Sister Carrie - Theodore Dreiser (good non fiction books to read txt) 📗

man. He had some money, he had a decent suit remaining, he was not bad looking when dressed up. She did not forget her own difficult struggle in Chicago, but she did not forget either that she had never ceased trying. He never tried. He did not even consult the ads in the papers any more.

Finally, a distinct impression escaped from her.

“What makes you put so much butter on the steak?” he asked her one evening, standing around in the kitchen.

“To make it good, of course,” she answered.

“Butter is awful dear these days,” he suggested.

“You wouldn’t mind it if you were working,” she answered.

He shut up after this, and went in to his paper, but the retort rankled in his mind. It was the first cutting remark that had come from her.

That same evening, Carrie, after reading, went off to the front room to bed. This was unusual. When Hurstwood decided to go, he retired, as usual, without a light. It was then that he discovered Carrie’s absence.

“That’s funny,” he said; “maybe she’s sitting up.”

He gave the matter no more thought, but slept. In the morning she was not beside him. Strange to say, this passed without comment.

Night approaching, and a slightly more conversational feeling prevailing, Carrie said:

“I think I’ll sleep alone tonight. I have a headache.”

“All right,” said Hurstwood.

The third night she went to her front bed without apologies.

This was a grim blow to Hurstwood, but he never mentioned it.

“All right,” he said to himself, with an irrepressible frown, “let her sleep alone.”

XXXVI A Grim Retrogression: The Phantom of Chance

The Vances, who had been back in the city ever since Christmas, had not forgotten Carrie; but they, or rather Mrs. Vance, had never called on her, for the very simple reason that Carrie had never sent her address. True to her nature, she corresponded with Mrs. Vance as long as she still lived in Seventy-eighth Street, but when she was compelled to move into Thirteenth, her fear that the latter would take it as an indication of reduced circumstances caused her to study some way of avoiding the necessity of giving her address. Not finding any convenient method, she sorrowfully resigned the privilege of writing to her friend entirely. The latter wondered at this strange silence, thought Carrie must have left the city, and in the end gave her up as lost. So she was thoroughly surprised to encounter her in Fourteenth Street, where she had gone shopping. Carrie was there for the same purpose.

“Why, Mrs. Wheeler,” said Mrs. Vance, looking Carrie over in a glance, “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 yet nonplussed. Of all times, this was the worst to encounter Mrs. Vance. “Why, I’m living downtown here. I’ve been intending to come and see you. Where are you living now?”

“In Fifty-eighth Street,” said Mrs. Vance, “just off Seventh Avenue⁠—218. Why don’t you come and see me?”

“I will,” said Carrie. “Really, I’ve been wanting to come. I know 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 while noting that Carrie’s appearance had modified somewhat. “The address, 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 a store.

When Carrie returned home, there was Hurstwood, reading as usual. He seemed to take his condition with the utmost nonchalance. His beard 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 her situation 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 so nice.”

“Well, she can afford it as long as he puts up for it,” returned Hurstwood. “He’s got a soft job.”

Hurstwood was looking into the paper. He could not see the look of 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?” said Hurstwood, 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 keep up 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, well understanding the inference; “but his life isn’t done yet. You can’t tell what’ll happen. He may get down like anybody else.”

There was something quite knavish in the man’s attitude. His eye seemed to be cocked with a twinkle upon the fortunate, expecting their defeat. His own state seemed a thing apart⁠—not considered.

This thing was the remains of his old-time cocksureness and independence. Sitting in his flat, and reading of the doings of other people, sometimes this independent, undefeated mood came upon him. Forgetting the weariness of the streets and the degradation of search, he would sometimes prick up his ears. It was as if he said:

“I can do something. I’m not down yet. There’s a lot of things coming to me if I want to go after them.”

It was in this mood that he would occasionally dress up, go for a shave, and, putting on his gloves, sally forth quite actively. Not with any definite aim. It was more a barometric condition. He felt