Sister Carrie 28 страница

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 parlour 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 parlour, 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 bevelled 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 halfhour 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 marvellously 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 favours 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 honour 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 humour 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 where a new play was at the Casino. Instantly, he came to a mental halt. Carrie had gone! He remembered seeing a poster of her only yesterday, but no doubt it was one left uncovered by the new signs. Curiously, this fact shook him up. He had almost to admit that somehow he was depending upon her being in the city. Now she was gone. He wondered how this important fact had skipped him. Goodness knows when she would be back now. Impelled by a nervous fear, he rose and went into the dingy hall, where he counted his remaining money, unseen. There were but ten dollars in all.

He wondered how all these other lodging-house people around him got along. They didn't seem to do anything. Perhaps they begged—unquestionably they did. Many was the dime he had given to such as they in his day. He had seen other men asking for money on the streets. Maybe he could get some that way. There was horror in this thought.

Sitting in the lodging-house room, he came to his last fifty cents. He had saved and counted until his health was affected. His stoutness had gone. With it, even the semblance of a fit in his clothes. Now he decided he must do something, and, walking about, saw another day go by, bringing him down to his last twenty cents—not enough to eat for the morrow.

Summoning all his courage, he crossed to Broadway and up to the Broadway Central hotel. Within a block he halted, undecided. A big, heavy-faced porter was standing at one of the side entrances, looking out. Hurstwood purposed to appeal to him. Walking straight up, he was upon him before he could turn away.

“My friend, ” he said, recognising even in his plight the man's inferiority, “is there anything about this hotel that I could get to do? ”

The porter stared at him the while he continued to talk.

“I'm out of work and out of money and I've got to get something, — it doesn't matter what. I don't care to talk about what I've been, but if you'd tell me how to get something to do, I'd be much obliged to you. It wouldn't matter if it only lasted a few days just now. I've got to have something. ”

The porter still gazed, trying to look indifferent. Then, seeing that Hurstwood was about to go on, he said:

“I've nothing to do with it. You'll have to ask inside. ”

Curiously, this stirred Hurstwood to further effort.

“I thought you might tell me. ”

The fellow shook his head irritably.

Inside went the ex-manager and straight to an office off the clerk's desk. One of the managers of the hotel happened to be there. Hurstwood looked him straight in the eye.

“Could you give me something to do for a few days? ” he said. “I'm in a position where I have to get something at once. ”

The comfortable manager looked at him, as much as to say: “Well, I should judge so. ”

“I came here, ” explained Hurstwood, nervously, “because I've been a manager myself in my day. I've had bad luck in a way but I'm not here to tell you that. I want something to do, if only for a week. ”

The man imagined he saw a feverish gleam in the applicant's eye.

“What hotel did you manage? ” he inquired.

“It wasn't a hotel, ” said Hurstwood. “I was manager of Fitzgerald and Moy's place in Chicago for fifteen years. ”

“Is that so? ” said the hotel man. “How did you come to get out of that? ”

The figure of Hurstwood was rather surprising in contrast to the fact.

“Well, by foolishness of my own. It isn't anything to talk about now. You could find out if you wanted to. I'm 'broke' now and, if you will believe me, I haven't eaten anything to-day. ”

The hotel man was slightly interested in this story. He could hardly tell what to do with such a figure, and yet Hurstwood's earnestness made him wish to do something.

“Call Olsen, ” he said, turning to the clerk.

In reply to a bell and a disappearing hall-boy, Olsen, the head porter, appeared.

“Olsen, ” said the manager, “is there anything downstairs you could find for this man to do? I'd like to give him something. ”

“I don't know, sir, ” said Olsen. “We have about all the help we need. I think I could find something, sir, though, if you like. ”

“Do. Take him to the kitchen and tell Wilson to give him something to eat. ”

“All right, sir, ” said Olsen.

Hurstwood followed. Out of the manager's sight, the head porter's manner changed.

“I don't know what the devil there is to do, ” he observed.

Hurstwood said nothing. To him the big trunk hustler was a subject for private contempt.

“You're to give this man something to eat, ” he observed to the cook.

The latter looked Hurstwood over, and seeing something keen and intellectual in his eyes, said:

“Well, sit down over there. ”

Thus was Hurstwood installed in the Broadway Central, but not for long. He was in no shape or mood to do the scrub work that exists about the foundation of every hotel. Nothing better offering, he was set to aid the fireman, to work about the basement, to do anything and everything that might offer. Porters, cooks, firemen, clerks—all were over him. Moreover his appearance did not please these individuals—his temper was too lonely—and they made it disagreeable for him.

With the stolidity and indifference of despair, however, he endured it all, sleeping in an attic at the roof of the house, eating what the cook gave him, accepting a few dollars a week, which he tried to save. His constitution was in no shape to endure.

One day the following February he was sent on an errand to a large coal company's office. It had been snowing and thawing and the streets were sloppy. He soaked his shoes in his progress and came back feeling dull and weary. All the next day he felt unusually depressed and sat about as much as possible, to the irritation of those who admired energy in others.

In the afternoon some boxes were to be moved to make room for new culinary supplies. He was ordered to handle a truck. Encountering a big box, he could not lift it.

“What's the matter there? ” said the head porter. “Can't you handle it? ”

He was straining to lift it, but now he quit.

“No, ” he said, weakly.

The man looked at him and saw that he was deathly pale.

“Not sick, are you? ” he asked. “I think I am, ” returned Hurstwood.

“Well, you'd better go sit down, then. ”

This he did, but soon grew rapidly worse. It seemed all he could do to crawl to his room, where he remained for a day.

“That man Wheeler's sick, ” reported one of the lackeys to the night clerk.

“What's the matter with him? ”

“I don't know. He's got a high fever. ”

The hotel physician looked at him.

“Better send him to Bellevue, ” he recommended. “He's got pneumonia. ”

Accordingly, he was carted away.

In three weeks the worst was over, but it was nearly the first of May before his strength permitted him to be turned out. Then he was discharged.

No more weakly looking object ever strolled out into the spring sunshine than the once hale, lusty manager. All his corpulency had fled. His face was thin and pale, his hands white, his body flabby. Clothes and all, he weighed but one hundred and thirtyfive pounds. Some old garments had been given him—a cheap brown coat and misfit pair of trousers. Also some change and advice. He was told to apply to the charities.

Again he resorted to the Bowery lodging-house, brooding over where to look. From this it was but a step to beggary.

“What can a man do? ” he said. “I can't starve. ”

His first application was in sunny Second Avenue. A well-dressed man came leisurely strolling toward him out of Stuyvesant Park. Hurstwood nerved himself and sidled near.

“Would you mind giving me ten cents? ” he said, directly. “I'm in a position where I must ask some one. ”

The man scarcely looked at him, fished in his vest pocket and took out a dime.

“There you are, ” he said.

“Much obliged, ” said Hurstwood, softly, but the other paid no more attention to him.

Satisfied with his success and yet ashamed of his situation, he decided that he would only ask for twenty-five cents more, since that would be sufficient. He strolled about sizing up people, but it was long before just the right face and situation arrived. When he asked, he was refused. Shocked by this result, he took an hour to recover and then asked again. This time a nickel was given him. By the most watchful effort he did get twenty cents more, but it was painful.

The next day he resorted to the same effort, experiencing a variety of rebuffs and one or two generous receptions. At last it crossed his mind that there was a science of faces, and that a man could pick the liberal countenance if he tried.

It was no pleasure to him, however, this stopping of passers-by. He saw one man taken up for it and now troubled lest he should be arrested. Nevertheless, he went on, vaguely anticipating that indefinite something which is always better.

It was with a sense of satisfaction, then, that he saw announced one morning the return of the Casino Company, “with Miss Carrie Madenda. ” He had thought of her often enough in days past. How successful she was—how much money she must have! Even now, however, it took a severe run of ill luck to decide him to appeal to her. He was truly hungry before he said:

“I'll ask her. She won't refuse me a few dollars. ”

Accordingly, he headed for the Casino one afternoon, passing it several times in an effort to locate the stage entrance. Then he sat in Bryant Park, a block away, waiting. “She can't refuse to help me a little, ” he kept saying to himself.

Beginning with half-past six, he hovered like a shadow about the Thirty-ninth Street entrance, pretending always to be a hurrying pedestrian and yet fearful lest he should miss his object. He was slightly nervous, too, now that the eventful hour had arrived; but being weak and hungry, his ability to suffer was modified. At last he saw that the actors were beginning to arrive, and his nervous tension increased, until it seemed as if he could not stand much more.

Once he thought he saw Carrie coming and moved forward, only to see that he was mistaken.

“She can't be long, now, ” he said to himself, half fearing to encounter her and equally depressed at the thought that she might have gone in by another way. His stomach was so empty that it ached.

Individual after individual passed him, nearly all well dressed, almost all indifferent. He saw coaches rolling by, gentlemen passing with ladies—the evening's merriment was beginning in this region of theatres and hotels.

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