Chapter XXXVI

by Theodore Dreiser

　　A GRIM RETROGRESSION--THE PHANTOM OF CHANCEThe Vances, who had been back in the city ever since Christmas,had not forgotten Carrie; but they, or rather Mrs. Vance, hadnever called on her, for the very simple reason that Carrie hadnever sent her address. True to her nature, she correspondedwith Mrs. Vance as long as she still lived in Seventy-eighthStreet, but when she was compelled to move into Thirteenth, herfear that the latter would take it as an indication of reducedcircumstances caused her to study some way of avoiding thenecessity of giving her address. Not finding any convenientmethod, she sorrowfully resigned the privilege of writing to herfriend entirely. The latter wondered at this strange silence,thought Carrie must have left the city, and in the end gave herup as lost. So she was thoroughly surprised to encounter her inFourteenth Street, where she had gone shopping. Carrie was therefor the same purpose."Why, Mrs. Wheeler," said Mrs. Vance, looking Carrie over in aglance, "where have you been? Why haven't you been to see me?I've been wondering all this time what had become of you.Really, I----""I'm so glad to see you," said Carrie, pleased and yetnonplussed. Of all times, this was the worst to encounter Mrs.Vance. "Why, I'm living down town here. I've been intending tocome and see you. Where are you living now?""In Fifty-eighth Street," said Mrs. Vance, "just off SeventhAvenue--218. Why don't you come and see me?""I will," said Carrie. "Really, I've been wanting to come. Iknow I ought to. It's a shame. But you know----""What's your number?" said Mrs. Vance."Thirteenth Street," said Carrie, reluctantly. "112 West.""Oh," said Mrs. Vance, "that's right near here, isn't it?""Yes," said Carrie. "You must come down and see me some time.""Well, you're a fine one," said Mrs. Vance, laughing, the whilenoting that Carrie's appearance had modified somewhat. "Theaddress, too," she added to herself. "They must be hard up."Still she liked Carrie well enough to take her in tow."Come with me in here a minute," she exclaimed, turning into astore.When Carrie returned home, there was Hurstwood, reading as usual.He seemed to take his condition with the utmost nonchalance. Hisbeard was at least four days old."Oh," thought Carrie, "if she were to come here and see him?"She shook her head in absolute misery. It looked as if hersituation was becoming unbearable.Driven to desperation, she asked at dinner:"Did you ever hear any more from that wholesale house?""No," he said. "They don't want an inexperienced man."Carrie dropped the subject, feeling unable to say more."I met Mrs. Vance this afternoon," she said, after a time."Did, eh?" he answered."They're back in New York now," Carrie went on. "She did look sonice.""Well, she can afford it as long as he puts up for it," returnedHurstwood. "He's got a soft job."Hurstwood was looking into the paper. He could not see the lookof infinite weariness and discontent Carrie gave him."She said she thought she'd call here some day.""She's been long getting round to it, hasn't she?" saidHurstwood, with a kind of sarcasm.The woman didn't appeal to him from her spending side."Oh, I don't know," said Carrie, angered by the man's attitude."Perhaps I didn't want her to come.""She's too gay," said Hurstwood, significantly. "No one can keepup with her pace unless they've got a lot of money.""Mr. Vance doesn't seem to find it very hard.""He may not now," answered Hurstwood, doggedly, wellunderstanding the inference; "but his life isn't done yet. Youcan't tell what'll happen. He may get down like anybody else."There was something quite knavish in the man's attitude. His eyeseemed to be cocked with a twinkle upon the fortunate, expectingtheir defeat. His own state seemed a thing apart--notconsidered.This thing was the remains of his old-time cocksureness andindependence. Sitting in his flat, and reading of the doings ofother people, sometimes this independent, undefeated mood cameupon him. Forgetting the weariness of the streets and thedegradation of search, he would sometimes prick up his ears. Itwas as if he said:"I can do something. I'm not down yet. There's a lot of thingscoming to me if I want to go after them."It was in this mood that he would occasionally dress up, go for ashave, and, putting on his gloves, sally forth quite actively.Not with any definite aim. It was more a barometric condition.He felt just right for being outside and doing something.On such occasions, his money went also. He knew of several pokerrooms down town. A few acquaintances he had in downtown resortsand about the City Hall. It was a change to see them andexchange a few friendly commonplaces.He had once been accustomed to hold a pretty fair hand at poker.Many a friendly game had netted him a hundred dollars or more atthe time when that sum was merely sauce to the dish of the game--not the all in all. Now, he thought of playing."I might win a couple of hundred. I'm not out of practice."It is but fair to say that this thought had occurred to himseveral times before he acted upon it.The poker room which he first invaded was over a saloon in WestStreet, near one of the ferries. He had been there before.Several games were going. These he watched for a time andnoticed that the pots were quite large for the ante involved."Deal me a hand," he said at the beginning of a new shuffle. Hepulled up a chair and studied his cards. Those playing made thatquiet study of him which is so unapparent, and yet invariably sosearching.Poor fortune was with him at first. He received a mixedcollection without progression or pairs. The pot was opened."I pass," he said.On the strength of this, he was content to lose his ante. Thedeals did fairly by him in the long run, causing him to come awaywith a few dollars to the good.The next afternoon he was back again, seeking amusement andprofit. This time he followed up three of a kind to his doom.There was a better hand across the table, held by a pugnaciousIrish youth, who was a political hanger-on of the Tammanydistrict in which they were located. Hurstwood was surprised atthe persistence of this individual, whose bets came with a sang-froid which, if a bluff, was excellent art. Hurstwood began todoubt, but kept, or thought to keep, at least, the cool demeanourwith which, in olden times, he deceived those psychic students ofthe gaming table, who seem to read thoughts and moods, ratherthan exterior evidences, however subtle. He could not down thecowardly thought that this man had something better and wouldstay to the end, drawing his last dollar into the pot, should hechoose to go so far. Still, he hoped to win much--his hand wasexcellent. Why not raise it five more?"I raise you three," said the youth."Make it five," said Hurstwood, pushing out his chips."Come again," said the youth, pushing out a small pile of reds."Let me have some more chips," said Hurstwood to the keeper incharge, taking out a bill.A cynical grin lit up the face of his youthful opponent. Whenthe chips were laid out, Hurstwood met the raise."Five again," said the youth.Hurstwood's brow was wet. He was deep in now--very deep for him.Sixty dollars of his good money was up. He was ordinarily nocoward, but the thought of losing so much weakened him. Finallyhe gave way. He would not trust to this fine hand any longer."I call," he said."A full house!" said the youth, spreading out his cards.Hurstwood's hand dropped."I thought I had you," he said, weakly.The youth raked in his chips, and Hurstwood came away, notwithout first stopping to count his remaining cash on the stair."Three hundred and forty dollars," he said.With this loss and ordinary expenses, so much had already gone.Back in the flat, he decided he would play no more.Remembering Mrs. Vance's promise to call, Carrie made one othermild protest. It was concerning Hurstwood's appearance. Thisvery day, coming home, he changed his clothes to the old togs hesat around in."What makes you always put on those old clothes?" asked Carrie."What's the use wearing my good ones around here?" he asked."Well, I should think you'd feel better." Then she added: "Someone might call.""Who?" he said."Well, Mrs. Vance," said Carrie."She needn't see me," he answered, sullenly.This lack of pride and interest made Carrie almost hate him."Oh," she thought, "there he sits. 'She needn't see me.' Ishould think he would be ashamed of himself."The real bitterness of this thing was added when Mrs. Vance didcall. It was on one of her shopping rounds. Making her way upthe commonplace hall, she knocked at Carrie's door. To hersubsequent and agonising distress, Carrie was out. Hurstwoodopened the door, half-thinking that the knock was Carrie's. Foronce, he was taken honestly aback. The lost voice of youth andpride spoke in him."Why," he said, actually stammering, "how do you do?""How do you do?" said Mrs. Vance, who could scarcely believe hereyes. His great confusion she instantly perceived. He did notknow whether to invite her in or not."Is your wife at home?" she inquired."No," he said, "Carrie's out; but won't you step in? She'll beback shortly.""No-o," said Mrs. Vance, realising the change of it all. "I'mreally very much in a hurry. I thought I'd just run up and lookin, but I couldn't stay. Just tell your wife she must come andsee me.""I will," said Hurstwood, standing back, and feeling intenserelief at her going. He was so ashamed that he folded his handsweakly, as he sat in the chair afterwards, and thought.Carrie, coming in from another direction, thought she saw Mrs.Vance going away. She strained her eyes, but could not makesure."Was anybody here just now?" she asked of Hurstwood."Yes," he said guiltily; "Mrs. Vance.""Did she see you?" she asked, expressing her full despair.This cut Hurstwood like a whip, and made him sullen."If she had eyes, she did. I opened the door.""Oh," said Carrie, closing one hand tightly out of sheernervousness. "What did she have to say?""Nothing," he answered. "She couldn't stay.""And you looking like that!" said Carrie, throwing aside a longreserve."What of it?" he said, angering. "I didn't know she was coming,did I?""You knew she might," said Carrie. "I told you she said she wascoming. I've asked you a dozen times to wear your other clothes.Oh, I think this is just terrible.""Oh, let up," he answered. "What difference does it make? Youcouldn't associate with her, anyway. They've got too much money."Who said I wanted to?" said Carrie, fiercely."Well, you act like it, rowing around over my looks. You'd thinkI'd committed----"Carrie interrupted:"It's true," she said. "I couldn't if I wanted to, but whosefault is it? You're very free to sit and talk about who I couldassociate with. Why don't you get out and look for work?"This was a thunderbolt in camp."What's it to you?" he said, rising, almost fiercely. "I pay therent, don't I? I furnish the----""Yes, you pay the rent," said Carrie. "You talk as if there wasnothing else in the world but a flat to sit around in. Youhaven't done a thing for three months except sit around andinterfere here. I'd like to know what you married me for?""I didn't marry you," he said, in a snarling tone."I'd like to know what you did, then, in Montreal?" she answered."Well, I didn't marry you," he answered. "You can get that outof your head. You talk as though you didn't know."Carrie looked at him a moment, her eyes distending. She hadbelieved it was all legal and binding enough."What did you lie to me for, then?" she asked, fiercely. "Whatdid you force me to run away with you for?"Her voice became almost a sob."Force!" he said, with curled lip. "A lot of forcing I did.""Oh!" said Carrie, breaking under the strain, and turning. "Oh,oh!" and she hurried into the front room.Hurstwood was now hot and waked up. It was a great shaking upfor him, both mental and moral. He wiped his brow as he lookedaround, and then went for his clothes and dressed. Not a soundcame from Carrie; she ceased sobbing when she heard him dressing.She thought, at first, with the faintest alarm, of being leftwithout money--not of losing him, though he might be going awaypermanently. She heard him open the top of the wardrobe and takeout his hat. Then the dining-room door closed, and she knew hehad gone.After a few moments of silence, she stood up, dry-eyed, andlooked out the window. Hurstwood was just strolling up thestreet, from the flat, toward Sixth Avenue.The latter made progress along Thirteenth and across FourteenthStreet to Union Square."Look for work!" he said to himself. "Look for work! She tellsme to get out and look for work."He tried to shield himself from his own mental accusation, whichtold him that she was right."What a cursed thing that Mrs. Vance's call was, anyhow," hethought. "Stood right there, and looked me over. I know whatshe was thinking."He remembered the few times he had seen her in Seventy-eightStreet. She was always a swell-looker, and he had tried to puton the air of being worthy of such as she, in front of her. Now,to think she had caught him looking this way. He wrinkled hisforehead in his distress."The devil!" he said a dozen times in an hour.It was a quarter after four when he left the house. Carrie wasin tears. There would be no dinner that night."What the deuce," he said, swaggering mentally to hide his ownshame from himself. "I'm not so bad. I'm not down yet."He looked around the square, and seeing the several large hotels,decided to go to one for dinner. He would get his papers andmake himself comfortable there.He ascended into the fine parlour of the Morton House, then oneof the best New York hotels, and, finding a cushioned seat, read.It did not trouble him much that his decreasing sum of money didnot allow of such extravagance. Like the morphine fiend, he wasbecoming addicted to his ease. Anything to relieve his mentaldistress, to satisfy his craving for comfort. He must do it. Nothoughts for the morrow--he could not stand to think of it anymore than he could of any other calamity. Like the certainty ofdeath, he tried to shut the certainty of soon being without adollar completely out of his mind, and he came very near doingit.Well-dressed guests moving to and fro over the thick carpetscarried him back to the old days. A young lady, a guest of thehouse, playing a piano in an alcove pleased him. He sat therereading.His dinner cost him $1.50. By eight o'clock he was through, andthen, seeing guests leaving and the crowd of pleasure-seekersthickening outside wondered where he should go. Not home.Carrie would be up. No, he would not go back there this evening.He would stay out and knock around as a man who was independent--not broke--well might. He bought a cigar, and went outside onthe corner where other individuals were lounging--brokers, racingpeople, thespians--his own flesh and blood. As he stood there,he thought of the old evenings in Chicago, and how he used todispose of them. Many's the game he had had. This took him topoker."I didn't do that thing right the other day," he thought,referring to his loss of sixty dollars. "I shouldn't haveweakened. I could have bluffed that fellow down. I wasn't inform, that's what ailed me."Then he studied the possibilities of the game as it had beenplayed, and began to figure how he might have won, in severalinstances, by bluffing a little harder."I'm old enough to play poker and do something with it. I'll trymy hand to-night."Visions of a big stake floated before him. Supposing he did wina couple of hundred, wouldn't he be in it? Lots of sports he knewmade their living at this game, and a good living, too."They always had as much as I had," he thought.So off he went to a poker room in the neighbourhood, feeling muchas he had in the old days. In this period of self-forgetfulness,aroused first by the shock of argument and perfected by a dinnerin the hotel, with cocktails and cigars, he was as nearly likethe old Hurstwood as he would ever be again. It was not the oldHurstwood--only a man arguing with a divided conscience and luredby a phantom.This poker room was much like the other one, only it was a backroom in a better drinking resort. Hurstwood watched a while, andthen, seeing an interesting game, joined in. As before, it wenteasy for a while, he winning a few times and cheering up, losinga few pots and growing more interested and determined on thataccount. At last the fascinating game took a strong hold on him.He enjoyed its risks and ventured, on a trifling hand, to bluffthe company and secure a fair stake. To his self-satisfactionintense and strong, he did it.In the height of this feeling he began to think his luck was withhim. No one else had done so well. Now came another moderatehand, and again he tried to open the jack-pot on it. There wereothers there who were almost reading his heart, so close wastheir observation."I have three of a kind," said one of the players to himself."I'll just stay with that fellow to the finish."The result was that bidding began."I raise you ten.""Good.""Ten more.""Good.""Ten again.""Right you are."It got to where Hurstwood had seventy-five dollars up. The otherman really became serious. Perhaps this individual (Hurstwood)really did have a stiff hand."I call," he said.Hurstwood showed his hand. He was done. The bitter fact that hehad lost seventy-five dollars made him desperate."Let's have another pot," he said, grimly."All right," said the man.Some of the other players quit, but observant loungers took theirplaces. Time passed, and it came to twelve o'clock. Hurstwoodheld on, neither winning nor losing much. Then he grew weary,and on a last hand lost twenty more. He was sick at heart.At a quarter after one in the morning he came out of the place.The chill, bare streets seemed a mockery of his state. He walkedslowly west, little thinking of his row with Carrie. He ascendedthe stairs and went into his room as if there had been notrouble. It was his loss that occupied his mind. Sitting downon the bedside he counted his money. There was now but a hundredand ninety dollars and some change. He put it up and began toundress."I wonder what's getting into me, anyhow?" he said.In the morning Carrie scarcely spoke and he felt as if he must goout again. He had treated her badly, but he could not afford tomake up. Now desperation seized him, and for a day or two, goingout thus, he lived like a gentleman--or what he conceived to be agentleman--which took money. For his escapades he was soonpoorer in mind and body, to say nothing of his purse, which hadlost thirty by the process. Then he came down to cold, bittersense again."The rent man comes to-day," said Carrie, greeting him thusindifferently three mornings later."He does?""Yes; this is the second," answered Carrie.Hurstwood frowned. Then in despair he got out his purse."It seems an awful lot to pay for rent," he said.He was nearing his last hundred dollars.