Chapter XLII

by Theodore Dreiser

　　A TOUCH OF SPRING--THE EMPTY SHELLThose who look upon Hurstwood's Brooklyn venture as an error ofjudgment will none the less realise the negative influence on himof the fact that he had tried and failed. Carrie got a wrongidea of it. He said so little that she imagined he hadencountered nothing worse than the ordinary roughness--quittingso soon in the face of this seemed trifling. He did not want towork.She was now one of a group of oriental beauties who, in thesecond act of the comic opera, were paraded by the vizier beforethe new potentate as the treasures of his harem. There was noword assigned to any of them, but on the evening when Hurstwoodwas housing himself in the loft of the street-car barn, theleading comedian and star, feeling exceedingly facetious, said ina profound voice, which created a ripple of laughter:"Well, who are you?"It merely happened to be Carrie who was courtesying before him.It might as well have been any of the others, so far as he wasconcerned. He expected no answer and a dull one would have beenreproved. But Carrie, whose experience and belief in herselfgave her daring, courtesied sweetly again and answered:"I am yours truly."It was a trivial thing to say, and yet something in the way shedid it caught the audience, which laughed heartily at the mock-fierce potentate towering before the young woman. The comedianalso liked it, hearing the laughter."I thought your name was Smith," he returned, endeavouring to getthe last laugh.Carrie almost trembled for her daring after she had said this.All members of the company had been warned that to interpolatelines or "business" meant a fine or worse. She did not know whatto think.As she was standing in her proper position in the wings, awaitinganother entry, the great comedian made his exit past her andpaused in recognition."You can just leave that in hereafter," he remarked, seeing howintelligent she appeared. "Don't add any more, though.""Thank you," said Carrie, humbly. When he went on she foundherself trembling violently."Well, you're in luck," remarked another member of the chorus."There isn't another one of us has got a line."There was no gainsaying the value of this. Everybody in thecompany realised that she had got a start. Carrie hugged herselfwhen next evening the lines got the same applause. She went homerejoicing, knowing that soon something must come of it. It wasHurstwood who, by his presence, caused her merry thoughts to fleeand replaced them with sharp longings for an end of distress.The next day she asked him about his venture."They're not trying to run any cars except with police. Theydon't want anybody just now--not before next week."Next week came, but Carrie saw no change. Hurstwood seemed moreapathetic than ever. He saw her off mornings to rehearsals andthe like with the utmost calm. He read and read. Several timeshe found himself staring at an item, but thinking of somethingelse. The first of these lapses that he sharply noticedconcerned a hilarious party he had once attended at a drivingclub, of which he had been a member. He sat, gazing downward,and gradually thought he heard the old voices and the clink ofglasses."You're a dandy, Hurstwood," his friend Walker said. He wasstanding again well dressed, smiling, good-natured, the recipientof encores for a good story.All at once he looked up. The room was so still it seemedghostlike. He heard the clock ticking audibly and half suspectedthat he had been dozing. The paper was so straight in his hands,however, and the items he had been reading so directly beforehim, that he rid himself of the doze idea. Still, it seemedpeculiar. When it occurred a second time, however, it did notseem quite so strange.Butcher and grocery man, baker and coal man--not the group withwhom he was then dealing, but those who had trusted him to thelimit--called. He met them all blandly, becoming deft in excuse.At last he became bold, pretended to be out, or waved them off."They can't get blood out of a turnip," he said. "if I had itI'd pay them."Carrie's little soldier friend, Miss Osborne, seeing hersucceeding, had become a sort of satellite. Little Osborne couldnever of herself amount to anything. She seemed to realise it ina sort of pussy-like way and instinctively concluded to clingwith her soft little claws to Carrie."Oh, you'll get up," she kept telling Carrie with admiration."You're so good."Timid as Carrie was, she was strong in capability. The relianceof others made her feel as if she must, and when she must shedared. Experience of the world and of necessity was in herfavour. No longer the lightest word of a man made her headdizzy. She had learned that men could change and fail. Flatteryin its most palpable form had lost its force with her. Itrequired superiority--kindly superiority--to move her--thesuperiority of a genius like Ames."I don't like the actors in our company," she told Lola one day."They're all so struck on themselves.""Don't you think Mr. Barclay's pretty nice?" inquired Lola, whohad received a condescending smile or two from that quarter."Oh, he's nice enough," answered Carrie; "but he isn't sincere.He assumes such an air."Lola felt for her first hold upon Carrie in the following manner:"Are you paying room-rent where you are?""Certainly," answered Carrie. "Why?""I know where I could get the loveliest room and bath, cheap.It's too big for me, but it would be just right for two, and therent is only six dollars a week for both.""Where?" said Carrie."In Seventeenth Street.""Well, I don't know as I'd care to change," said Carrie, who wasalready turning over the three-dollar rate in her mind. She wasthinking if she had only herself to support this would leave herseventeen for herself.Nothing came of this until after the Brooklyn adventure ofHurstwood's and her success with the speaking part. Then shebegan to feel as if she must be free. She thought of leavingHurstwood and thus making him act for himself, but he haddeveloped such peculiar traits she feared he might resist anyeffort to throw him off. He might hunt her out at the show andhound her in that way. She did not wholly believe that he would,but he might. This, she knew, would be an embarrassing thing ifhe made himself conspicuous in any way. It troubled her greatly.Things were precipitated by the offer of a better part. One ofthe actresses playing the part of a modest sweetheart gave noticeof leaving and Carrie was selected."How much are you going to get?" asked Miss Osborne, on hearingthe good news."I didn't ask him," said Carrie."Well, find out. Goodness, you'll never get anything if youdon't ask. Tell them you must have forty dollars, anyhow.""Oh, no," said Carrie."Certainly!" exclaimed Lola. "Ask 'em, anyway."Carrie succumbed to this prompting, waiting, however, until themanager gave her notice of what clothing she must have to fit thepart."How much do I get?" she inquired."Thirty-five dollars," he replied.Carrie was too much astonished and delighted to think ofmentioning forty. She was nearly beside herself, and almosthugged Lola, who clung to her at the news."It isn't as much as you ought to get," said the latter,"especially when you've got to buy clothes."Carrie remembered this with a start. Where to get the money? Shehad none laid up for such an emergency. Rent day was drawingnear."I'll not do it," she said, remembering her necessity. "I don'tuse the flat. I'm not going to give up my money this time. I'llmove."Fitting into this came another appeal from Miss Osborne, moreurgent than ever."Come live with me, won't you?" she pleaded. "We can have theloveliest room. It won't cost you hardly anything that way.""I'd like to," said Carrie, frankly."Oh, do," said Lola. "We'll have such a good time."Carrie thought a while."I believe I will," she said, and then added: "I'll have to seefirst, though."With the idea thus grounded, rent day approaching, and clothescalling for instant purchase, she soon found excuse inHurstwood's lassitude. He said less and drooped more than ever.As rent day approached, an idea grew in him. It was fostered bythe demands of creditors and the impossibility of holding up manymore. Twenty-eight dollars was too much for rent. "It's hard onher," he thought. "We could get a cheaper place."Stirred with this idea, he spoke at the breakfast table."Don't you think we pay too much rent here?" he asked."Indeed I do," said Carrie, not catching his drift."I should think we could get a smaller place," he suggested. "Wedon't need four rooms."Her countenance, had he been scrutinising her, would haveexhibited the disturbance she felt at this evidence of hisdetermination to stay by her. He saw nothing remarkable inasking her to come down lower."Oh, I don't know," she answered, growing wary."There must be places around here where we could get a couple ofrooms, which would do just as well."Her heart revolted. "Never!" she thought. Who would furnish themoney to move? To think of being in two rooms with him! Sheresolved to spend her money for clothes quickly, before somethingterrible happened. That very day she did it. Having done so,there was but one other thing to do."Lola," she said, visiting her friend, "I think I'll come.""Oh, jolly!" cried the latter."Can we get it right away?" she asked, meaning the room."Certainly," cried Lola.They went to look at it. Carrie had saved ten dollars from herexpenditures--enough for this and her board beside. Her enlargedsalary would not begin for ten days yet--would not reach her forseventeen. She paid half of the six dollars with her friend."Now, I've just enough to get on to the end of the week," sheconfided."Oh, I've got some," said Lola. "I've got twenty-five dollars,if you need it.""No," said Carrie. "I guess I'll get along."They decided to move Friday, which was two days away. Now thatthe thing was settled, Carrie's heart misgave her. She felt verymuch like a criminal in the matter. Each day looking atHurstwood, she had realised that, along with the disagreeablenessof his attitude, there was something pathetic.She looked at him the same evening she had made up her mind togo, and now he seemed not so shiftless and worthless, but rundown and beaten upon by chance. His eyes were not keen, his facemarked, his hands flabby. She thought his hair had a touch ofgrey. All unconscious of his doom, he rocked and read his paper,while she glanced at him.Knowing that the end was so near, she became rather solicitous."Will you go over and get some canned peaches?" she askedHurstwood, laying down a two-dollar bill."Certainly," he said, looking in wonder at the money."See if you can get some nice asparagus," she added. "I'll cookit for dinner."Hurstwood rose and took the money, slipping on his overcoat andgetting his hat. Carrie noticed that both of these articles ofapparel were old and poor looking in appearance. It was plainenough before, but now it came home with peculiar force. Perhapshe couldn't help it, after all. He had done well in Chicago.She remembered his fine appearance the days he had met her in thepark. Then he was so sprightly, so clean. Had it been all hisfault?He came back and laid the change down with the food."You'd better keep it," she observed. "We'll need other things.""No," he said, with a sort of pride; "you keep it.""Oh, go on and keep it," she replied, rather unnerved. "There'llbe other things."He wondered at this, not knowing the pathetic figure he hadbecome in her eyes. She restrained herself with difficulty fromshowing a quaver in her voice.To say truly, this would have been Carrie's attitude in any case.She had looked back at times upon her parting from Drouet and hadregretted that she had served him so badly. She hoped she wouldnever meet him again, but she was ashamed of her conduct. Notthat she had any choice in the final separation. She had gonewillingly to seek him, with sympathy in her heart, when Hurstwoodhad reported him ill. There was something cruel somewhere, andnot being able to track it mentally to its logical lair, sheconcluded with feeling that he would never understand whatHurstwood had done and would see hard-hearted decision in herdeed; hence her shame. Not that she cared for him. She did notwant to make any one who had been good to her feel badly.She did not realise what she was doing by allowing these feelingsto possess her. Hurstwood, noticing the kindness, conceivedbetter of her. "Carrie's good-natured, anyhow," he thought.Going to Miss Osborne's that afternoon, she found that littlelady packing and singing."Why don't you come over with me today?" she asked."Oh, I can't," said Carrie. "I'll be there Friday. Would youmind lending me the twenty-five dollars you spoke of?""Why, no," said Lola, going for her purse."I want to get some other things," said Carrie."Oh, that's all right," answered the little girl, good-naturedly,glad to be of service.It had been days since Hurstwood had done more than go to thegrocery or to the news-stand. Now the weariness of indoors wasupon him--had been for two days--but chill, grey weather had heldhim back. Friday broke fair and warm. It was one of thoselovely harbingers of spring, given as a sign in dreary winterthat earth is not forsaken of warmth and beauty. The blueheaven, holding its one golden orb, poured down a crystal wash ofwarm light. It was plain, from the voice of the sparrows, thatall was halcyon outside. Carrie raised the front windows, andfelt the south wind blowing."It's lovely out to-day," she remarked."Is it?" said Hurstwood.After breakfast, he immediately got his other clothes."Will you be back for lunch?" asked Carrie nervously."No," he said.He went out into the streets and tramped north, along SeventhAvenue, idly fixing upon the Harlem River as an objective point.He had seen some ships up there, the time he had called upon thebrewers. He wondered how the territory thereabouts was growing.Passing Fifty-ninth Street, he took the west side of CentralPark, which he followed to Seventy-eighth Street. Then heremembered the neighbourhood and turned over to look at the massof buildings erected. It was very much improved. The great openspaces were filling up. Coming back, he kept to the Park until110th Street, and then turned into Seventh Avenue again, reachingthe pretty river by one o'clock.There it ran winding before his gaze, shining brightly in theclear light, between the undulating banks on the right and thetall, tree-covered heights on the left. The spring-likeatmosphere woke him to a sense of its loveliness, and for a fewmoments he stood looking at it, folding his hands behind hisback. Then he turned and followed it toward the east side, idlyseeking the ships he had seen. It was four o'clock before thewaning day, with its suggestion of a cooler evening, caused himto return. He was hungry and would enjoy eating in the warmroom.When he reached the flat by half-past five, it was still dark.He knew that Carrie was not there, not only because there was nolight showing through the transom, but because the evening paperswere stuck between the outside knob and the door. He opened withhis key and went in. Everything was still dark. Lighting thegas, he sat down, preparing to wait a little while. Even ifCarrie did come now, dinner would be late. He read until six,then got up to fix something for himself.As he did so, he noticed that the room seemed a little queer.What was it? He looked around, as if he missed something, andthen saw an envelope near where he had been sitting. It spokefor itself, almost without further action on his part.Reaching over, he took it, a sort of chill settling upon him evenwhile he reached. The crackle of the envelope in his hands wasloud. Green paper money lay soft within the note."Dear George," he read, crunching the money in one hand, "I'mgoing away. I'm not coming back any more. It's no use trying tokeep up the flat; I can't do it. I wouldn't mind helping you, ifI could, but I can't support us both, and pay the rent. I needwhat little I make to pay for my clothes. I'm leaving twentydollars. It's all I have just now. You can do whatever you likewith the furniture. I won't want it.--CARRIE.He dropped the note and looked quietly round. Now he knew whathe missed. It was the little ornamental clock, which was hers.It had gone from the mantelpiece. He went into the front room,his bedroom, the parlour, lighting the gas as he went. From thechiffonier had gone the knick-knacks of silver and plate. Fromthe table-top, the lace coverings. He opened the wardrobe--noclothes of hers. He opened the drawers--nothing of hers. Hertrunk was gone from its accustomed place. Back in his own roomhung his old clothes, just as he had left them. Nothing else wasgone.He stepped into the parlour and stood for a few moments lookingvacantly at the floor. The silence grew oppressive. The littleflat seemed wonderfully deserted. He wholly forgot that he washungry, that it was only dinner-time. It seemed later in thenight.Suddenly, he found that the money was still in his hands. Therewere twenty dollars in all, as she had said. Now he walked back,leaving the lights ablaze, and feeling as if the flat were empty."I'll get out of this," he said to himself.Then the sheer loneliness of his situation rushed upon him infull."Left me!" he muttered, and repeated, "left me!"The place that had been so comfortable, where he had spent somany days of warmth, was now a memory. Something colder andchillier confronted him. He sank down in his chair, resting hischin in his hand--mere sensation, without thought, holding him.Then something like a bereaved affection and self-pity swept overhim."She needn't have gone away," he said. "I'd have got something."He sat a long while without rocking, and added quite clearly, outloud:"I tried, didn't I?"At midnight he was still rocking, staring at the floor.