Sister Carrie (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Theodore Dreiser

  “Oh, thank you.”

  “I was just telling her,” put in Drouet, now delighted with his possession, “that I thought she did fine.”

  “Indeed you did,” said Hurstwood, turning upon Carrie eyes in which she read more than the words.

  Carrie laughed luxuriantly.

  “If you do as well in the rest of the play, you will make us all think you are a born actress.”

  Carrie smiled again. She felt the acuteness of Hurstwood’s position, and wished deeply that she could be alone with him, but she did not understand the change in Drouet. Hurstwood found that he could not talk, repressed as he was, and grudging Drouet every moment of his presence, he bowed himself out with the elegance of a Faust. Outside he set his teeth with envy.

  “Damn it!” he said, “is he always going to be in the way?” He was moody when he got back to the box, and could not talk for thinking of his wretched situation.

  As the curtain for the next act arose, Drouet came back. He was very much enlivened in temper and inclined to whisper, but Hurstwood pretended interest. He fixed his eyes on the stage, although Carrie was not there, a short bit of melodramatic comedy preceding her entrance. He did not see what was going on, however. He was thinking his own thoughts, and they were wretched.

  The progress of the play did not improve matters for him. Carrie, from now on, was easily the centre of interest. The audience, which had been inclined to feel that nothing could be good after the first gloomy impression, now went to the other extreme and saw power where it was not. The general feeling reacted on Carrie. She presented her part with some felicity, though nothing like the intensity which had aroused the feeling at the end of the long first act.

  Both Hurstwood and Drouet viewed her pretty figure with rising feelings. The fact that such ability should reveal itself in her, that they should see it set forth under such effective circumstances, framed almost in massy gold and shone upon by the appropriate lights of sentiment and personality, heightened her charm for them. She was more than the old Carrie to Drouet. He longed to be at home with her until he could tell her. He awaited impatiently the end, when they should go home alone.

  Hurstwood, on the contrary, saw in the strength of her new attractiveness his miserable predicament. He could have cursed the man beside him. By the Lord, he could not even applaud feelingly as he would. For once he must simulate when it left a taste in his mouth.

  It was in the last act that Carrie’s fascination for her lovers assumed its most effective character.

  Hurstwood listened to its progress, wondering when Carrie would come on. He had not long to wait. The author had used the artifice of sending all the merry company for a drive, and now Carrie came in alone. It was the first time that Hurstwood had had a chance to see her facing the audience quite alone, for nowhere else had she been without a foil of some sort. He suddenly felt, as she entered, that her old strength—the power that had grasped him at the end of the first act—had come back. She seemed to be gaining feeling, now that the play was drawing to a close and the opportunity for great action was passing.

  “Poor Pearl,” she said, speaking with natural pathos. “It is a sad thing to want for happiness, but it is a terrible thing to see another groping about blindly for it, when it is almost within the grasp.”

  She was gazing now sadly out upon the open sea, her arm resting listlessly upon the polished door-post.

  Hurstwood began to feel a deep sympathy for her and for himself. He could almost feel that she was talking to him. He was, by a combination of feelings and entanglements, almost deluded by that quality of voice and manner which, like a pathetic strain of music, seems ever a personal and intimate thing. Pathos has this quality, that it seems ever addressed to one alone.

  “And yet, she can be very happy with him,” went on the little actress. “Her sunny temper, her joyous face will brighten any home.”

  She turned slowly toward the audience without seeing. There was so much simplicity in her movements that she seemed wholly alone. Then she found a seat by a table, and turned over some books, devoting a thought to them.

  “With no longings for what I may not have,” she breathed in conclusion—and it was almost a sigh—“my existence hidden from all save two in the wide world, and making my joy out of the joy of that innocent girl who will soon be his wife.”

  Hurstwood was sorry when a character, known as Peach Blossom, interrupted her. He stirred irritably, for he wished her to go on. He was charmed by the pale face, the lissome figure, draped in pearl grey, with a coiled string of pearls at the throat. Carrie had the air of one who was weary and in need of protection, and, under the fascinating make-believe of the moment, he rose in feeling until he was ready in spirit to go to her and ease her out of her misery by adding to his own delight.

  In a moment Carrie was alone again, and was saying, with animation:

  “I must return to the city, no matter what dangers may lurk here. I must go, secretly if I can; openly, if I must.”

  There was a sound of horses’ hoofs outside, and then Ray’s voice saying:

  “No, I shall not ride again. Put him up.”

  He entered, and then began a scene which had as much to do with the creation of the tragedy of affection in Hurstwood as anything in his peculiar and involved career. For Carrie had resolved to make something of this scene, and, now that the cue had come, it began to take a feeling hold upon her. Both Hurstwood and Drouet noted the rising sentiment as she proceeded.

  “I thought you had gone with Pearl,” she said to her lover.

  “I did go part of the way, but I left the party a mile down the road.”

  “You and Pearl had no disagreement?”

  “No—yes; that is, we always have. Our social barometers always stand at ‘cloudy’ and ‘overcast.’ ”

  “And whose fault is that?” she said, easily.

  “Not mine,” he answered, pettishly. “I know I do all I can—I say all I can—but she—”

  This was rather awkwardly put by Patton, but Carrie redeemed it with a grace which was inspiring.

  “But she is your wife,” she said, fixing her whole attention upon the stilled actor, and softening the quality of her voice until it was again low and musical. “Ray, my friend, courtship is the text from which the whole sermon of married life takes its theme. Do not let yours be discontented and unhappy.”

  She put her two little hands together and pressed them appealingly.

  Hurstwood gazed with slightly parted lips. Drouet was fidgeting with satisfaction.

  “To be my wife, yes,” went on the actor in a manner which was weak by comparison, but which could not now spoil the tender atmosphere which Carrie had created and maintained. She did not seem to feel that he was wretched. She would have done nearly as well with a block of wood. The accessories she needed were within her own imagination. The acting of others could not affect them.

  “And you repent already?” she said, slowly.

  “I lost you,” he said, seizing her little hand, “and I was at the mercy of any flirt who chose to give me an inviting look. It was your fault—you know it was—why did you leave me?”

  Carrie turned slowly away, and seemed to be mastering some impulse in silence. Then she turned back.

  “Ray,” she said, “the greatest happiness I have ever felt has been the thought that all your affection was forever bestowed upon a virtuous woman, your equal in family, fortune, and accomplishments. What a revelation do you make to me now! What is it makes you continually war with your happiness?”

  The last question was asked so simply that it came to the audience and the lover as a personal thing.

  At last it came to the part where the lover exclaimed, “Be to me as you used to be.”

  Carrie answered, with affecting sweetness, “I cannot be that to you, but I can speak in the spirit of the Laura who is dead to you forever.”

  “Be it as you will,” said Patton.

  Hurstwood leaned forward. T
he whole audience was silent and intent.

  “Let the woman you look upon be wise or vain,” said Carrie, her eyes bent sadly upon the lover, who had sunk into a seat, “beautiful or homely, rich or poor, she has but one thing she can really give or refuse—her heart.”

  Drouet felt a scratch in his throat. “Her beauty, her wit, her accomplishments, she may sell to you; but her love is the treasure without money and without price.”

  The manager suffered this as a personal appeal. It came to him as if they were alone, and he could hardly restrain the tears for sorrow over the hopeless, pathetic, and yet dainty and appealing woman whom he loved. Drouet also was beside himself. He was resolving that he would be to Carrie what he had never been before. He would marry her, by George! She was worth it.

  “She asks only in return,” said Carrie, scarcely hearing the small, scheduled reply of her lover, and putting herself even more in harmony with the plaintive melody now issuing from the orchestra, “that when you look upon her your eyes shall speak devotion; that when you address her your voice shall be gentle, loving, and kind; that you shall not despise her because she cannot understand all at once your vigorous thoughts and ambitious designs; for, when misfortune and evil have defeated your greatest purposes, her love remains to console you. You look to the trees,” she continued, while Hurstwood restrained his feelings only by the grimmest repression, “for strength and grandeur; do not despise the flowers because their fragrance is all they have to give. Remember,” she concluded, tenderly, “love is all a woman has to give,” and she laid a strange, sweet accent on the all, “but it is the only thing which God permits us to carry beyond the grave.”

  The two men were in the most harrowed state of affection. They scarcely heard the few remaining words with which the scene concluded. They only saw their idol, moving about with appealing grace, continuing a power which to them was a revelation.

  Hurstwood resolved a thousand things, Drouet as well. They joined equally in the burst of applause which called Carrie out. Drouet pounded his hands until they ached. Then he jumped up again and started out. As he went, Carrie came out, and, seeing an immense basket of flowers being hurried down the aisle toward her, she waited. They were Hurstwood’s. She looked toward the manager’s box for a moment, caught his eye, and smiled. He could have leaped out of the box to enfold her. He forgot the need of circumspectness which his married state enforced. He almost forgot that he had with him in the box those who knew him. By the Lord, he would have that lovely girl if it took his all. He would act at once. This should be the end of Drouet, and don’t you forget it. He would not wait another day. The drummer should not have her.

  He was so excited that he could not stay in the box. He went into the lobby, and then into the street, thinking. Drouet did not return. In a few minutes the last act was over, and he was crazy to have Carrie alone. He cursed the luck that could keep him smiling, bowing, shamming, when he wanted to tell her that he loved her, when he wanted to whisper to her alone. He groaned as he saw that his hopes were futile. He must even take her to supper, shamming. He finally went about and asked how she was getting along. The actors were all dressing, talking, hurrying about. Drouet was palavering himself with the looseness of excitement and passion. The manager mastered himself only by a great effort.

  “We are going to supper, of course,” he said, with a voice that was a mockery of his heart.

  “Oh, yes,” said Carrie, smiling.

  The little actress was in fine feather. She was realising now what it was to be petted. For once she was the admired, the sought-for. The independence of success now made its first faint showing. With the tables turned, she was looking down, rather than up, to her lover. She did not fully realise that this was so, but there was something in condescension coming from her which was infinitely sweet. When she was ready they climbed into the waiting coach and drove down town; once, only, did she find an opportunity to express her feeling, and that was when the manager preceded Drouet in the coach and sat beside her. Before Drouet was fully in she had squeezed Hurstwood’s hand in a gentle, impulsive manner. The manager was beside himself with affection. He could have sold his soul to be with her alone. “Ah,” he thought, “the agony of it.”

  Drouet hung on, thinking he was all in all. The dinner was spoiled by his enthusiasm. Hurstwood went home feeling as if he should die if he did not find affectionate relief. He whispered “to-morrow” passionately to Carrie, and she understood. He walked away from the drummer and his prize at parting feeling as if he could slay him and not regret. Carrie also felt the misery of it.

  “Good-night,” he said, simulating an easy friendliness.

  “Good-night,” said the little actress, tenderly.

  “The fool!” he said, now hating Drouet. “The idiot! I’ll do him yet, and that quick! We’ll see to-morrow.”

  “Well, if you aren’t a wonder,” Drouet was saying, complacently, squeezing Carrie’s arm. “You are the dandiest little girl on earth.”

  CHAPTER XX

  THE LURE OF THE SPIRIT:

  THE FLESH IN PURSUIT

  PASSION IN A MAN of Hurstwood’s nature takes a vigorous form. It is no musing, dreamy thing. There is none of the tendency to sing outside of my lady’s window—to languish and repine in the face of difficulties. In the night he was long getting to sleep because of too much thinking, and in the morning he was early awake, seizing with alacrity upon the same dear subject and pursuing it with vigour. He was out of sorts physically, as well as disordered mentally, for did he not delight in a new manner in his Carrie, and was not Drouet in the way? Never was man more harassed than he by the thoughts of his love being held by the elated, flush-mannered drummer. He would have given anything, it seemed to him, to have the complication ended—to have Carrie acquiesce to an arrangement which would dispose of Drouet effectually and forever.

  What to do. He dressed thinking. He moved about in the same chamber with his wife, unmindful of her presence.

  At breakfast he found himself without an appetite. The meat to which he helped himself remained on his plate untouched. His coffee grew cold, while he scanned the paper indifferently. Here and there he read a little thing, but remembered nothing. Jessica had not yet come down. His wife sat at one end of the table revolving thoughts of her own in silence. A new servant had been recently installed and had forgot the napkins. On this account the silence was irritably broken by a reproof.

  “I’ve told you about this before, Maggie,” said Mrs. Hurstwood. “I’m not going to tell you again.”

  Hurstwood took a glance at his wife. She was frowning. Just now her manner irritated him excessively. Her next remark was addressed to him.

  “Have you made up your mind, George, when you will take your vacation?”

  It was customary for them to discuss the regular summer outing at this season of the year.

  “Not yet,” he said, “I’m very busy just now.”

  “Well, you’ll want to make up your mind pretty soon, won’t you, if we’re going?” she returned.

  “I guess we have a few days yet,” he said.

  “Hmff,” she returned. “Don’t wait until the season’s over.”

  She stirred in aggravation as she said this.

  “There you go again,” he observed. “One would think I never did anything, the way you begin.”

  “Well, I want to know about it,” she reiterated.

  “You’ve got a few days yet,” he insisted. “You’ll not want to start before the races are over.”

  He was irritated to think that this should come up when he wished to have his thoughts for other purposes.

  “Well, we may. Jessica doesn’t want to stay until the end of the races.”

  “What did you want with a season ticket, then?”

  “Uh!” she said, using the sound as an exclamation of disgust, “I’ll not argue with you,” and therewith arose to leave the table.

  “Say,” he said, rising, putting a note of determinat
ion in his voice which caused her to delay her departure, “what’s the matter with you of late? Can’t I talk with you any more?”

  “Certainly, you can talk with me,” she replied, laying emphasis on the word.

  “Well, you wouldn’t think so by the way you act. Now, you want to know when I’ll be ready—not for a month yet. Maybe not then.”

  “We’ll go without you.”

  “You will, eh?” he sneered.

  “Yes, we will.”

  He was astonished at the woman’s determination, but it only irritated him the more.

  “Well, we’ll see about that. It seems to me you’re trying to run things with a pretty high hand of late. You talk as though you settled my affairs for me. Well, you don’t. You don’t regulate anything that’s connected with me. If you want to go, go, but you won’t hurry me by any such talk as that.”

  He was thoroughly aroused now. His dark eyes snapped, and he crunched his paper as he laid it down. Mrs. Hurstwood said nothing more. He was just finishing when she turned on her heel and went out into the hall and upstairs. He paused for a moment, as if hesitating, then sat down and drank a little coffee, and thereafter arose and went for his hat and gloves upon the main floor.

  His wife had really not anticipated a row of this character. She had come down to the breakfast table feeling a little out of sorts with herself and revolving a scheme which she had in her mind. Jessica had called her attention to the fact that the races were not what they were supposed to be. The social opportunities were not what they had thought they would be this year. The beautiful girl found going every day a dull thing. There was an earlier exodus this year of people who were anybody to the watering places and Europe. In her own circle of acquaintances several young men in whom she was interested had gone to Waukesha. She began to feel that she would like to go too, and her mother agreed with her.

  Accordingly, Mrs. Hurstwood decided to broach the subject. She was thinking this over when she came down to the table, but for some reason the atmosphere was wrong. She was not sure, after it was all over, just how the trouble had begun. She was determined now, however, that her husband was a brute, and that, under no circumstances, would she let this go by unsettled. She would have more lady-like treatment or she would know why.