Заезды по воскресеньям с 16 июня по 18 августа 2013 года 24 страница

 

"Where?" said Carrie, following his eyes.

 

"Over there in the corner--way over. Do you see that brooch?"

 

"Isn't it large?" said Carrie.

 

"One of the largest clusters of jewels I have ever seen," said Ames.

 

"It is, isn't it?" said Carrie. She felt as if she would like to be

agreeable to this young man, and also there came with it, or perhaps

preceded it, the slightest shade of a feeling that he was better

educated than she was--that his mind was better. He seemed to look it,

and the saving grace in Carrie was that she could understand that

people could be wiser. She had seen a number of people in her life who

reminded her of what she had vaguely come to think of as scholars.

This strong young man beside her, with his clear, natural look, seemed

to get a hold of things which she did not quite understand, but

approved of. It was fine to be so, as a man, she thought.

 

The conversation changed to a book that was having its vogue at the

time--"Molding a Maiden," by Albert Ross. Mrs. Vance had read it.

Vance had seen it discussed in some of the papers.

 

"A man can make quite a strike writing a book," said Vance. "I notice

this fellow Ross is very much talked about." He was looking at Carrie

as he spoke.

 

"I hadn't heard of him," said Carrie, honestly.

 

"Oh, I have," said Mrs. Vance. "He's written lots of things. This last

story is pretty good."

 

"He doesn't amount to much," said Ames.

 

Carrie turned her eyes toward him as to an oracle.

 

"His stuff is nearly as bad as 'Dora Thorne,'" concluded Ames.

 

Carrie felt this as a personal reproof. She read "Dora Thorne," or had

a great deal in the past. It seemed only fair to her, but she supposed

that people thought it very fine. Now this clear-eyed, fine-headed

youth, who looked something like a student to her, made fun of it. It

was poor to him, not worth reading. She looked down, and for the first

time felt the pain of not understanding.

 

Yet there was nothing sarcastic or supercilious in the way Ames spoke.

He had very little of that in him. Carrie felt that it was just kindly

thought of a high order--the right thing to think, and wondered what

else was right, according to him. He seemed to notice that she

listened and rather sympathized with him, and from now on he talked

mostly to her.

 

As the waiter bowed and scraped about, felt the dishes to see if they

were hot enough, brought spoons and forks, and did all those little

attentive things calculated to impress the luxury of the situation upon

the diner, Ames also leaned slightly to one side and told her of

Indianapolis in an intelligent way. He really had a very bright mind,

which was finding its chief development in electrical knowledge. His

sympathies for other forms of information, however, and for types of

people, were quick and warm. The red glow on his head gave it a sandy

tinge and put a bright glint in his eye. Carrie noticed all these

things as he leaned toward her and felt exceedingly young. This man

was far ahead of her. He seemed wiser than Hurstwood, saner and

brighter than Drouet. He seemed innocent and clean, and she thought

that he was exceedingly pleasant. She noticed, also, that his interest

in her was a far-off one. She was not in his life, nor any of the

things that touched his life, and yet now, as he spoke of these things,

they appealed to her.

 

"I shouldn't care to be rich," he told her, as the dinner proceeded and

the supply of food warmed up his sympathies; "not rich enough to spend

my money this way."

 

"Oh, wouldn't you?" said Carrie, the, to her, new attitude forcing

itself distinctly upon her for the first time.

 

"No," he said. "What good would it do? A man doesn't need this sort of

thing to be happy."

 

Carrie thought of this doubtfully; but, coming from him, it had weight

with her.

 

"He probably could be happy," she thought to herself, "all alone. He's

so strong."

 

Mr. and Mrs. Vance kept up a running fire of interruptions, and these

impressive things by Ames came at odd moments. They were sufficient,

however, for the atmosphere that went with this youth impressed itself

upon Carrie without words. There was something in him, or the world he

moved in, which appealed to her. He reminded her of scenes she had

seen on the stage--the sorrows and sacrifices that always went with she

knew not what. He had taken away some of the bitterness of the

contrast between this life and her life, and all by a certain calm

indifference which concerned only him.

 

As they went out, he took her arm and helped her into the coach, and

then they were off again, and so to the show.

 

During the acts Carrie found herself listening to him very attentively.

He mentioned things in the play which she most approved of--things

which swayed her deeply.

 

"Don't you think it rather fine to be an actor?" she asked once.

 

"Yes, I do," he said, "to be a good one. I think the theatre a great

thing."

 

Just this little approval set Carrie's heart bounding. Ah, if she

could only be an actress--a good one! This man was wise--he knew--and

he approved of it. If she were a fine actress, such men as he would

approve of her. She felt that he was good to speak as he had, although

it did not concern her at all. She did not know why she felt this way.

 

At the close of the show it suddenly developed that he was not going

back with them.

 

"Oh, aren't you?" said Carrie, with an unwarrantable feeling.

 

"Oh, no," he said; "I'm stopping right around here in Thirty-third

Street."

 

Carrie could not say anything else, but somehow this development

shocked her. She had been regretting the wane of a pleasant evening,

but she had thought there was a half-hour more. Oh, the half-hours,

the minutes of the world; what miseries and griefs are crowded into

them!

 

She said good-bye with feigned indifference. What matter could it

make? Still, the coach seemed lorn.

 

When she went into her own flat she had this to think about. She did

not know whether she would ever see this man any more. What difference

could it make--what difference could it make?

 

Hurstwood had returned, and was already in bed. His clothes were

scattered loosely about. Carrie came to the door and saw him, then

retreated. She did not want to go in yet a while. She wanted to

think. It was disagreeable to her.

 

Back in the dining-room she sat in her chair and rocked. Her little

hands were folded tightly as she thought. Through a fog of longing and

conflicting desires she was beginning to see. Oh, ye legions of hope

and pity--of sorrow and pain! She was rocking, and beginning to see.

 

 

Chapter XXXIII

WITHOUT THE WALLED CITY--THE SLOPE OF THE YEARS

 

The immediate result of this was nothing. Results from such things

are usually long in growing. Morning brings a change of feeling. The

existent condition invariably pleads for itself. It is only at odd

moments that we get glimpses of the misery of things. The heart

understands when it is confronted with contrasts. Take them away and

the ache subsides.

 

Carrie went on, leading much this same life for six months thereafter

or more. She did not see Ames any more. He called once upon the

Vances, but she only heard about it through the young wife. Then he

went West, and there was a gradual subsidence of whatever personal

attraction had existed. The mental effect of the thing had not gone,

however, and never would entirely. She had an ideal to contrast men

by--particularly men close to her.

 

During all this time--a period rapidly approaching three years-

Hurstwood had been moving along in an even path. There was no apparent

slope downward, and distinctly none upward, so far as the casual

observer might have seen. But psychologically there was a change,

which was marked enough to suggest the future very distinctly indeed.

This was in the mere matter of the halt his career had received when he

departed from Chicago. A man's fortune or material progress is very

much the same as his bodily growth. Either he is growing stronger,

healthier, wiser, as the youth approaching manhood, or he is growing

weaker, older, less incisive mentally, as the man approaching old age.

There are no other states. Frequently there is a period between the

cessation of youthful accretion and the setting in, in the case of the

middle-aged man, of the tendency toward decay when the two processes

are almost perfectly balanced and there is little doing in either

direction. Given time enough, however, the balance becomes a sagging

to the grave side. Slowly at first, then with a modest momentum, and

at last the graveward process is in the full swing. So it is

frequently with man's fortune. If its process of accretion is never

halted, if the balancing stage is never reached, there will be no

toppling. Rich men are, frequently, in these days, saved from this

dissolution of their fortune by their ability to hire younger brains.

These younger brains look upon the interests of the fortune as their

own, and so steady and direct its progress. If each individual were

left absolutely to the care of his own interests, and were given time

enough in which to grow exceedingly old, his fortune would pass as his

strength and will. He and his would be utterly dissolved and scattered

unto the four winds of the heavens.

 

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 analyze 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 characterized 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 neighborhood 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, super induced 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

neighborhood?"

 

"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 favorably.

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 demeanor 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 realize 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