Заезды по воскресеньям с 16 июня по 18 августа 2013 года 33 страница

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.'"

 

"Of course, I wouldn't mind trying," said Carrie, archly.

 

"Would you mind coming to the box-office a few moments before you

dress?" observed the manager, in addition. "There's a little matter I

want to speak to you about."

 

"Certainly," replied Carrie.

 

In that latter place the manager produced a paper.

 

"Now, of course," he said, "we want to be fair with you in the matter

of salary. Your contract here only calls for thirty dollars a week for

the next three months. How would it do to make it, say, one hundred

and fifty a week and extend it for twelve months?"

 

"Oh, very well," said Carrie, scarcely believing her ears.

 

"Supposing, then, you just sign this."

 

Carrie looked and beheld a new contract made out like the other one,

with the exception of the new figures of salary and time. With a hand

trembling from excitement she affixed her name.

 

"One hundred and fifty a week!" she murmured, when she was again alone.

She found, after all--as what millionaire has not?--that there was no

realizing, in consciousness, the meaning of large sums. It was only a

shimmering, glittering phrase in which lay a world of possibilities.

 

Down in a third-rate Bleecker Street hotel, the brooding Hurstwood read

the dramatic item covering Carrie's success, without at first realizing

who was meant. Then suddenly it came to him and he read the whole

thing over again.

 

"That's her, all right, I guess," he said.

 

Then he looked about upon a dingy, moth-eaten hotel lobby.

 

"I guess she's struck it," he thought, a picture of the old shiny,

plush-covered world coming back, with its lights, its ornaments, its

carriages, and flowers. Ah, she was in the walled city now! Its

splendid gates had opened, admitting her from a cold, dreary outside.

She seemed a creature afar off--like every other celebrity he had

known.

 

"Well, let her have it," he said. "I won't bother her."

 

It was the grim resolution of a bent, bedraggled, but unbroken pride.

 

 

Chapter XLIV

AND THIS IS NOT ELF LAND--WHAT GOLD WILL NOT BUY

 

When Carrie got back on the stage, she found that over night her

dressing-room had been changed.

 

"You are to use this room, Miss Madenda," said one of the stage

lackeys.

 

No longer any need of climbing several flights of steps to a small coop

shared with another. Instead, a comparatively large and commodious

chamber with conveniences not enjoyed by the small fry overhead. She

breathed deeply and with delight. Her sensations were more physical

than mental. In fact, she was scarcely thinking at all. Heart and

body were having their say.

 

Gradually the deference and congratulation gave her a mental

appreciation of her state. She was no longer ordered, but requested,

and that politely. The other members of the cast looked at her

enviously as she came out arrayed in her simple habit, which she wore

all through the play. All those who had supposedly been her equals and

superiors now smiled the smile of sociability, as much as to say: "How

friendly we have always been." Only the star comedian whose part had

been so deeply injured stalked by himself. Figuratively, he could not

kiss the hand that smote him.

 

Doing her simple part, Carrie gradually realized the meaning of the

applause which was for her, and it was sweet. She felt mildly guilty

of something--perhaps unworthiness. When her associates addressed her

in the wings she only smiled weakly. The pride and daring of place were

not for her. It never once crossed her mind to be reserved or haughty-

-to be other than she had been. After the performances she rode to her

room with Lola, in a carriage provided.

 

Then came a week in which the first fruits of success were offered to

her lips--bowl after bowl. It did not matter that her splendid salary

had not begun. The world seemed satisfied with the promise. She began

to get letters and cards. A Mr. Withers-whom she did not know from

Adam--having learned by some hook or crook where she resided, bowed

himself politely in.

 

"You will excuse me for intruding," he said; "but have you been

thinking of changing your apartments?"

 

"I hadn't thought of it," returned Carrie.

 

"Well, I am connected with the Wellington--the new hotel on Broadway.

You have probably seen notices of it in the papers."

 

Carrie recognized the name as standing for one of the newest and most

imposing hostelries. She had heard it spoken of as having a splendid

restaurant.

 

"Just so," went on Mr. Withers, accepting her acknowledgment of

familiarity. "We have some very elegant rooms at present which we

would like to have you look at, if you have not made up your mind where

you intend to reside for the summer. Our apartments are perfect in

every detail--hot and cold water, private baths, special hall service

for every floor, elevators, and all that. You know what our restaurant

is."

 

Carrie looked at him quietly. She was wondering whether he took her to

be a millionaire.

 

"What are your rates?" she inquired.

 

"Well, now, that is what I came to talk with you privately about. Our

regular rates are anywhere from three to fifty dollars a day."

 

"Mercy!" interrupted Carrie. "I couldn't pay any such rate as that."

 

"I know how you feel about it," exclaimed Mr. Withers, halting. "But

just let me explain. I said those are our regular rates. Like every

other hotel we make special ones however. Possibly you have not

thought about it, but your name is worth something to us." "Oh!"

ejaculated Carrie, seeing at a glance.

 

"Of course. Every hotel depends upon the repute of its patrons. A

well-known actress like yourself," and he bowed politely, while Carrie

flushed, "draws attention to the hotel, and--although you may not

believe it--patrons."

 

"Oh, yes," returned Carrie, vacantly, trying to arrange this curious

proposition in her mind.

 

"Now," continued Mr. Withers, swaying his derby hat softly and beating

one of his polished shoes upon the floor, "I want to arrange, if

possible, to have you come and stop at the Wellington. You need not

trouble about terms. In fact, we need hardly discuss them. Anything

will do for the summer--a mere figure--anything that you think you

could afford to pay."

 

Carrie was about to interrupt, but he gave her no chance.

 

"You can come to-day or to-morrow--the earlier the better--and we will

give you your choice of nice, light, outside rooms--the very best we

have."

 

"You're very kind," said Carrie, touched by the agent's extreme

affability. "I should like to come very much. I would want to pay

what is right, however. I shouldn't want to----"

 

"You need not trouble about that at all," interrupted Mr. Withers. "We

can arrange that to your entire satisfaction at any time. If three

dollars a day is satisfactory to you, it will be so to us. All you

have to do is to pay that sum to the clerk at the end of the week or

month, just as you wish, and he will give you a receipt for what the

rooms would cost if charged for at our regular rates."

 

The speaker paused.

 

"Suppose you come and look at the rooms," he added.

 

"I'd be glad to," said Carrie, "but I have a rehearsal this morning."

 

"I did not mean at once," he returned. "Any time will do. Would this

afternoon be inconvenient?"

 

"Not at all," said Carrie.

 

Suddenly she remembered Lola, who was out at the time.

 

"I have a room-mate," she added, "who will have to go wherever I do. I

forgot about that."

 

"Oh, very well," said Mr. Withers, blandly. "It is for you to say whom

you want with you. As I say, all that can be arranged to suit

yourself."

 

He bowed and backed toward the door.

 

"At four, then, we may expect you?"

 

"Yes," said Carrie.

 

"I will be there to show you," and so Mr. Withers withdrew.

 

After rehearsal Carrie informed Lola. "Did they really?" exclaimed the

latter, thinking of the Wellington as a group of managers. "Isn't that

fine? Oh, jolly! It's so swell. That's where we dined that night we

went with those two Cushing boys. Don't you know?"

 

"I remember," said Carrie.

 

"Oh, it's as fine as it can be."

 

"We'd better be going up there," observed Carrie later in the

afternoon.

 

The rooms which Mr. Withers displayed to Carrie and Lola were three and

bath--a suite on the parlor floor. They were done in chocolate and

dark red, with rugs and hangings to match. Three windows looked down

into busy Broadway on the east, three into a side street which crossed

there. There were two lovely bedrooms, set with brass and white enamel

beds, white ribbon-trimmed chairs and chiffoniers to match. In the

third room, or parlor, was a piano, a heavy piano lamp, with a shade of

gorgeous pattern, a library table, several huge easy rockers, some dado

book shelves, and a gilt curio case, filled with oddities. Pictures

were upon the walls, soft Turkish pillows upon the divan footstools of

brown plush upon the floor. Such accommodations would ordinarily cost

a hundred dollars a week.

 

"Oh, lovely!" exclaimed Lola, walking about.

 

"It is comfortable," said Carrie, who was lifting a lace curtain and

looking down into crowded Broadway.

 

The bath was a handsome affair, done in white enamel, with a large,

blue-bordered stone tub and nickel trimmings. It was bright and

commodious, with a beveled mirror set in the wall at one end and

incandescent lights arranged in three places.

 

"Do you find these satisfactory?" observed Mr. Withers.

 

"Oh, very," answered Carrie.

 

"Well, then, any time you find it convenient to move in, they are

ready. The boy will bring you the keys at the door."

 

Carrie noted the elegantly carpeted and decorated hall, the marbled

lobby, and showy waiting-room. It was such a place as she had often

dreamed of occupying.

 

"I guess we'd better move right away, don't you think so?" she observed

to Lola, thinking of the commonplace chamber in Seventeenth Street.

 

"Oh, by all means," said the latter.

 

The next day her trunks left for the new abode.

 

Dressing, after the matinee on Wednesday, a knock came at her dressing-

room door.

 

Carrie looked at the card handed by the boy and suffered a shock of

surprise.

 

"Tell her I'll be right out," she said softly. Then, looking at the

card, added: "Mrs. Vance."

 

"Why, you little sinner," the latter exclaimed, as she saw Carrie

coming toward her across the now vacant stage. "How in the world did

this happen?"

 

Carrie laughed merrily. There was no trace of embarrassment in her

friend's manner. You would have thought that the long separation had

come about accidentally.

 

"I don't know," returned Carrie, warming, in spite of her first

troubled feelings, toward this handsome, good-natured young matron.

 

"Well, you know, I saw your picture in the Sunday paper, but your name

threw me off. I thought it must be you or somebody that looked just

like you, and I said: 'Well, now, I will go right down there and see.'

I was never more surprised in my life. How are you, anyway?"

 

"Oh, very well," returned Carrie. "How have you been?"

 

"Fine. But aren't you a success! Dear, oh! All the papers talking

about you. I should think you would be just too proud to breathe. I

was almost afraid to come back here this afternoon."

 

"Oh, nonsense," said Carrie, blushing. "You know I'd be glad to see

you."

 

"Well, anyhow, here you are. Can't you come up and take dinner with me

now? Where are you stopping?"

 

"At the Wellington," said Carrie, who permitted herself a touch of

pride in the acknowledgment.

 

"Oh, are you?" exclaimed the other, upon whom the name was not without

its proper effect.

 

Tactfully, Mrs. Vance avoided the subject of Hurstwood, of whom she

could not help thinking. No doubt Carrie had left him. That much she

surmised.

 

"Oh, I don't think I can," said Carrie, "to-night. I have so little

time. I must be back here by 7.30. Won't you come and dine with me?"

 

"I'd be delighted, but I can't to-night," said Mrs. Vance studying

Carrie's fine appearance. The latter's good fortune made her seem more

than ever worthy and delightful in the others eyes. "I promised

faithfully to be home at six." Glancing at the small gold watch pinned

to her bosom, she added: "I must be going, too. Tell me when you're

coming up, if at all."

 

"Why, any time you like," said Carrie.

 

"Well, to-morrow then. I'm living at the Chelsea now."

 

"Moved again?" exclaimed Carrie, laughing.

 

"Yes. You know I can't stay six months in one place. I just have to

move. Remember now--half-past five."

 

"I won't forget," said Carrie, casting a glance at her as she went

away. Then it came to her that she was as good as this woman now--

perhaps better. Something in the other's solicitude and interest made

her feel as if she were the one to condescend.

 

Now, as on each preceding day, letters were handed her by the doorman

at the Casino. This was a feature which had rapidly developed since

Monday. What they contained she well knew. MASH NOTES were old

affairs in their mildest form. She remembered having received her

first one far back in Columbia City. Since then, as a chorus girl, she

had received others--gentlemen who prayed for an engagement. They were

common sport between her and Lola, who received some also. They both

frequently made light of them.

 

Now, however, they came thick and fast. Gentlemen with fortunes did

not hesitate to note, as an addition to their own amiable collection of

virtues, that they had their horses and carriages. Thus one:

 

"I have a million in my own right. I could give you every luxury.

There isn't anything you could ask for that you couldn't have. I say

this, not because I want to speak of my money, but because I love you

and wish to gratify your every desire. It is love that prompts me to

write. Will you not give me one half hour in which to plead my cause?"

 

Such of these letters as came while Carrie was still in the

Seventeenth Street place were read with more interest--though never

delight--than those which arrived after she was installed in her

luxurious quarters at the Wellington. Even there her vanity--or that

self-appreciation which, in its more rabid form, is called vanity--was

not sufficiently cloyed to make these things wearisome. Adulation,

being new in any form, pleased her. Only she was sufficiently wise to

distinguish between her old condition and her new one. She had not had

fame or money before. Now they had come. She had not had adulation and

affectionate propositions before. Now they had come. Wherefore? She

smiled to think that men should suddenly find her so much more

attractive. In the least way it incited her to coolness and

indifference.

 

"Do look here," she remarked to Lola. "See what this man says: 'If you

will only deign to grant me one half-hour,'" she repeated, with an

imitation of languor. "The idea. Aren't men silly?"

 

"He must have lots of money, the way he talks," observed Lola. "That's

what they all say," said Carrie, innocently.

 

"Why don't you see him," suggested Lola, "and hear what he has to say?"

 

"Indeed I won't," said Carrie. "I know what he'd say. I don't want to

meet anybody that way."

 

Lola looked at her with big, merry eyes.

 

"He couldn't hurt you," she returned. "You might have some fun with

him."

 

Carrie shook her head.

 

"You're awfully queer," returned the little, blue-eyed soldier.

 

Thus crowded fortune. For this whole week, though her large salary had

not yet arrived, it was as if the world understood and trusted her.

Without money--or the requisite sum, at least--she enjoyed the luxuries

which money could buy. For her the doors of fine places seemed to open

quite without the asking. These palatial chambers, how marvelously

they came to her. The elegant apartments of Mrs. Vance in the Chelsea-

-these were hers. Men sent flowers, love notes, offers of fortune. And

still her dreams ran riot. The one hundred and fifty! the one hundred

and fifty! What a door to an Aladdin's cave it seemed to be. Each day,

her head almost turned by developments, her fancies of what her fortune

must be, with ample money, grew and multiplied. She conceived of

delights which were not--saw lights of joy that never were on land or

sea. Then, at last, after a world of anticipation, came her first

installment of one hundred and fifty dollars.

 

It was paid to her in greenbacks--three twenties, six tens, and six

fives. Thus collected it made a very convenient roll. It was

accompanied by a smile and a salutation from the cashier who paid it.

 

"Ah, yes," said the latter, when she applied; "Miss Madenda--one

hundred and fifty dollars. Quite a success the show seems to have

made."

 

"Yes, indeed," returned Carrie.

 

Right after came one of the insignificant members of the company, and

she heard the changed tone of address.

 

"How much?" said the same cashier, sharply. One, such as she had only

recently been, was waiting for her modest salary. It took her back to

the few weeks in which she had collected--or rather had received--

almost with the air of a domestic, four-fifty per week from a lordly

foreman in a shoe factory--a man who, in distributing the envelopes,

had the manner of a prince doling out favors to a servile group of

petitioners. She knew that out in Chicago this very day the same

factory chamber was full of poor homely-clad girls working in long

lines at clattering machines; that at noon they would eat a miserable

lunch in a half-hour; that Saturday they would gather, as they had when

she was one of them, and accept the small pay for work a hundred times

harder than she was now doing. Oh, it was so easy now! The world was

so rosy and bright. She felt so thrilled that she must needs walk back

to the hotel to think, wondering what she should do.

 

It does not take money long to make plain its impotence, providing the

desires are in the realm of affection. With her one hundred and fifty

in hand, Carrie could think of nothing particularly to do. In itself,

as a tangible, apparent thing which she could touch and look upon, it

was a diverting thing for a few days, but this soon passed. Her hotel

bill did not require its use. Her clothes had for some time been

wholly satisfactory. Another day or two and she would receive another

hundred and fifty. It began to appear as if this were not so

startlingly necessary to maintain her present state. If she wanted to

do anything better or move higher she must have more--a great deal

more.

 

Now a critic called to get up one of those tinsel interviews which

shine with clever observations, show up the wit of critics, display the

folly of celebrities, and divert the public. He liked Carrie, and said

so, publicly--adding, however, that she was merely pretty, good-

natured, and lucky. This cut like a knife. The "Herald," getting up

an entertainment for the benefit of its free ice fund, did her the

honor to beg her to appear along with celebrities for nothing. She was

visited by a young author, who had a play which he thought she could

produce. Alas, she could not judge. It hurt her to think it. Then

she found she must put her money in the bank for safety, and so moving,

finally reached the place where it struck her that the door to life's

perfect enjoyment was not open.

 

Gradually she began to think it was because it was summer. Nothing was

going on much save such entertainments as the one in which she was the

star. Fifth Avenue was boarded up where the rich had deserted their

mansions. Madison Avenue was little better. Broadway was full of

loafing thespians in search of next season's engagements. The whole

city was quiet and her nights were taken up with her work. Hence the

feeling that there was little to do.

 

"I don't know," she said to Lola one day, sitting at one of the windows

which looked down into Broadway, "I get lonely; don't you?"

 

"No," said Lola, "not very often. You won't go anywhere. That's

what's the matter with you."

 

"Where can I go?"

 

"Why, there're lots of places," returned Lola, who was thinking of her

own lightsome tourneys with the gay youths. "You won't go with

anybody."

 

"I don't want to go with these people who write to me. I know what

kind they are."

 

"You oughtn't to be lonely," said Lola, thinking of Carrie's success.

"There're lots would give their ears to be in your shoes."

 

Carrie looked out again at the passing crowd.

 

"I don't know," she said.

 

Unconsciously her idle hands were beginning to weary.

 

 

Chapter XLV

CURIOUS SHIFTS OF THE POOR

 

The gloomy Hurstwood, sitting in his cheap hotel, where he had taken

refuge with seventy dollars--the price of his furniture-between him and

nothing, saw a hot summer out and a cool fall in, reading. He was not

wholly indifferent to the fact that his money was slipping away. As

fifty cents after fifty cents were paid out for a day's lodging he

became uneasy, and finally took a cheaper room--thirty-five cents a

day--to make his money last longer. Frequently he saw notices of

Carrie. Her picture was in the "World" once or twice, and an old

"Herald" he found in a chair informed him that she had recently

appeared with some others at a benefit for something or other. He read

these things with mingled feelings. Each one seemed to put her farther

and farther away into a realm which became more imposing as it receded

from him. On the billboards, too, he saw a pretty poster, showing her

as the Quaker Maid, demure and dainty. More than once he stopped and

looked at these, gazing at the pretty face in a sullen sort of way.

His clothes were shabby, and he presented a marked contrast to all that

she now seemed to be.

 

Somehow, so long as he knew she was at the Casino, though he had never

any intention of going near her, there was a subconscious comfort for

him--he was not quite alone. The show seemed such a fixture that,

after a month or two, he began to take it for granted that it was still

running. In September it went on the road and he did not notice it.

When all but twenty dollars of his money was gone, he moved to a

fifteen-cent lodging-house in the Bowery, where there was a bare

lounging-room filled with tables and benches as well as some chairs.

Here his preference was to close his eyes and dream of other days, a

habit which grew upon him. It was not sleep at first, but a mental

hearkening back to scenes and incidents in his Chicago life. As the

present became darker, the past grew brighter, and all that concerned

it stood in relief.

 

He was unconscious of just how much this habit had hold of him until

one day he found his lips repeating an old answer he had made to one of

his friends. They were in Fitzgerald and Moy's. It was as if he stood

in the door of his elegant little office, comfortably dressed, talking

to Sagar Morrison about the value of South Chicago real estate in which

the latter was about to invest.

 

"How would you like to come in on that with me?" he heard Morrison say.

 

"Not me," he answered, just as he had years before. "I have my hands

full now."

 

The movement of his lips aroused him. He wondered whether he had

really spoken. The next time he noticed anything of the sort he really

did talk.

 

"Why don't you jump, you bloody fool?" he was saying. "Jump!"

 

It was a funny English story he was telling to a company of actors.

Even as his voice recalled him, he was smiling. A crusty old codger,

sitting near by, seemed disturbed; at least, he stared in a most

pointed way. Hurstwood straightened up. The humor of the memory fled

in an instant and he felt ashamed. For relief, he left his chair and

strolled out into the streets.

 

One day, looking down the ad. columns of the "Evening World," he saw