 Chapter 43 of Sister Carrie. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Andrea Deans. Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreischer. Chapter 43 The World Turns Flatter An Eye in the Dark Installed in her comfortable room, Carrie wondered how Hearstwood had taken her departure. She arranged a few things hastily and then left for the theater, half expecting to encounter him at the door. Not finding him, her dread lifted, and she felt more kindly toward him. She quite forgot him until about to come out after the show, when the chance of his being there frightened her. As day after day passed, and she heard nothing at all, the thought of being bothered by him passed. In a little while she was, except for occasional thoughts, wholly free of the gloom with which her life had been weighted in the flat. It is curious to know how quickly a profession absorbs one. Carrie became wise in theatrical lore, hearing the gossip of Little Lola. She learned what the theatrical papers were, which ones published items about actresses and the like. She began to read the newspaper notices, not only of the opera in which she had so small a part, but of others. Gradually the desire for notice took hold of her. She longed to be renowned like others, and read with avidity all the complementary or critical comments made concerning others high in her profession. The showy world in which her interests lay completely absorbed her. It was about this time that the newspapers and magazines were beginning to pay their illustrative attention to the beauties of the stage, which has since become fervid. The newspapers, and particularly the Sunday newspapers, indulged in large decorative theatrical pages, in which the faces and forms of well-known theatrical celebrities appeared, enclosed with artistic scrolls. The magazines also, or at least one or two of the newer ones, published occasional portraits of pretty stars, and now and again photos of scenes from various plays. Carrie watched these with growing interest. When would a scene from her opera appear? When would some paper think her photo worthwhile? The Sunday before taking her new part, she scanned the theatrical pages for some little notice. It would have accorded with her expectations if nothing had been said, but there in the squibs, tailing off several more substantial items, was a we-notice. Carrie read it with a tingling body. The part of Katasha, the country made, in the wise of Abdul, at the Broadway, here before played by Inez Karoo, will be hereafter filled by Carrie Madenda, one of the cleverest members of the chorus. Carrie hugged herself with delight. Oh, wasn't it just fine? It last. The first, the long hoped for, the delightful notice, and they called her clever. She could hardly restrain herself from laughing loudly. Had Lola seen it? They've got a notice here of the part I'm going to play tomorrow night," said Carrie to her friend. Oh jolly, have they cried, Lola, running to her? That's all right, she said, looking. You'll get more now if you do well. I had my picture in the world once. Did you ask Carrie? Did I? Well, I should say returned the little girl. They had a frame around it. Carrie laughed. They've never published my picture. But they will, said Lola. You'll see. You'll do better than most that get theirs in now. Carrie felt deeply grateful for this. She almost loved Lola for the sympathy and praise she extended. It was so helpful to her. So almost necessary. Fulfilling her part capably brought another notice in the papers that she was doing her work acceptably. This pleased her immensely. She began to think the world was taking note of her. The first week she got her $35, it seemed an enormous sum. Paying only $3 for room rent seemed ridiculous. After giving Lola her $25, she still had $7 left. With four left over from previous earnings, she had 11. Five of this went to pay the regular installment on the clothes she had to buy. The next week she was an even greater feather. Now only $3 need to be paid for room rent and five on her clothes. The rest she had for food and her own whims. You'd better save a little for summer, cautioned Lola. We'll probably close in May. I intend to, said Carrie. The regular entrance of $35 a week to one who has endured scan allowances for several years is a demoralizing thing. Carrie found her purse bursting with good green bells of comfortable denominations. Having no one dependent upon her, she began to buy pretty clothes and pleasing trinkets to eat well and to ornament her room. Friends were not long in gathering about. She met a few young men who belonged to Lola's staff. The members of the opera company made her acquaintance without the formality of introduction. One of these discovered a fancy for her. On several occasions he strolled home with her. Let's stop and have a rare bit, he suggested one midnight. Very well, said Carrie. In the Rosie restaurant, filled with the merry lovers of late hours, she found herself criticizing this man. He was too stilted, too self-opinionated. He did not talk of anything that lifted her above the common run of clothes and material success. When it was all over, he smiled most graciously. Got to go straight home, have you, he said. Yes, she answered, with an air of quiet understanding. She's not so inexperienced as she looks, he thought, and thereafter his respect and ardor were increased. She could not help sharing in Lola's love for a good time. There were days when they went carriage-riding, nights when after the show they dined, afternoons when they strode along Broadway, tastefully dressed. She was getting in the metropolitan world of pleasure. At last her picture appeared in one of the weeklies. She had not known of it, and it took her breath. Miss Carrie Madenda, it was labeled, one of the favorites of the Wives of Abdul Company. At Lola's advice, she had some pictures taken by Sironi. They had got one there. She thought of going down and buying a few copies of the paper, but remembered that there was no one she knew well enough to send them to. Only Lola, apparently, in all the world, was interested. The Metropolis is a cold place socially, and Carrie soon found that a little money brought her nothing. The world of wealth and distinction was quite as far away as ever. She could feel that there was no warm, sympathetic friendship back of the easy merry men with which many approached her. All seemed to be seeking their own amusement, regardless of the possible sad consequence to others, so much for the lessons of Hearstwood and Druid. In April, she learned that the opera would probably last until the middle or end of May, according to the size of the audiences. Next season, it would go on the road. She wondered if she would be with it. As usual, Miss Osbourne, owing to her moderate salary, was for securing a home engagement. They're putting on a summer play at the casino, she announced, after figuratively putting her ear to the ground. Let's try and get in that. I'm willing, said Carrie. They tried in time and were apprised of the proper date to apply again. That was May 16th. Meanwhile, their own show closed May 5th. Those that want to go with the show next season, said the manager, will have to sign this week. Don't you sign it, Dries Lola. I wouldn't go. I know, said Carrie, but maybe I can't get anything else. Well, I won't, said the little girl, who had a resource in her admirers. I went once and I didn't have anything at the end of the season. Carrie thought this over. She had never been on the road. We can get along, added Lola. I always have. Carrie did not sign. The manager, who was putting on the summer skid at the casino, had never heard of Carrie, but the several notices she had received, her published picture, and the program bearing her name, had some little weight with him. He gave her a silent part at $30 a week. Didn't I tell you, said Lola? It doesn't do you any good to go away from New York. They forget all about you, if you do. Now, because Carrie was pretty, the gentlemen who made up the advanced illustrations of shows about to appear for the Sunday papers selected Carrie's photo, along with others, to illustrate the announcement. Because she was very pretty, they gave it excellent space and drew scrolls about it. Carrie was delighted. Still, the management did not seem to have seen anything of it. At least no more attention was paid to her than before. At the same time, there seemed very little in her part. It consisted of standing around in all sorts of scenes, a silent little quakeress. The author of the skit had fancied that a great deal could be made of such a part, given to the right actress. But now, since it had been doled out to Carrie, he would as leave had had it cut out. Don't kick old man, remarked the manager. If it don't go the first week, we will cut it out. Carrie had no warning of this healthy unintention. She practiced her part ruefully, feeling that she was effectively shelved. At the dress rehearsal, she was disconsolate. That isn't so bad, said the author, the manager noting the curious effect which Carrie's blues had upon the part. Tell her to frown a little more when sparks dances. Carrie did not know it, but there was the least show of wrinkles between her eyes and her mouth was puckered quaintly. Frown a little more Ms. Madenda, said the stage manager. Carrie instantly brightened up, thinking he had meant it as a rebuke. No, frown, he said. Frown as you did before. Carrie looked at him in astonishment. I mean it, he said. Frown hard when Mr. Sparks dances. I want to see how it looks. It was easy enough to do. Carrie scowled. The effect was something so quaint and droll, it caught even the manager. That is good, he said. If she'll do that all through, I think it will take. Going over to Carrie, he said. Suppose you try frowning all through. Do it hard, look mad. It'll make the part really funny. On the opening night, it looked to Carrie as if there was nothing to her part after all. The happy, swallowing audience did not seem to see her in the first act. She frowned and frowned, but to no effect. Eyes were riveted upon the more elaborate efforts of the stars. In the second act, the crowd, wearied by adult conversation, roved with its eyes about the stage and sighted her. There she was, grey-suited, sweet-faced, demure but scowling. At first the general idea was that she was temporarily irritated, that the look was genuine and not fun at all. As she went on frowning, looking now at one principle and now at the other, the audience began to smile. The poorly gentleman in the front rows began to feel that she was a delicious little morsel. It was the kind of frown they would have loved to force away with kisses. All the gentleman yearned toward her. She was capitol. At last the chief comedian, singing in the center of the stage, noticed a giggle where it was not expected. Then another and another. When the place came up for loud applause, it was only moderate. What could be the trouble? He realized that something was up. All at once, after an exit, he caught sight of Carrie. She was frowning alone on the stage, and the audience was giggling and laughing. By George, I won't stand that, thought the Thespian. I'm not going to have my work cut up by someone else. Either she quits that when I do my turn, or I quit. Well, that's all right, said the manager when the kick came. That's what she's supposed to do. You needn't pay any attention to that. But she ruins my work. No, she don't return the former soothingly. It's only a little fun on the side. It is a, exclaimed the big comedian. She killed my hand all right. I'm not going to stand that. Well, wait until after the show. Wait until tomorrow. We'll see what we can do. The next act, however, settled what was to be done. Carrie was the chief feature of the play. The audience, the more it studied her, the more indicated its delight. Every other feature paled beside the quaint, teasing, delightful atmosphere, which Carrie contributed while on the stage. Manager and company realized she had made a hit. The critics of the daily papers completed her triumph. There were long notices and praise of the quality of the burlesque touched with recurrent references to Carrie. The contagious mirth of the thing was repeatedly emphasized. Miss Madenda presents one of the most delightful bits of character work ever seen on the casino stage, observed the sage critic of the sun. It is a bit of quiet, unassuming drullery, which warms like good wine. Evidently, the pirate was not attended to take precedence, as Miss Madenda is not often on the stage. But the audience, with the characteristic perversity of such bodies, selected for itself. The little quakeress was marked for her favorite, the moment she appeared, and thereafter easily held attention and applause. The vagaries of fortune are indeed curious. The critic of the evening world, seeking as usual to establish a catchphrase which should go with the town, wound up by advising, if you wish to be merry, see Carrie frown. The result was miraculous so far as Carrie's fortune was concerned. Even during the morning she received a congratulatory message from the manager. You seem to have taken the town by storm, he wrote. This is delightful. I am as glad for your sake as for my own. The author also sent word. That evening, when she entered the theater, the manager had a most 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, return 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 minutes before you dress, observe 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 manner of salary. Your contract here only calls for $30 a week for the next three months. How would it do to make it, say, $150 a week and extend it for 12 months? Oh, very well, said Carrie, scarcely believing her ears. Supposing then you'd 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. $150 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 Hearstwood 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 upon a dingy, moth-eaten hotel lobby. I guess she 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. When Carrie got back on the stage, she found that overnight her dressing room had been changed. You were to use this room, Miss Madenda, said one of the stage members. Well, I guess she was meant to be, but she was not meant to be. She was meant to be. She was meant to be. You were 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 to say how friendly we have always been. Only the star comedian, whose pirate had been so deeply injured, stopped 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 leaps, ball after ball. 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 hooker 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 Cary. Well, I am connected with the Wellington, the new hotel on Broadway. You have probably seen notices of it in the papers. Cary recognized the name as standing for one of the newest and most imposing hostilities. She had heard it spoken of as having a splendid restaurant. Just so went on Mr. Withers, accepting her acknowledgement 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. Cary 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 Cary. 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 Cary, seeing at a glance. Of course, every hotel depends upon the repute of its patrons. A well-known actress like yourself, bowed politely while Cary flushed, draws attention to the hotel, and, although you may not believe it, patrons. Oh yes, returned Cary, 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'd 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 can afford to pay. Cary was about to interrupt, but he gave her no chance. You can come today or tomorrow, the earlier the better, and we will give you your choice of nice light outside rooms, the very best we have. Your very kind said Cary, 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'd 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 the 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 Cary, but I have a rehearsal this morning. I did not mean it once, he returned. Any time will do. Would this afternoon be inconvenient? Not at all, said Cary. Suddenly she remembered Lola, who was out at the time. I have a roommate, 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 bound and back toward the door. At four then, we may expect you. Yes, said Cary. I will be there to show you, and so Mr. Withers withdrew. After rehearsal, Cary 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 Cary. Oh, it's as fine as it can be. We'd better be going there, observed Cary, later in the afternoon. The rooms, which Mr. Withers displayed to Cary and Lola, were three in 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-trimbed chairs and chiffoniers to match. In the third room, where parlor was a piano, a heavy piano lamp, with a shade of gorgeous pattern, a library table, several huge, easy rockers, some dado bookshelves, and a gilt curio case filled with oddities. Pictures were upon the walls, soft Turkish pillows upon the divan, foot stools of brown plush upon the floor. Such accommodations would ordinarily cost a hundred dollars a week. Oh, lovely exclaimed Lola, walking about. Is comfortable, said Cary, 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 Cary. Well then, any time you find it convenient to move in, they are ready. The boy will bring you the keys at the door. Cary noted the elegantly carpeted and decorated hall, the marble lobby, and showy waiting room. It was such a place that she had often dreamed of occupying. I guess we'd better move right away, don't you think, she observed to Lola? Thinking of the commonplace chamber in 17th 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. Cary 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 Cary coming toward her across the now vacant stage. How in the world did this happen? Cary 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 Cary, 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 someone 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 Cary. 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 Cary, 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 Cary, 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? Tatfully, Mrs. Vance avoided the subject of Hearstwood, of whom she could not help thinking. No doubt Cary had left him. That much she surmised. Oh, I don't think I can, said Cary, tonight. I have so little time. I must be back here by seven-thirty. Won't you come and dine with me? I'd be delighted, but I can't tonight, said Mrs. Vance, studying Cary's fine appearance. The latter's good fortune made her seem more than ever worthy and delightful in the other's 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 Cary. Well, tomorrow then. I'm living at the Chelsea now. Moved again, exclaimed Cary, 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 Cary. 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. Mesh 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 know, as in addition to their own amiable collection of virtues, that they had their horses and carriages. Thus won. 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 17th 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 colloid to make these things wearysome. Agulation, 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 dame to grant me one half hour, she repeated, with an imitation of Langer, 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 let 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 and 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 might 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 green backs, three twenties, six tens, and six fives. Thus collected, it made it a very convenient role. It was accompanied by a smile and a salutation from the cashier who paid it. I, yes, said the latter, when she applied, Miss Mandenda, 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 mod of 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 her 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-bell 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 startingly 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 reviews which shine with clever observations, show up the wit of critics, display the follies of celebrities, and divert the public. Carrie said so publicly, adding, however, she was merely pretty, good-natured, and lucky. This cut like a knife. The Herald, getting up in 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 entertainment as the one in which she was 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 engagements. The whole city was quiet, and their 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's lots of places, returned Lola, who is thinking of her own lightsome turnies 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. Where 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. End of Chapter 44 Chapter 45 of Sister Carrie This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Andrea Deans Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreischer Chapter 45 Curious Shifts of the Poor The gloomy Hearstwood, 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 solemn 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 attention 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 harkening back to scenes and incidents in his Chicago life. As the present came 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 Moyes. It was as if he stood in the door of his elegant little office comfortably dressed talking to Sager 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 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 nearby seemed disturbed. At least he stared in a most pointed way. Hearstwood 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 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 on 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. Impaled 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 have 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 was 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. Hearst would propose to appeal to him. Walking straight up he was upon him before he could turn away. My friend he said, recognizing 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 Hearst would was about to go on he said I've nothing to do with it. You'll have to ask inside. Curiously this stirred Hearst would 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. Hearst would look 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 Hearst would 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 Hearst would. I was manager of Fitzgerald and Moyes 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 Hearst would was rather surprisingly 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 today. The hotel man was slightly interested in this story. He could hardly tell what to do with such a figure and yet Hearst would's earnestness made him wish to do something. Call Olsen, he said, turning to the clerk. In reply to a bell and a disappearing hallboy 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, sirs, 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 Olsen to give him something to eat. All right, sirs, said Olsen. Hearst would 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. Hearst would 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 Hearst would over and seeing something keen and intellectual, and as I said, well, sit down over there. Thus was Hearst would 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 firemen 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 all this validity 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 cold 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 set about as much as possible to the irritation of those who admired energy and others. In the afternoon some boxes were to be moved to make room for new culinary supplies. He was ordered to handle a truck. Encarnering 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 hard 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 or you, he asked. I think I am, returned Hearstwood. Well, you'd better go sit down then. This he did, but soon grew rapidly worse. It seemed all he could do was 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 hail lusty manager. All his carpulancy had fled. His face was thin and pale. His hands white. His body flabby. Close and all, he weighed about 135 pounds. Some old garments had been given him. A cheap brown coat and a misfit pair of trousers. Also some change in advice. He was told to apply to the charities. Again he resorted to the Bowery lodging house, brooding over weird luck. 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 towards him out of Stuyvesant Park. Hurstwood nerfed himself and sidled near. Would you mind giving me ten cents, he said directly? I'm in a position where I must ask someone. The man scarcely looked at him but 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 could only ask for twenty-five cents more, since they would be sufficient. He strode about, sizing up people, but it was long before just the right face and situation arrived. When he asked, he was refused. Shot by this result, he took an hour to recover and then asked again. This time Nicol 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 continence 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 infinite 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 Modenda. 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, passed 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 39th 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 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 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 theaters and hotels. Suddenly a coach rolled up and the driver jumped down to open the door. Before Hearstwood could act, two ladies flounced across the broad walk and disappeared into the staged door. He thought he saw Carrie, but it was so unexpected, so elegant and far away, he could hardly tell. He waited a while longer, growing feverish with want, and then seeing that the staged door no longer opened and that a merry audience was arriving, he concluded it must have been Carrie and turned away. Lord, he said, hastening out of the street into which the more fortunate were pouring, I've got to get something. At that hour, when Broadway is wont to assume its most interesting aspect, a peculiar individual invariably took his stand at the corner of 26th Street in Broadway, a spot which is also intersected by Fifth Avenue. This was the hour when the theaters were just beginning to receive their patrons, fire signs announcing the night's amusements blazed on every hand, cabs and carriages, their lights gleaming like yellow eyes padded by, couples and parties of three and four freely mingled in the common crowd, which poured by in a thick stream, laughing and jesting. On Fifth Avenue were loungers, a few wealthy strollers, a gentleman in evening dress with a lady on his arm, some clubmen passing from one smoking room to another. Across the way the great hotels showed a hundred gleaming windows, their cafes and billiard rooms filled with a comfortable, well-dressed and pleasure-loving throng. All about was the night, pulsating with the thoughts of pleasure and exhilaration. The city bent upon finding joy in a thousand different ways. This unique individual was no less than an ex-soldier turned religionist, who, having suffered the whips and privations of our peculiar social system, had concluded that his duty to the God which he conceived lay in aiding his fellow man. The form of aid which he chose to administer was entirely original with himself. It consisted of securing a bed for all such homeless wayfarers as should apply to him at this particular spot, though he is scarcely the wherewithal to provide a comfortable habitation for himself. Taking his place amid this lightsome atmosphere, he would stand his stocky figure cloaked in a great white cape overcoat. His head protected by a broad slouch hat, awaiting the applicants who had in various ways learned the nature of his charity. For a while he would stand alone, gazing like some idler upon an ever-fascinating scene. On the evening in question, a policeman passing saluted him as captain in a friendly way. An urchin who had frequently seen him before stopped to gaze. All others took him for nothing out of the ordinary, saving the manner of dress, and conceived of him as a stranger, whistling and idling for his own amusement. As the first half hour waned, certain characters appeared. Here and there in the passing crowds one might see, now and then, a loiterer edging interestingly near. A slouchy figure crossed the opposite corner and glanced furtively in his direction. Another came down Fifth Avenue to the corner of 26th Street, took a general survey, and bobbled off again. Two or three noticeable, bowery types edged along the Fifth Avenue side of Madison Square, but did not venture over. The soldier, in his cape overcoat, walked a short line of ten feet to his corner, two in fro, and differently whistling. As nine o'clock approached, some of the hubbub of the earlier hour passed. The atmosphere of the hotels was not so youthful. The air, too, was colder. On every hand, curious figures were moving, watchers and peepers, without an imaginary circle, which they seemed afraid to enter, a dozen in all. Presently, with the arrival of a keener sense of cold, one figure came forward. It crossed Broadway from out of the shadow of 26th Street and, in a halting, securtious way, arrived close to the waiting figure. There was somewhat shame-faced or diffident about the movement, as if the attention was to conceal any idea of stopping until the very last moment. Then, suddenly, close to the soldier, came the halt. The captain looked in recognition, but there was no special greeting. The newcomer nodded slightly and murmured something like one who waits for gifts. The others simply motioned towards the edge of the walk. Stand over there, he said. By this, the spell was broken. Even while the soldier resumed his short, solemn walk, other figures shuffled forward. They did not so much as greet the leader, but joined the one, sniffling and hitching and scraping their feet. Cold ain't it. I'm glad winter's over. Looks as though it might rain. The motley company had increased to ten. One or two knew each other and conversed. Others stood off a few feet, not wishing to be in the crowd and yet not counted out. They were peevish, crusty, silent, eyeing nothing in particular and moving their feet. There would have been talking soon, but the soldier gave them no chance. Counting sufficient to begin, he came forward. Beds, eh, all of you? There was a general shuffle and murmur of approval. Well, line up here. I'll see what I can do. I have an assent myself. They fell into a sort of broken, ragged line. One might see now some of the chief characteristics by contrast. There was a wooden leg in the line. Hats were all drooping, a group that would ill-become a second-hand Hester Street basement collection. Trousers were all warped and frayed at the bottom and coats worn and faded. In the glare of the store lights some of the faces looked dry and chalky. Others were red with blotches and puffed in the cheeks and under the eyes. One or two were raw-boned and reminded one of railroad hands. A few spectators came near, drawn by the seemingly conferring group, then more and more, and quickly there was a pushing, gasping crowd. Someone in the line began to talk. Silence exclaimed the captain. Now then, gentlemen, these men are without beds. They have to have some place to sleep tonight. They can't lie out on the streets. I need twelve cents to put one of them to bed. Who will give it to me? No reply. Well, we'll have to wait here, boys, until someone does. Twelve cents isn't so very much for one man. Here's fifteen exclaimed a young man, peering forward with strained eyes. It's all I can afford. All right, now I have fifteen. Step out of the line. And seizing one by the shoulder, the captain marched him off a little way and stood him up alone. Coming back, he resumed his place and began again. I have three cents left. These men must be put to bed somehow. There are, counting, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve men. Nine cents more will put the next man to bed. Give him a good, comfortable bed for the night. I go right along and look after them myself. Who will give me nine cents? One of the watchers, this time a middle-aged man, handed him a five-cent piece. Now I have eight cents. Four more will give this man a bed. Come, gentlemen. We are going very slow this evening. You all have good beds. How about these? Here you are, remarked a passerby, putting a coin in his hand. That, said the captain, looking at the coin, pays for two beds for two men and gives me five on the next one. Who will give me seven cents more? I will, said a voice. Coming down Sixth Avenue this evening, Hearst would chance to cross East through 26th Street toward Third Avenue. He was wholly disconsolate in spirit, hungry to what he deemed an almost mortal extent, weary and defeated. How should he get it carried now? It would be eleven before the show was over. If she came in the coach, she would go away in one. He would need to interrupt under most trying circumstances. Worst of all, he was hungry and weary, and at best a whole day must intervene, for he had not heart to try again tonight. He had no food and no bed. When he neared Broadway, he noticed the captain's gathering of wanderers, but thinking it to be the result of a street preacher or some patent medicine faker was about to pass on. However, in crossing the street toward Madison Square Park, he noticed the line of men whose beds were already secured, stretching out from the main body of the crowd. In the glare of the neighboring electric light, he recognized a type of his own kind. The figures whom he saw about the streets and in the lodging houses, drifting in mind and body like himself, he wondered what it could be and turned back. There was the captain currently pleading as before. He heard with astonishment and a sense of relief the oft-repeated words, these men must have a bed. Before him was the line of unfortunate, whose beds were yet to be had, and seeing a newcomer quietly edge up and take a position at the end of the line, he decided to do likewise. What else to contend? He was weary to-night, and it was a simple way out of one difficulty at least. Tomorrow, maybe, he would do better. Back of him, where some of those whose beds were safe, a relaxed air was apparent. The strain of uncertainty being removed, he heard them talking with moderate freedom and some leaning towards sociability. Politics, religion, the state of the government, some newspaper sensations, and the more notorious facts the world over found mouthpieces and auditors there. Cracked and husky voices pronounced forcibly upon odd matters, vague and rambling observations were made in reply. There were squints and leers and some dull, ox-like stares from those who were too dull or too weary to converse. Standing tells, Hurstwood became more weary waiting. He thought he should drop soon and shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. At last his turn came. The man ahead had been paid for and gone to the blessed line of success. He was now first, and already the captain was talking for him. Twelve cents, gentlemen. Twelve cents puts this man to bed. He wouldn't stand here in the cold if he had any place to go. Hurstwood swallowed something that rose to his throat. Hunger and weakness had made a coward of him. Here you are, said a stranger, handing money to the captain. Now the latter put a kindly hand on the ex-manager's shoulder. Line up over there, he said. Once again Hurstwood breathed easier. He felt as if the world were not quite so bad with such a good man in it. Others seemed to feel like himself about this. Captain's a great fellow, ain't he? said the man ahead. A little woe-begon, help-us-looking sort of individual who looked as though he had ever been the sport in care of fortune. Yes, said Hurstwood, indifferently. Hub, there's a lot back there yet, said a man farther up, leaning out and looking back at the applicants for whom the captain was pleading. Yes, must be over a hundred tonight, said another. Look at that guy in the cab, observed a third. A cab had stopped. Some gentleman in evening dress reached out a bell to the captain, who took it with simple thanks and turned away to his line. There was a general craning of necks as the jewel in the white shirt front sparkled and the cab moved off. Even the crowd gaped in awe. That fixes up nine men for the night, said the captain, counting out as many of the line near him. Line up over there. Now then, there are only seven. I need twelve cents. Money came slowly. In the course of time, the crowd thinned out to a meager handful. Fifth Avenue, save for an occasional cab or foot-passenger, was bare. Broadway was thinly peopled with pedestrians. Only now and then, a stranger passing, noticed the small group, handed out a coin, and went away, unheeding. The captain remained stolid and determined. He talked on, very slowly, uttering the fewest words and with a certain assurance, as though he could not fail. Come, I can't stay out here all night. These men are getting tired and cold. Someone give me four cents. There came a time when he said nothing at all. Money was handed him, and for each twelve cents he singled out a man and put him in the other line. Then he walked up and down as before, looking at the ground. The theaters let out. Fire signs disappeared. A clock struck eleven. Another half hour, and he was down to the last two men. Come now, he explained to several curious observers. Eighteen cents will fix us all up for the night. Eighteen cents. I have six. Someone give me the money. Remember, I have to go over to Brooklyn yet tonight. Before that, I have to take these men down and put them to bed. Eighteen cents. No one responded. He walked to and fro, looking down for several minutes, occasionally saying softly, Eighteen cents. It seemed as if this paltry sum would delay the desired combination longer than all the rest had. Hearstwood, buoyed up slightly by the long line of which he was a part, refrained with an effort from groaning. He was so weak. At last a lady in opera cape and rustling skirts came down Fifth Avenue, accompanied by her escort. Hearstwood gazed wearily, reminded by her both of Carrie in her new world and of the time when he had escorted his own wife in like manner. While he was gazing she turned and, looking at the remarkable company, sent her escort over. He came holding a bell in his fingers, all elegant and graceful. Here you are, he said. Thanks, said the captain, turning through the two remaining applicants. Now we have some for tomorrow night, he added. Therewith he lined up the last two and proceeded to the head, counting as he went. One hundred and thirty-seven he announced. Now, boys, line up. Right dress here. We won't be much longer about this. Steady now. He placed himself at the head and called out forward. Hearstwood moved with the line across Fifth Avenue, through Madison Square, by the winding paths, east on 23rd Street and down Third Avenue, round the long serpentine company. Midnight pedestrians and loiterers stopped and stared as the company passed. Chatting policemen at various corners stared indifferently or nodded to the leader, whom they had seen before. On Third Avenue they marched a seemingly weary way to 8th Street, where there was a lodging-house closed apparently for the night. They were expected, however. Outside in the gloom they stood, while the leader parlayed within. Then doors swung open and they were invited in with a steady now. Someone was at the head showing rooms so that there was no delay for keys. Toiling up the creaky stairs, Hearstwood looked back and saw the captain watching, the last one of the line being included in his broad solicitude. Then he gathered his cloak about him and strolled out into the night. I can't stand much of this, said Hearstwood, whose legs ached him painfully as he sat down upon the miserable bunk in the small, lightless chamber allotted to him. I've got to eat or I'll die. End of Chapter 45 Recording by Andrea Deans