parties of two, three, four, five, or six. The air of assurance and dignity
about it all was exceedingly noticeable to the novitiate. Incandescent lights,
the reflection of their glow in polished glasses, and the shine of gilt upon the
walls, combined into one tone of light which it requires minutes of
complacent observation to separate and take particular note of. The white
shirt fronts of the gentlemen, the bright costumes of the ladies, diamonds,
jewels, fine feathers—all were exceedingly noticeable.
Carrie walked with an air equal to that of Mrs. Vance, and accepted the seat
which the head waiter provided for her. She was keenly aware of all the little
things that were done—the little genuflections and attentions of the waiters
and head waiter which Americans pay for. The air with which the latter
pulled out each chair, and the wave of the hand with which he motioned
them to be seated, were worth several dollars in themselves.
Once seated, there began that exhibition of showy, wasteful, and
unwholesome gastronomy as practised by wealthy Americans, which is the
wonder and astonishment of true culture and dignity the world over. The
large bill of fare held an array of dishes sufficient to feed an army, sidelined
with prices which made reasonable expenditure a ridiculous impossibility—
an order of soup at fifty cents or a dollar, with a dozen kinds to choose from;
oysters in forty styles and at sixty cents the half-dozen; entrées, fish, and
meats at prices which would house one over night in an average hotel. One
dollar fifty and two dollars seemed to be the most common figures upon this
most tastefully printed bill of fare.
Carrie noticed this, and in scanning it the price of spring chicken carried
her back to that other bill of fare and far different occasion when, for the
first time, she sat with Drouet in a good restaurant in Chicago. It was only
momentary—a sad note as out of an old song—and then it was gone. But in
that flash was seen the other Carrie—poor, hungry, drifting at her wits'
ends, and all Chicago a cold and closed world, from which she only
wandered because she could not find work.
On the walls were designs in colour, square spots of robin's-egg blue, set in
ornate frames of gilt, whose corners were elaborate mouldings of fruit and
flowers, with fat cupids hovering in angelic comfort. On the ceilings were
coloured traceries with more gilt, leading to a centre where spread a cluster
of lights—incandescent globes mingled with glittering prisms and stucco
tendrils of gilt. The floor was of a reddish hue, waxed and polished, and in
every direction were mirrors—tall, brilliant, bevel-edged mirrors—reflecting
and re-reflecting forms, faces, and candelabra a score and a hundred times.
The tables were not so remarkable in themselves, and yet the imprint of
Sherry upon the napery, the name of Tiffany upon the silverware, the name
of Haviland upon the china, and over all the glow of the small, red-shaded
candelabra and the reflected tints of the walls on garments and faces, made
them seem remarkable. Each waiter added an air of exclusiveness and
elegance by the manner in which he bowed, scraped, touched, and trifled
with things. The exclusively personal attention which he devoted to each
one, standing half bent, ear to one side, elbows akimbo, saying: "Soup—
green turtle, yes. One portion, yes. Oysters—certainly—half-dozen—yes.
Asparagus. Olives—yes."
It would be the same with each one, only Vance essayed to order for all,
inviting counsel and suggestions. Carrie studied the company with open
eyes. So this was high life in New York. It was so that the rich spent their
days and evenings. Her poor little mind could not rise above applying each
scene to all society. Every fine lady must be in the crowd on Broadway in the
afternoon, in the theatre at the matinée, in the coaches and dining-halls at
night. It must be glow and shine everywhere, with coaches waiting, and
footmen attending, and she was out of it all. In two long years she had never
even been in such a place as this.
Vance was in his element here, as Hurstwood would have been in former
days. He ordered freely of soup, oysters, roast meats, and side dishes, and
had several bottles of wine brought, which were set down beside the table in
a wicker basket.
Ames was looking away rather abstractedly at the crowd and showed an
interesting profile to Carrie. His forehead was high, his nose rather large and
strong, his chin moderately pleasing. He had a good, wide, well-shaped
mouth, and his dark-brown hair was parted slightly on one side. He seemed
to have the least touch of boyishness to Carrie, and yet he was a man full
grown.
"Do you know," he said, turning back to Carrie, after his reflection, "I
sometimes think it is a shame for people to spend so much money this way."
Carrie looked at him a moment with the faintest touch of surprise at his
seriousness. He seemed to be thinking about something over which she had
never pondered.
"Do you?" she answered, interestedly.
"Yes," he said, "they pay so much more than these things are worth. They
put on so much show."
"I don't know why people shouldn't spend when they have it," said Mrs.
Vance.
"It doesn't do any harm," said Vance, who was still studying the bill of fare,
though he had ordered.
Ames was looking away again, and Carrie was again looking at his forehead.
To her he seemed to be thinking about strange things. As he studied the
crowd his eye was mild.
"Look at that woman's dress over there," he said, again turning to Carrie,
and nodding in a direction.
"Where?" said Carrie, following his eyes.
"Over there in the corner—way over. Do you see that brooch?"
"Isn't it large?" said Carrie.
"One of the largest clusters of jewels I have ever seen," said Ames.
"It is, isn't it?" said Carrie. She felt as if she would like to be agreeable to
this young man, and also there came with it, or perhaps preceded it, the
slightest shade of a feeling that he was better educated than she was—that
his mind was better. He seemed to look it, and the saving grace in Carrie
was that she could understand that people could be wiser. She had seen a
number of people in her life who reminded her of what she had vaguely
come to think of as scholars. This strong young man beside her, with his
clear, natural look, seemed to get a hold of things which she did not quite
understand, but approved of. It was fine to be so, as a man, she thought.
The conversation changed to a book that was having its vogue at the time—
"Moulding a Maiden," by Albert Ross. Mrs. Vance had read it. Vance had
seen it discussed in some of the papers.
"A man can make quite a strike writing a book," said Vance. "I notice this
fellow Ross is very much talked about." He was looking at Carrie as he
spoke.
"I hadn't heard of him," said Carrie, honestly.
"Oh, I have," said Mrs. Vance. "He's written lots of things. This last story is
pretty good."
"He doesn't amount to much," said Ames.
Carrie turned her eyes toward him as to an oracle.
"His stuff is nearly as bad as 'Dora Thorne,'" concluded Ames.
Carrie felt this as a personal reproof. She read "Dora Thorne," or had a great
deal in the past. It seemed only fair to her, but she supposed that people
thought it very fine. Now this clear-eyed, fine-headed youth, who looked
something like a student to her, made fun of it. It was poor to him, not
worth reading. She looked down, and for the first time felt the pain of not
understanding.
Yet there was nothing sarcastic or supercilious in the way Ames spoke. He
had very little of that in him. Carrie felt that it was just kindly thought of a
high order—the right thing to think, and wondered what else was right,
according to him. He seemed to notice that she listened and rather
sympathised with him, and from now on he talked mostly to her.
As the waiter bowed and scraped about, felt the dishes to see if they were
hot enough, brought spoons and forks, and did all those little attentive
things calculated to impress the luxury of the situation upon the diner,
Ames also leaned slightly to one side and told her of Indianapolis in an
intelligent way. He really had a very bright mind, which was finding its chief
development in electrical knowledge. His sympathies for other forms of
information, however, and for types of people, were quick and warm. The red
glow on his head gave it a sandy tinge and put a bright glint in his eye.
Carrie noticed all these things as he leaned toward her and felt exceedingly
young. This man was far ahead of her. He seemed wiser than Hurstwood,
saner and brighter than Drouet. He seemed innocent and clean, and she
thought that he was exceedingly pleasant. She noticed, also, that his
interest in her was a far-off one. She was not in his life, nor any of the
things that touched his life, and yet now, as he spoke of these things, they
appealed to her.
"I shouldn't care to be rich," he told her, as the dinner proceeded and the
supply of food warmed up his sympathies; "not rich enough to spend my
money this way."
"Oh, wouldn't you?" said Carrie, the, to her, new attitude forcing itself
distinctly upon her for the first time.
"No," he said. "What good would it do? A man doesn't need this sort of thing
to be happy."
Carrie thought of this doubtfully; but, coming from him, it had weight with
her.
"He probably could be happy," she thought to herself, "all alone. He's so
strong."
Mr. and Mrs. Vance kept up a running fire of interruptions, and these
impressive things by Ames came at odd moments. They were sufficient,
however, for the atmosphere that went with this youth impressed itself upon
Carrie without words. There was something in him, or the world he moved
in, which appealed to her. He reminded her of scenes she had seen on the
stage—the sorrows and sacrifices that always went with she knew not what.
He had taken away some of the bitterness of the contrast between this life
and her life, and all by a certain calm indifference which concerned only
him.
As they went out, he took her arm and helped her into the coach, and then
they were off again, and so to the show.
During the acts Carrie found herself listening to him very attentively. He
mentioned things in the play which she most approved of—things which
swayed her deeply.
"Don't you think it rather fine to be an actor?" she asked once.
"Yes, I do," he said, "to be a good one. I think the theatre a great thing."
Just this little approval set Carrie's heart bounding. Ah, if she could only be
an actress—a good one! This man was wise—he knew—and he approved of
it. If she were a fine actress, such men as he would approve of her. She felt
that he was good to speak as he had, although it did not concern her at all.
She did not know why she felt this way.
At the close of the show it suddenly developed that he was not going back
with them.
"Oh, aren't you?" said Carrie, with an unwarrantable feeling.
"Oh, no," he said; "I'm stopping right around here in Thirty-third Street."
Carrie could not say anything else, but somehow this development shocked
her. She had been regretting the wane of a pleasant evening, but she had
thought there was a half-hour more. Oh, the half-hours, the minutes of the
world; what miseries and griefs are crowded into them!
She said good-bye with feigned indifference. What matter could it make?
Still, the coach seemed lorn.
When she went into her own flat she had this to think about. She did not
know whether she would ever see this man any more. What difference could
it make—what difference could it make?
Hurstwood had returned, and was already in bed. His clothes were scattered
loosely about. Carrie came to the door and saw him, then retreated. She did
not want to go in yet a while. She wanted to think. It was disagreeable to
her.
Back in the dining-room she sat in her chair and rocked. Her little hands
were folded tightly as she thought. Through a fog of longing and conflicting
desires she was beginning to see. Oh, ye legions of hope and pity—of sorrow
and pain! She was rocking, and beginning to see.
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