Chapter XLVI

by Theodore Dreiser

　　STIRRING TROUBLED WATERSPlaying in New York one evening on this her return, Carrie wasputting the finishing touches to her toilet before leaving forthe night, when a commotion near the stage door caught her ear.It included a familiar voice."Never mind, now. I want to see Miss Madenda.""You'll have to send in your card.""Oh, come off! Here."A half-dollar was passed over, and now a knock came at herdressing-room door.Carrie opened it."Well, well!" said Drouet. "I do swear! Why, how are you? I knewthat was you the moment I saw you."Carrie fell back a pace, expecting a most embarrassingconversation."Aren't you going to shake hands with me? Well, you're a dandy!That's all right, shake hands."Carrie put out her hand, smiling, if for nothing more than theman's exuberant good-nature. Though older, he was but slightlychanged. The same fine clothes, the same stocky body, the samerosy countenance."That fellow at the door there didn't want to let me in, until Ipaid him. I knew it was you, all right. Say, you've got a greatshow. You do your part fine. I knew you would. I just happenedto be passing to night and thought I'd drop in for a few minutes.I saw your name on the programme, but I didn't remember it untilyou came on the stage. Then it struck me all at once. Say, youcould have knocked me down with a feather. That's the same nameyou used out there in Chicago, isn't it?""Yes," answered Carrie, mildly, overwhelmed by the man'sassurance."I knew it was, the moment I saw you. Well, how have you been,anyhow?""Oh, very well," said Carrie, lingering in her dressing-room.She was rather dazed by the assault. "How have you been?""Me? Oh, fine. I'm here now.""Is that so?" said Carrie."Yes. I've been here for six months. I've got charge of abranch here.""How nice!""Well, when did you go on the stage, anyhow?" inquired Drouet."About three years ago," said Carrie."You don't say so! Well, sir, this is the first I've heard of it.I knew you would, though. I always said you could act--didn'tI?"Carrie smiled."Yes, you did," she said."Well, you do look great," he said. "I never saw anybody improveso. You're taller, aren't you?""Me? Oh, a little, maybe."He gazed at her dress, then at her hair, where a becoming hat wasset jauntily, then into her eyes, which she took all occasion toavert. Evidently he expected to restore their old friendship atonce and without modification."Well," he said, seeing her gather up her purse, handkerchief,and the like, preparatory to departing, "I want you to come outto dinner with me; won't you? I've got a friend out here.""Oh, I can't," said Carrie. "Not to-night. I have an earlyengagement to-morrow.""Aw, let the engagement go. Come on. I can get rid of him. Iwant to have a good talk with you.""No, no," said Carrie; "I can't. You mustn't ask me any more. Idon't care for a late dinner.""Well, come on and have a talk, then, anyhow.""Not to-night," she said, shaking her head. "We'll have a talksome other time."As a result of this, she noticed a shade of thought pass over hisface, as if he were beginning to realise that things werechanged. Good-nature dictated something better than this for onewho had always liked her."You come around to the hotel to-morrow," she said, as sort ofpenance for error. "You can take dinner with me.""All right," said Drouet, brightening. "Where are you stopping?""At the Waldorf," she answered, mentioning the fashionablehostelry then but newly erected."What time?""Well, come at three," said Carrie, pleasantly.The next day Drouet called, but it was with no especial delightthat Carrie remembered her appointment. However, seeing him,handsome as ever, after his kind, and most genially disposed, herdoubts as to whether the dinner would be disagreeable were sweptaway. He talked as volubly as ever."They put on a lot of lugs here, don't they?" was his firstremark."Yes; they do," said Carrie.Genial egotist that he was, he went at once into a detailedaccount of his own career."I'm going to have a business of my own pretty soon," he observedin one place. "I can get backing for two hundred thousanddollars."Carrie listened most good-naturedly."Say," he said, suddenly; "where is Hurstwood now?"Carrie flushed a little."He's here in New York, I guess," she said. "I haven't seen himfor some time."Drouet mused for a moment. He had not been sure until now thatthe ex-manager was not an influential figure in the background.He imagined not; but this assurance relieved him. It must bethat Carrie had got rid of him--as well she ought, he thought."A man always makes a mistake when he does anything like that,"he observed."Like what?" said Carrie, unwitting of what was coming."Oh, you know," and Drouet waved her intelligence, as it were,with his hand."No, I don't," she answered. "What do you mean?""Why that affair in Chicago--the time he left.""I don't know what you are talking about," said Carrie. Could itbe he would refer so rudely to Hurstwood's flight with her?"Oho!" said Drouet, incredulously. "You knew he took tenthousand dollars with him when he left, didn't you?""What!" said Carrie. "You don't mean to say he stole money, doyou?""Why," said Drouet, puzzled at her tone, "you knew that, didn'tyou?""Why, no," said Carrie. "Of course I didn't.""Well, that's funny," said Drouet. "He did, you know. It was inall the papers.""How much did you say he took?" said Carrie."Ten thousand dollars. I heard he sent most of it backafterwards, though."Carrie looked vacantly at the richly carpeted floor. A new lightwas shining upon all the years since her enforced flight. Sheremembered now a hundred things that indicated as much. She alsoimagined that he took it on her account. Instead of hatredspringing up there was a kind of sorrow generated. Poor fellow!What a thing to have had hanging over his head all the time.At dinner Drouet, warmed up by eating and drinking and softenedin mood, fancied he was winning Carrie to her old-time good-natured regard for him. He began to imagine it would not be sodifficult to enter into her life again, high as she was. Ah,what a prize! he thought. How beautiful, how elegant, howfamous! In her theatrical and Waldorf setting, Carrie was to himthe all desirable."Do you remember how nervous you were that night at the Avery?"he asked.Carrie smiled to think of it."I never saw anybody do better than you did then, Cad," he addedruefully, as he leaned an elbow on the table; "I thought you andI were going to get along fine those days.""You mustn't talk that way," said Carrie, bringing in the leasttouch of coldness."Won't you let me tell you----""No," she answered, rising. "Besides, it's time I was gettingready for the theatre. I'll have to leave you. Come, now.""Oh, stay a minute," pleaded Drouet. "You've got plenty oftime.""No," said Carrie, gently.Reluctantly Drouet gave up the bright table and followed. He sawher to the elevator and, standing there, said:"When do I see you again?""Oh, some time, possibly," said Carrie. "I'll be here allsummer. Good-night!"The elevator door was open."Good-night!" said Drouet, as she rustled in.Then he strolled sadly down the hall, all his old longingrevived, because she was now so far off. The merry frou-frou ofthe place spoke all of her. He thought himself hardly dealtwith. Carrie, however, had other thoughts.That night it was that she passed Hurstwood, waiting at theCasino, without observing him.The next night, walking to the theatre, she encountered him faceto face. He was waiting, more gaunt than ever, determined to seeher, if he had to send in word. At first she did not recognisethe shabby, baggy figure. He frightened her, edging so close, aseemingly hungry stranger."Carrie," he half whispered, "can I have a few words with you?"She turned and recognised him on the instant. If there ever hadlurked any feeling in her heart against him, it deserted her now.Still, she remembered what Drouet said about his having stolenthe money."Why, George," she said; "what's the matter with you?""I've been sick," he answered. "I've just got out of thehospital. For God's sake, let me have a little money, will you?""Of course," said Carrie, her lip trembling in a strong effort tomaintain her composure. "But what's the matter with you,anyhow?"She was opening her purse, and now pulled out all the bills init--a five and two twos."I've been sick, I told you," he said, peevishly, almostresenting her excessive pity. It came hard to him to receive itfrom such a source."Here," she said. "It's all I have with me.""All right," he answered, softly. "I'll give it back to you someday."Carrie looked at him, while pedestrians stared at her. She feltthe strain of publicity. So did Hurstwood."Why don't you tell me what's the matter with you?" she asked,hardly knowing what to do. "Where are you living?""Oh, I've got a room down in the Bowery," he answered. "There'sno use trying to tell you here. I'm all right now."He seemed in a way to resent her kindly inquiries--so much betterhad fate dealt with her."Better go on in," he said. "I'm much obliged, but I won'tbother you any more."She tried to answer, but he turned away and shuffled off towardthe east.For days this apparition was a drag on her soul before it beganto wear partially away. Drouet called again, but now he was noteven seen by her. His attentions seemed out of place."I'm out," was her reply to the boy.So peculiar, indeed, was her lonely, self-withdrawing temper,that she was becoming an interesting figure in the public eye--she was so quiet and reserved.Not long after the management decided to transfer the show toLondon. A second summer season did not seem to promise wellhere."How would you like to try subduing London?" asked her manager,one afternoon."It might be just the other way," said Carrie."I think we'll go in June," he answered.In the hurry of departure, Hurstwood was forgotten. Both he andDrouet were left to discover that she was gone. The lattercalled once, and exclaimed at the news. Then he stood in thelobby, chewing the ends of his moustache. At last he reached aconclusion--the old days had gone for good."She isn't so much," he said; but in his heart of hearts he didnot believe this.Hurstwood shifted by curious means through a long summer andfall. A small job as janitor of a dance hall helped him for amonth. Begging, sometimes going hungry, sometimes sleeping inthe park, carried him over more days. Resorting to thosepeculiar charities, several of which, in the press of hungrysearch, he accidentally stumbled upon, did the rest. Toward thedead of winter, Carrie came back, appearing on Broadway in a newplay; but he was not aware of it. For weeks he wandered aboutthe city, begging, while the fire sign, announcing herengagement, blazed nightly upon the crowded street of amusements.Drouet saw it, but did not venture in.About this time Ames returned to New York. He had made a littlesuccess in the West, and now opened a laboratory in WoosterStreet. Of course, he encountered Carrie through Mrs. Vance; butthere was nothing responsive between them. He thought she wasstill united to Hurstwood, until otherwise informed. Not knowingthe facts then, he did not profess to understand, and refrainedfrom comment.With Mrs. Vance, he saw the new play, and expressed himselfaccordingly."She ought not to be in comedy," he said. "I think she could dobetter than that."One afternoon they met at the Vances' accidentally, and began avery friendly conversation. She could hardly tell why the one-time keen interest in him was no longer with her.Unquestionably, it was because at that time he had representedsomething which she did not have; but this she did notunderstand. Success had given her the momentary feeling that shewas now blessed with much of which he would approve. As a matterof fact, her little newspaper fame was nothing at all to him. Hethought she could have done better, by far."You didn't go into comedy-drama, after all?" he said,remembering her interest in that form of art."No," she answered; "I haven't, so far."He looked at her in such a peculiar way that she realised she hadfailed. It moved her to add: "I want to, though.""I should think you would," he said. "You have the sort ofdisposition that would do well in comedy-drama."It surprised her that he should speak of disposition. Was she,then, so clearly in his mind?"Why?" she asked."Well," he said, "I should judge you were rather sympathetic inyour nature."Carrie smiled and coloured slightly. He was so innocently frankwith her that she drew nearer in friendship. The old call of theideal was sounding."I don't know," she answered, pleased, nevertheless, beyond allconcealment."I saw your play," he remarked. "It's very good.""I'm glad you liked it.""Very good, indeed," he said, "for a comedy."This is all that was said at the time, owing to an interruption,but later they met again. He was sitting in a corner afterdinner, staring at the floor, when Carrie came up with another ofthe guests. Hard work had given his face the look of one who isweary. It was not for Carrie to know the thing in it whichappealed to her."All alone?" she said."I was listening to the music.""I'll be back in a moment," said her companion, who saw nothingin the inventor.Now he looked up in her face, for she was standing a moment,while he sat."Isn't that a pathetic strain?" he inquired, listening."Oh, very," she returned, also catching it, now that herattention was called."Sit down," he added, offering her the chair beside him.They listened a few moments in silence, touched by the samefeeling, only hers reached her through the heart. Music stillcharmed her as in the old days."I don't know what it is about music," she started to say, movedby the inexplicable longings which surged within her; "but italways makes me feel as if I wanted something--I----""Yes," he replied; "I know how you feel."Suddenly he turned to considering the peculiarity of herdisposition, expressing her feelings so frankly."You ought not to be melancholy," he said.He thought a while, and then went off into a seemingly alienobservation which, however, accorded with their feelings."The world is full of desirable situations, but, unfortunately,we can occupy but one at a time. It doesn't do us any good towring our hands over the far-off things."The music ceased and he arose, taking a standing position beforeher, as if to rest himself."Why don't you get into some good, strong comedy-drama?" he said.He was looking directly at her now, studying her face. Herlarge, sympathetic eyes and pain-touched mouth appealed to him asproofs of his judgment."Perhaps I shall," she returned."That's your field," he added."Do you think so?""Yes," he said; "I do. I don't suppose you're aware of it, butthere is something about your eyes and mouth which fits you forthat sort of work."Carrie thrilled to be taken so seriously. For the moment,loneliness deserted her. Here was praise which was keen andanalytical."It's in your eyes and mouth," he went on abstractedly. "Iremember thinking, the first time I saw you, that there wassomething peculiar about your mouth. I thought you were about tocry.""How odd," said Carrie, warm with delight. This was what herheart craved."Then I noticed that that was your natural look, and to-night Isaw it again. There's a shadow about your eyes, too, which givesyour face much this same character. It's in the depth of them, Ithink."Carrie looked straight into his face, wholly aroused."You probably are not aware of it," he added.She looked away, pleased that he should speak thus, longing to beequal to this feeling written upon her countenance. It unlockedthe door to a new desire.She had cause to ponder over this until they met again--severalweeks or more. It showed her she was drifting away from the oldideal which had filled her in the dressing-rooms of the Averystage and thereafter, for a long time. Why had she lost it?"I know why you should be a success," he said, another time, "ifyou had a more dramatic part. I've studied it out----""What is it?" said Carrie."Well," he said, as one pleased with a puzzle, "the expression inyour face is one that comes out in different things. You get thesame thing in a pathetic song, or any picture which moves youdeeply. It's a thing the world likes to see, because it's anatural expression of its longing."Carrie gazed without exactly getting the import of what he meant."The world is always struggling to express itself," he went on."Most people are not capable of voicing their feelings. Theydepend upon others. That is what genius is for. One manexpresses their desires for them in music; another one in poetry;another one in a play. Sometimes nature does it in a face--itmakes the face representative of all desire. That's what hashappened in your case."He looked at her with so much of the import of the thing in hiseyes that she caught it. At least, she got the idea that herlook was something which represented the world's longing. Shetook it to heart as a creditable thing, until he added:"That puts a burden of duty on you. It so happens that you havethis thing. It is no credit to you--that is, I mean, you mightnot have had it. You paid nothing to get it. But now that youhave it, you must do something with it.""What?" asked Carrie."I should say, turn to the dramatic field. You have so muchsympathy and such a melodious voice. Make them valuable toothers. It will make your powers endure."Carrie did not understand this last. All the rest showed herthat her comedy success was little or nothing."What do you mean?" she asked."Why, just this. You have this quality in your eyes and mouthand in your nature. You can lose it, you know. If you turn awayfrom it and live to satisfy yourself alone, it will go fastenough. The look will leave your eyes. Your mouth will change.Your power to act will disappear. You may think they won't, butthey will. Nature takes care of that."He was so interested in forwarding all good causes that hesometimes became enthusiastic, giving vent to these preachments.Something in Carrie appealed to him. He wanted to stir her up."I know," she said, absently, feeling slightly guilty of neglect."If I were you," he said, "I'd change."The effect of this was like roiling helpless waters. Carrietroubled over it in her rocking-chair for days."I don't believe I'll stay in comedy so very much longer," sheeventually remarked to Lola."Oh, why not?" said the latter."I think," she said, "I can do better in a serious play.""What put that idea in your head?""Oh, nothing," she answered; "I've always thought so."Still, she did nothing--grieving. It was a long way to thisbetter thing--or seemed so--and comfort was about her; hence theinactivity and longing.