Sister Carrie Theodore Dreiser (e reader books TXT) 📖

I’m not coming back any more. It’s no use trying to keep up the flat; I can’t do it. I wouldn’t mind helping you, if I could, but I can’t support us both, and pay the rent. I need what little I make to pay for my clothes. I’m leaving twenty dollars. It’s all I have just now. You can do whatever you like with the furniture. I won’t want it. —Carrie.”

He dropped the note and looked quietly round. Now he knew what he 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 the chiffonier had gone the knickknacks of silver and plate. From the tabletop, the lace coverings. He opened the wardrobe⁠—no clothes of hers. He opened the drawers⁠—nothing of hers. Her trunk was gone from its accustomed place. Back in his own room hung his old clothes, just as he had left them. Nothing else was gone.

He stepped into the parlour and stood for a few moments looking vacantly at the floor. The silence grew oppressive. The little flat seemed wonderfully deserted. He wholly forgot that he was hungry, that it was only dinnertime. It seemed later in the night.

Suddenly, he found that the money was still in his hands. There were 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 in full.

“Left me!” he muttered, and repeated, “left me!”

The place that had been so comfortable, where he had spent so many days of warmth, was now a memory. Something colder and chillier confronted him. He sank down in his chair, resting his chin in his hand⁠—mere sensation, without thought, holding him.

Then something like a bereaved affection and self-pity swept over him.

“She needn’t have gone away,” he said. “I’d have got something.”

He sat a long while without rocking, and added quite clearly, out loud:

“I tried, didn’t I?”

At midnight he was still rocking, staring at the floor.

XLIII The World Turns Flatterer: An Eye in the Dark

Installed in her comfortable room, Carrie wondered how Hurstwood had taken her departure. She arranged a few things hastily and then left for the theatre, half expecting to encounter him at the door. Not finding him, her dread lifted, and she felt more kindly toward him. She quite forgot him until about to come out, after the show, when the chance of his being there frightened her. As day after day passed and she heard nothing at all, the thought of being bothered by him passed. In a little while she was, except for occasional thoughts, wholly free of the gloom with which her life had been weighed in the flat.

It is curious to note how quickly a profession absorbs one. Carrie became wise in theatrical lore, hearing the gossip of little Lola. She learned what the theatrical papers were, which ones published items about actresses and the like. She began to read the newspaper notices, not only of the opera in which she had so small a part, but of others. Gradually the desire for notice took hold of her. She longed to be renowned like others, and read with avidity all the complimentary or critical comments made concerning others high in her profession. The showy world in which her interest lay completely absorbed her.

It was about this time that the newspapers and magazines were beginning to pay that illustrative attention to the beauties of the stage which has since become fervid. The newspapers, and particularly the Sunday newspapers, indulged in large decorative theatrical pages, in which the faces and forms of well-known theatrical celebrities appeared, enclosed with artistic scrolls. The magazines also⁠—or at least one or two of the newer ones⁠—published occasional portraits of pretty stars, and now and again photos of scenes from various plays. Carrie watched these with growing interest. When would a scene from her opera appear? When would some paper think her photo worth while?

The Sunday before taking her new part she scanned the theatrical pages for some little notice. It would have accorded with her expectations if nothing had been said, but there in the squibs, tailing off several more substantial items, was a wee notice. Carrie read it with a tingling body:

The part of Katisha, the country maid, in The Wives of Abdul at the Broadway, heretofore played by Inez Carew, will be hereafter filled by Carrie Madenda, one of the cleverest members of the chorus.

Carrie hugged herself with delight. Oh, wasn’t it just fine! At last! The first, the long-hoped for, the delightful notice! And they called her clever. She could hardly restrain herself from laughing loudly. Had Lola seen it?

“They’ve got a notice here of the part I’m going to play tomorrow night,” said Carrie to her friend.

“Oh, jolly! Have they?” cried Lola, running to her. “That’s all right,” she said, looking. “You’ll get more now, if you do well. I had my picture in the World once.”

“Did you?” asked Carrie.

“Did I? Well, I should say,” returned the little girl. “They had a frame around it.”

Carrie laughed.

“They’ve never published my picture.”

“But they will,” said Lola. “You’ll see. You do better than most that get theirs in now.”

Carrie felt deeply grateful for this. She almost loved Lola for the sympathy and praise she extended. It was so helpful to her⁠—so almost necessary.

Fulfilling her part capably brought another notice in the papers that she was doing her work acceptably. This pleased her immensely. She began to think the world was taking note of her.

The first week she got her thirty-five dollars, it seemed an enormous sum. Paying only three dollars for room rent seemed ridiculous. After giving Lola her twenty-five, she still had seven dollars left. With four left over from