Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser

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"Yes," answered Carrie, mildly, overwhelmed by the man's
assurance.

"I knew it was, the moment I saw you. Well, how have you been,
anyhow?"

"Oh, very well," said Carrie, lingering in her dressing-room.
She was rather dazed by the assault. "How have you been?"

"Me? Oh, fine. I'm here now."

"Is that so?" said Carrie.

"Yes. I've been here for six months. I've got charge of a
branch here."

"How nice!"

"Well, when did you go on the stage, anyhow?" inquired Drouet.

"About three years ago," said Carrie.

"You don't say so! Well, sir, this is the first I've heard of it.
I knew you would, though. I always said you could act--didn't
I?"

Carrie smiled.

"Yes, you did," she said.

"Well, you do look great," he said. "I never saw anybody improve
so. You're taller, aren't you?"

"Me? Oh, a little, maybe."

He gazed at her dress, then at her hair, where a becoming hat was
set jauntily, then into her eyes, which she took all occasion to
avert. Evidently he expected to restore their old friendship at
once and without modification.

"Well," he said, seeing her gather up her purse, handkerchief,
and the like, preparatory to departing, "I want you to come out
to dinner with me; won't you? I've got a friend out here."

"Oh, I can't," said Carrie. "Not to-night. I have an early
engagement to-morrow."

"Aw, let the engagement go. Come on. I can get rid of him. I
want to have a good talk with you."

"No, no," said Carrie; "I can't. You mustn't ask me any more. I
don't care for a late dinner."

"Well, come on and have a talk, then, anyhow."

"Not to-night," she said, shaking her head. "We'll have a talk
some other time."

As a result of this, she noticed a shade of thought pass over his
face, as if he were beginning to realise that things were
changed. Good-nature dictated something better than this for one
who had always liked her.

"You come around to the hotel to-morrow," she said, as sort of
penance for error. "You can take dinner with me."

"All right," said Drouet, brightening. "Where are you stopping?"

"At the Waldorf," she answered, mentioning the fashionable
hostelry then but newly erected.

"What time?"

"Well, come at three," said Carrie, pleasantly.

The next day Drouet called, but it was with no especial delight
that Carrie remembered her appointment. However, seeing him,
handsome as ever, after his kind, and most genially disposed, her
doubts as to whether the dinner would be disagreeable were swept
away. He talked as volubly as ever.

"They put on a lot of lugs here, don't they?" was his first
remark.

"Yes; they do," said Carrie.

Genial egotist that he was, he went at once into a detailed
account of his own career.

"I'm going to have a business of my own pretty soon," he observed
in one place. "I can get backing for two hundred thousand
dollars."

Carrie listened most good-naturedly.

"Say," he said, suddenly; "where is Hurstwood now?"

Carrie flushed a little.

"He's here in New York, I guess," she said. "I haven't seen him
for some time."

Drouet mused for a moment. He had not been sure until now that
the ex-manager was not an influential figure in the background.
He imagined not; but this assurance relieved him. It must be
that Carrie had got rid of him--as well she ought, he thought.
"A man always makes a mistake when he does anything like that,"
he observed.

"Like what?" said Carrie, unwitting of what was coming.

"Oh, you know," and Drouet waved her intelligence, as it were,
with his hand.

"No, I don't," she answered. "What do you mean?"

"Why that affair in Chicago--the time he left."

"I don't know what you are talking about," said Carrie. Could it
be he would refer so rudely to Hurstwood's flight with her?

"Oho!" said Drouet, incredulously. "You knew he took ten
thousand dollars with him when he left, didn't you?"

"What!" said Carrie. "You don't mean to say he stole money, do
you?"

"Why," said Drouet, puzzled at her tone, "you knew that, didn't
you?"

"Why, no," said Carrie. "Of course I didn't."

"Well, that's funny," said Drouet. "He did, you know. It was in
all the papers."

"How much did you say he took?" said Carrie.

"Ten thousand dollars. I heard he sent most of it back
afterwards, though."

Carrie looked vacantly at the richly carpeted floor. A new light
was shining upon all the years since her enforced flight. She
remembered now a hundred things that indicated as much. She also
imagined that he took it on her account. Instead of hatred
springing up there was a kind of sorrow generated. Poor fellow!
What a thing to have had hanging over his head all the time.

At dinner Drouet, warmed up by eating and drinking and softened
in mood, fancied he was winning Carrie to her old-time good-
natured regard for him. He began to imagine it would not be so
difficult to enter into her life again, high as she was. Ah,
what a prize! he thought. How beautiful, how elegant, how
famous! In her theatrical and Waldorf setting, Carrie was to him
the all desirable.

"Do you remember how nervous you were that night at the Avery?"
he asked.

Carrie smiled to think of it.

"I never saw anybody do better than you did then, Cad," he added
ruefully, as he leaned an elbow on the table; "I thought you and
I were going to get along fine those days."

"You mustn't talk that way," said Carrie, bringing in the least
touch of coldness.

"Won't you let me tell you----"

"No," she answered, rising. "Besides, it's time I was getting
ready for the theatre. I'll have to leave you. Come, now."
"Oh, stay a minute," pleaded Drouet. "You've got plenty of
time."

"No," said Carrie, gently.

Reluctantly Drouet gave up the bright table and followed. He saw
her to the elevator and, standing there, said:

"When do I see you again?"

"Oh, some time, possibly," said Carrie. "I'll be here all
summer. Good-night!"

The elevator door was open.

"Good-night!" said Drouet, as she rustled in.

Then he strolled sadly down the hall, all his old longing
revived, because she was now so far off. The merry frou-frou of
the place spoke all of her. He thought himself hardly dealt
with. Carrie, however, had other thoughts.

That night it was that she passed Hurstwood, waiting at the
Casino, without observing him.

The next night, walking to the theatre, she encountered him face
to face. He was waiting, more gaunt than ever, determined to see
her, if he had to send in word. At first she did not recognise
the shabby, baggy figure. He frightened her, edging so close, a
seemingly hungry stranger.

"Carrie," he half whispered, "can I have a few words with you?"

She turned and recognised him on the instant. If there ever had
lurked any feeling in her heart against him, it deserted her now.
Still, she remembered what Drouet said about his having stolen
the money.

"Why, George," she said; "what's the matter with you?"

"I've been sick," he answered. "I've just got out of the
hospital. For God's sake, let me have a little money, will you?"

"Of course," said Carrie, her lip trembling in a strong effort to
maintain her composure. "But what's the matter with you,
anyhow?"

She was opening her purse, and now pulled out all the bills in
it--a five and two twos.

"I've been sick, I told you," he said, peevishly, almost
resenting her excessive pity. It came hard to him to receive it
from such a source.

"Here," she said. "It's all I have with me."

"All right," he answered, softly. "I'll give it back to you some
day."

Carrie looked at him, while pedestrians stared at her. She felt
the strain of publicity. So did Hurstwood.

"Why don't you tell me what's the matter with you?" she asked,
hardly knowing what to do. "Where are you living?"

"Oh, I've got a room down in the Bowery," he answered. "There's
no use trying to tell you here. I'm all right now."

He seemed in a way to resent her kindly inquiries--so much better
had fate dealt with her.

"Better go on in," he said. "I'm much obliged, but I won't
bother you any more."

She tried to answer, but he turned away and shuffled off toward
the east.

For days this apparition was a drag on her soul before it began
to wear partially away. Drouet called again, but now he was not
even seen by her. His attentions seemed out of place.

"I'm out," was her reply to the boy.

So peculiar, indeed, was her lonely, self-withdrawing temper,
that she was becoming an interesting figure in the public eye--
she was so quiet and reserved.

Not long after the management decided to transfer the show to
London. A second summer season did not seem to promise well
here.

"How would you like to try subduing London?" asked her manager,
one afternoon.

"It might be just the other way," said Carrie.

"I think we'll go in June," he answered.

In the hurry of departure, Hurstwood was forgotten. Both he and
Drouet were left to discover that she was gone. The latter
called once, and exclaimed at the news. Then he stood in the
lobby, chewing the ends of his moustache. At last he reached a
conclusion--the old days had gone for good.

"She isn't so much," he said; but in his heart of hearts he did
not believe this.

Hurstwood shifted by curious means through a long summer and
fall. A small job as janitor of a dance hall helped him for a
month. Begging, sometimes going hungry, sometimes sleeping in
the park, carried him over more days. Resorting to those
peculiar charities, several of which, in the press of hungry
search, he accidentally stumbled upon, did the rest. Toward the
dead of winter, Carrie came back, appearing on Broadway in a new
play; but he was not aware of it. For weeks he wandered about
the city, begging, while the fire sign, announcing her
engagement, blazed nightly upon the crowded street of amusements.
Drouet saw it, but did not venture in.

About this time Ames returned to New York. He had made a little
success in the West, and now opened a laboratory in Wooster
Street. Of course, he encountered Carrie through Mrs. Vance; but
there was nothing responsive between them. He thought she was
still united to Hurstwood, until otherwise informed. Not knowing
the facts then, he did not profess to understand, and refrained
from comment.

With Mrs. Vance, he saw the new play, and expressed himself
accordingly.

"She ought not to be in comedy," he said. "I think she could do
better than that."

One afternoon they met at the Vances' accidentally, and began a
very friendly conversation. She could hardly tell why the one-
time keen interest in him was no longer with her.
Unquestionably, it was because at that time he had represented
something which she did not have; but this she did not
understand. Success had given her the momentary feeling that she
was now blessed with much of which he would approve. As a matter
of fact, her little newspaper fame was nothing at all to him. He
thought she could have done better, by far.

"You didn't go into comedy-drama, after all?" he said,
remembering her interest in that form of art.

"No," she answered; "I haven't, so far."

He looked at her in such a peculiar way that she realised she had
failed. It moved her to add: "I want to, though."

"I should think you would," he said. "You have the sort of
disposition that would do well in comedy-drama."

It surprised her that he should speak of disposition. Was she,
then, so clearly in his mind?

"Why?" she asked.

"Well," he said, "I should judge you were rather sympathetic in
your nature."

Carrie smiled and coloured slightly. He was so innocently frank
with her that she drew nearer in friendship. The old call of the
ideal was sounding.

"I don't know," she answered, pleased, nevertheless, beyond all
concealment.

"I saw your play," he remarked. "It's very good."

"I'm glad you liked it."

"Very good, indeed," he said, "for a comedy."

This is all that was said at the time, owing to an interruption,
but later they met again. He was sitting in a corner after
dinner, staring at the floor, when Carrie came up with another of
the guests. Hard work had given his face the look of one who is
weary. It was not for Carrie to know the thing in it which
appealed to her.

"All alone?" she said.

"I was listening to the music."

"I'll be back in a moment," said her companion, who saw nothing
in the inventor.

Now he looked up in her face, for she was standing a moment,
while he sat.

"Isn't that a pathetic strain?" he inquired, listening.

"Oh, very," she returned, also catching it, now that her
attention was called.

"Sit down," he added, offering her the chair beside him.

They listened a few moments in silence, touched by the same
feeling, only hers reached her through the heart. Music still
charmed her as in the old days.

"I don't know what it is about music," she started to say, moved
by the inexplicable longings which surged within her; "but it
always makes me feel as if I wanted something--I----"

"Yes," he replied; "I know how you feel."

Suddenly he turned to considering the peculiarity of her
disposition, expressing her feelings so frankly.

"You ought not to be melancholy," he said.

He thought a while, and then went off into a seemingly alien
observation which, however, accorded with their feelings.

"The world is full of desirable situations, but, unfortunately,
we can occupy but one at a time. It doesn't do us any good to
wring our hands over the far-off things."

The music ceased and he arose, taking a standing position before
her, as if to rest himself.

"Why don't you get into some good, strong comedy-drama?" he said.
He was looking directly at her now, studying her face. Her
large, sympathetic eyes and pain-touched mouth appealed to him as
proofs of his judgment.

"Perhaps I shall," she returned.

"That's your field," he added.

"Do you think so?"

"Yes," he said; "I do. I don't suppose you're aware of it, but
there is something about your eyes and mouth which fits you for
that sort of work."

Carrie thrilled to be taken so seriously. For the moment,
loneliness deserted her. Here was praise which was keen and
analytical.

"It's in your eyes and mouth," he went on abstractedly. "I
remember thinking, the first time I saw you, that there was
something peculiar about your mouth. I thought you were about to
cry."

"How odd," said Carrie, warm with delight. This was what her
heart craved.

"Then I noticed that that was your natural look, and to-night I
saw it again. There's a shadow about your eyes, too, which gives
your face much this same character. It's in the depth of them, I
think."

Carrie looked straight into his face, wholly aroused.

"You probably are not aware of it," he added.

She looked away, pleased that he should speak thus, longing to be
equal to this feeling written upon her countenance. It unlocked
the door to a new desire.
She had cause to ponder over this until they met again--several
weeks or more. It showed her she was drifting away from the old
ideal which had filled her in the dressing-rooms of the Avery
stage and thereafter, for a long time. Why had she lost it?

"I know why you should be a success," he said, another time, "if
you had a more dramatic part. I've studied it out----"

"What is it?" said Carrie.

"Well," he said, as one pleased with a puzzle, "the expression in
your face is one that comes out in different things. You get the
same thing in a pathetic song, or any picture which moves you
deeply. It's a thing the world likes to see, because it's a
natural expression of its longing."

Carrie gazed without exactly getting the import of what he meant.

"The world is always struggling to express itself," he went on.
"Most people are not capable of voicing their feelings. They
depend upon others. That is what genius is for. One man
expresses their desires for them in music; another one in poetry;
another one in a play. Sometimes nature does it in a face--it
makes the face representative of all desire. That's what has
happened in your case."

He looked at her with so much of the import of the thing in his
eyes that she caught it. At least, she got the idea that her
look was something which represented the world's longing. She
took it to heart as a creditable thing, until he added:

"That puts a burden of duty on you. It so happens that you have
this thing. It is no credit to you--that is, I mean, you might
not have had it. You paid nothing to get it. But now that you
have it, you must do something with it."

"What?" asked Carrie.

"I should say, turn to the dramatic field. You have so much
sympathy and such a melodious voice. Make them valuable to
others. It will make your powers endure."

Carrie did not understand this last. All the rest showed her
that her comedy success was little or nothing.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Why, just this. You have this quality in your eyes and mouth
and in your nature. You can lose it, you know. If you turn away
from it and live to satisfy yourself alone, it will go fast
enough. The look will leave your eyes. Your mouth will change.
Your power to act will disappear. You may think they won't, but
they will. Nature takes care of that."

He was so interested in forwarding all good causes that he
sometimes became enthusiastic, giving vent to these preachments.
Something in Carrie appealed to him. He wanted to stir her up.

"I know," she said, absently, feeling slightly guilty of neglect.

"If I were you," he said, "I'd change."

The effect of this was like roiling helpless waters. Carrie
troubled over it in her rocking-chair for days.

"I don't believe I'll stay in comedy so very much longer," she
eventually remarked to Lola.

"Oh, why not?" said the latter.

"I think," she said, "I can do better in a serious play."

"What put that idea in your head?"

"Oh, nothing," she answered; "I've always thought so."

Still, she did nothing--grieving. It was a long way to this
better thing--or seemed so--and comfort was about her; hence the
inactivity and longing.

Chapter XLVII

THE WAY OF THE BEATEN--A HARP IN THE WIND

In the city, at that time, there were a number of charities
similar in nature to that of the captain's, which Hurstwood now
patronised in a like unfortunate way. One was a convent mission-
house of the Sisters of Mercy in Fifteenth Street--a row of red
brick family dwellings, before the door of which hung a plain
wooden contribution box, on which was painted the statement that
every noon a meal was given free to all those who might apply and
ask for aid. This simple announcement was modest in the extreme,
covering, as it did, a charity so broad. Institutions and
charities are so large and so numerous in New York that such
things as this are not often noticed by the more comfortably
situated. But to one whose mind is upon the matter, they grow
exceedingly under inspection. Unless one were looking up this
matter in particular, he could have stood at Sixth Avenue and
Fifteenth Street for days around the noon hour and never have
noticed that out of the vast crowd that surged along that busy
thoroughfare there turned out, every few seconds, some weather-
beaten, heavy-footed specimen of humanity, gaunt in countenance
and dilapidated in the matter of clothes. The fact is none the
less true, however, and the colder the day the more apparent it
became. Space and a lack of culinary room in the mission-house,
compelled an arrangement which permitted of only twenty-five or
thirty eating at one time, so that a line had to be formed
outside and an orderly entrance effected. This caused a daily
spectacle which, however, had become so common by repetition
during a number of years that now nothing was thought of it. The
men waited patiently, like cattle, in the coldest weather--waited
for several hours before they could be admitted. No questions
were asked and no service rendered. They ate and went away
again, some of them returning regularly day after day the winter
through.

A big, motherly looking woman invariably stood guard at the door
during the entire operation and counted the admissible number.
The men moved up in solemn order. There was no haste and no
eagerness displayed. It was almost a dumb procession. In the
bitterest weather this line was to be found here. Under an icy
wind there was a prodigious slapping of hands and a dancing of
feet. Fingers and the features of the face looked as if severely
nipped by the cold. A study of these men in broad light proved
them to be nearly all of a type. They belonged to the class that
sit on the park benches during the endurable days and sleep upon
them during the summer nights. They frequent the Bowery and
those down-at-the-heels East Side streets where poor clothes and
shrunken features are not singled out as curious. They are the
men who are in the lodginghouse sitting-rooms during bleak and
bitter weather and who swarm about the cheaper shelters which
only open at six in a number of the lower East Side streets.
Miserable food, ill-timed and greedily eaten, had played havoc
with bone and muscle. They were all pale, flabby, sunken-eyed,
hollow-chested, with eyes that glinted and shone and lips that
were a sickly red by contrast. Their hair was but half attended
to, their ears anaemic in hue, and their shoes broken in leather
and run down at heel and toe. They were of the class which
simply floats and drifts, every wave of people washing up one, as
breakers do driftwood upon a stormy shore.

For nearly a quarter of a century, in another section of the
city, Fleischmann, the baker, had given a loaf of bread to any
one who would come for it to the side door of his restaurant at
the corner of Broadway and Tenth Street, at midnight. Every
night during twenty years about three hundred men had formed in
line and at the appointed time marched past the doorway, picked
their loaf from a great box placed just outside, and vanished
again into the night. From the beginning to the present time
there had been little change in the character or number of these
men. There were two or three figures that had grown familiar to
those who had seen this little procession pass year after year.
Two of them had missed scarcely a night in fifteen years. There
were about forty, more or less, regular callers. The remainder
of the line was formed of strangers. In times of panic and
unusual hardships there were seldom more than three hundred. In
times of prosperity, when little is heard of the unemployed,
there were seldom less. The same number, winter and summer, in
storm or calm, in good times and bad, held this melancholy
midnight rendezvous at Fleischmann's bread box.

At both of these two charities, during the severe winter which
was now on, Hurstwood was a frequent visitor. On one occasion it
was peculiarly cold, and finding no comfort in begging about the
streets, he waited until noon before seeking this free offering
to the poor. Already, at eleven o'clock of this morning, several
such as he had shambled forward out of Sixth Avenue, their thin
clothes flapping and fluttering in the wind. They leaned against
the iron railing which protects the walls of the Ninth Regiment
Armory, which fronts upon that section of Fifteenth Street,
having come early in order to be first in. Having an hour to
wait, they at first lingered at a respectful distance; but others
coming up, they moved closer in order to protect their right of
precedence. To this collection Hurstwood came up from the west
out of Seventh Avenue and stopped close to the door, nearer than
all the others. Those who had been waiting before him, but
farther away, now drew near, and by a certain stolidity of
demeanour, no words being spoken, indicated that they were first.

Seeing the opposition to his action, he looked sullenly along the
line, then moved out, taking his place at the foot. When order
had been restored, the animal feeling of opposition relaxed.

"Must be pretty near noon," ventured one.

"It is," said another. "I've been waiting nearly an hour."

"Gee, but it's cold!"

They peered eagerly at the door, where all must enter. A grocery
man drove up and carried in several baskets of eatables. This
started some words upon grocery men and the cost of food in
general.

"I see meat's gone up," said one.

"If there wuz war, it would help this country a lot."

The line was growing rapidly. Already there were fifty or more,
and those at the head, by their demeanour, evidently
congratulated themselves upon not having so long to wait as those
at the foot. There was much jerking of heads, and looking down
the line.

"It don't matter how near you get to the front, so long as you're
in the first twenty-five," commented one of the first twenty-
five. "You all go in together."

"Humph!" ejaculated Hurstwood, who had been so sturdily
displaced.

"This here Single Tax is the thing," said another. "There ain't
going to be no order till it comes."

For the most part there was silence; gaunt men shuffling,
glancing, and beating their arms.

At last the door opened and the motherly-looking sister appeared.
She only looked an order. Slowly the line moved up and, one by
one, passed in, until twenty-five were counted. Then she
interposed a stout arm, and the line halted, with six men on the
steps. Of these the ex-manager was one. Waiting thus, some
talked, some ejaculated concerning the misery of it; some
brooded, as did Hurstwood. At last he was admitted, and, having
eaten, came away, almost angered because of his pains in getting
it.

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