will have to sign this week."

"Don't you sign," advised Lola. "I wouldn't go."

"I know," said Carrie, "but maybe I can't get anything else."

"Well, I won't," said the little girl, who had a resource in her
admirers. "I went once and I didn't have anything at the end of
the season."

Carrie thought this over. She had never been on the road.

"We can get along," added Lola. "I always have."

Carrie did not sign.

The manager who was putting on the summer skit at the Casino had
never heard of Carrie, but the several notices she had received,
her published picture, and the programme bearing her name had
some little weight with him. He gave her a silent part at thirty
dollars a week.

"Didn't I tell you?" said Lola. "It doesn't do you any good to
go away from New York. They forget all about you if you do."

Now, because Carrie was pretty, the gentlemen who made up the
advance illustrations of shows about to appear for the Sunday
papers selected Carrie's photo along with others to illustrate
the announcement. Because she was very pretty, they gave it
excellent space and drew scrolls about it. Carrie was delighted.
Still, the management did not seem to have seen anything of it.
At least, no more attention was paid to her than before. At the
same time there seemed very little in her part. It consisted of
standing around in all sorts of scenes, a silent little
Quakeress. The author of the skit had fancied that a great deal
could be made of such a part, given to the right actress, but
now, since it had been doled out to Carrie, he would as leave
have had it cut out.

"Don't kick, old man," remarked the manager. "If it don't go the
first week we will cut it out."

Carrie had no warning of this halcyon intention. She practised
her part ruefully, feeling that she was effectually shelved. At
the dress rehearsal she was disconsolate.

"That isn't so bad," said the author, the manager noting the
curious effect which Carrie's blues had upon the part. "Tell her
to frown a little more when Sparks dances."

Carrie did not know it, but there was the least show of wrinkles
between her eyes and her mouth was puckered quaintly.

"Frown a little more, Miss Madenda," said the stage manager.

Carrie instantly brightened up, thinking he had meant it as a
rebuke.

"No; frown," he said. "Frown as you did before."

Carrie looked at him in astonishment.

"I mean it," he said. "Frown hard when Mr. Sparks dances. I
want to see how it looks."

It was easy enough to do. Carrie scowled. The effect was
something so quaint and droll it caught even the manager.

"That is good," he said. "If she'll do that all through, I think
it will take."

Going over to Carrie, he said:

"Suppose you try frowning all through. Do it hard. Look mad.
It'll make the part really funny."

On the opening night it looked to Carrie as if there were nothing
to her part, after all. The happy, sweltering audience did not
seem to see her in the first act. She frowned and frowned, but
to no effect. Eyes were riveted upon the more elaborate efforts
of the stars.

In the second act, the crowd, wearied by a dull conversation,
roved with its eyes about the stage and sighted her. There she
was, grey-suited, sweet-faced, demure, but scowling. At first
the general idea was that she was temporarily irritated, that the
look was genuine and not fun at all. As she went on frowning,
looking now at one principal and now at the other, the audience
began to smile. The portly gentlemen in the front rows began to
feel that she was a delicious little morsel. It was the kind of
frown they would have loved to force away with kisses. All the
gentlemen yearned toward her. She was capital.

At last, the chief comedian, singing in the centre of the stage,
noticed a giggle where it was not expected. Then another and
another. When the place came for loud applause it was only
moderate. What could be the trouble? He realised that something
was up.

All at once, after an exit, he caught sight of Carrie. She was
frowning alone on the stage and the audience was giggling and
laughing.

"By George, I won't stand that!" thought the thespian. "I'm not
going to have my work cut up by some one else. Either she quits
that when I do my turn or I quit."

"Why, that's all right," said the manager, when the kick came.
"That's what she's supposed to do. You needn't pay any attention
to that."

"But she ruins my work."

"No, she don't," returned the former, soothingly. "It's only a
little fun on the side."

"It is, eh?" exclaimed the big comedian. "She killed my hand all
right. I'm not going to stand that."

"Well, wait until after the show. Wait until to-morrow. We'll
see what we can do."

The next act, however, settled what was to be done. Carrie was
the chief feature of the play. The audience, the more it studied
her, the more it indicated its delight. Every other feature
paled beside the quaint, teasing, delightful atmosphere which
Carrie contributed while on the stage. Manager and company
realised she had made a hit.

The critics of the daily papers completed her triumph. There
were long notices in praise of the quality of the burlesque,
touched with recurrent references to Carrie. The contagious
mirth of the thing was repeatedly emphasised.

"Miss Madenda presents one of the most delightful bits of
character work ever seen on the Casino stage," observed the stage
critic of the "Sun." "It is a bit of quiet, unassuming drollery
which warms like good wine. Evidently the part was not intended
to take precedence, as Miss Madenda is not often on the stage,
but the audience, with the characteristic perversity of such
bodies, selected for itself. The little Quakeress was marked for
a favourite the moment she appeared, and thereafter easily held
attention and applause. The vagaries of fortune are indeed
curious."

The critic of the "Evening World," seeking as usual to establish
a catch phrase which should "go" with the town, wound up by
advising: "If you wish to be merry, see Carrie frown."

The result was miraculous so far as Carrie's fortune was
concerned. Even during the morning she received a congratulatory
message from the manager.

"You seem to have taken the town by storm," he wrote. "This is
delightful. I am as glad for your sake as for my own."

The author also sent word.

That evening when she entered the theatre the manager had a most
pleasant greeting for her.

"Mr. Stevens," he said, referring to the author, "is preparing a
little song, which he would like you to sing next week."

"Oh, I can't sing," returned Carrie.

"It isn't anything difficult. 'It's something that is very
simple,' he says, 'and would suit you exactly.'"

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