Chapter 46 Chapter Forty-six

One night when Carrie returned to New York to perform this time, when she was about to change her clothes and prepare to go home, she heard a commotion coming from the backstage door, among which was a familiar voice. "Oh, that's all right. I want to see Miss Madonda." "You have to hand in your business card first." "Oh, get out of my way. Here you go." A half dollar was handed over, and then she heard a knock on the door of her dressing room. Carrie opened the door. "Hey, hey!" said Drouet. "I say yes! Well, how are you? I knew it was you when I saw it."

Carrie took a step back, thinking that this was going to be the most embarrassing conversation ever. "Aren't you going to shake my hand? Why, you're such a beauty. Never mind, shake hands." Carrie held out her hand, laughing, perhaps only because the man was so warm and kind. He had aged a little, but little had changed. He was as richly dressed, as stout, and as flushed. "The guy at the door wouldn't let me in and I gave him the money to come in. I knew it was you, ho, you had a great play. You did a great part. I knew you could do it. Today I happened to pass by here at night and wanted to come in and watch it for a while. I saw your name on the program, but I didn't remember it until you came on stage. I was taken aback. Well, you just stunned me. The name is The one you used in Chicago, didn't you?"

"Yes," replied Carrie mildly, overwhelmed by the man's confidence. "When I saw you, I knew it was the name. Well, forget it. How have you been?" "Oh, very well," said Carrie, still dawdling in her dressing-room. She was a little dazed by the sudden attack. "How have you been?" "Me? Oh, fine. I live here now." "Is that true?" said Carrie. "Yes. I have been here for six months. I am in charge of the branch here." "This is great!" "Well, when on earth did you get on the stage?" asked Drouet.

"About three years ago," said Carrie, "You're kidding! Why, really, it's the first time I've heard of it. But I knew you'd be on the stage. I always say you can act, don't you?" Carrie laughed. "Yes, you did," she said. "Oh, you look so pretty," he said. "I've never seen anyone change so much. You've grown a little taller, haven't you?" "Me? Well, maybe a little taller." He gazed at her dress, then at her hair, with a well-fitting hat on proudly, and at last caught her eyes, which she tried to avert from him. Evidently he meant Immediately restore their old friendship exactly as it was.

"Well," he said, seeing her packing her purse, handkerchief and other things, and preparing to leave, "I would like to ask you to go out to dinner with me, would you like to? I have a friend waiting for me outside." "Oh, no," said Carrie. "Not tonight. I have an appointment early in the morning." "Well, don't go to any appointments. Come on. I can get rid of that friend. I want to have a good talk with you." "No, no," said Carrie. "I can't. You needn't say any more. I don't want to go to dinner either."

"Well, then we'll go out and talk, and that's all right." "Not tonight," she said, shaking her head. "We'll talk about it some other day." After saying this, she found a thoughtful shadow passing over his face, as if he was beginning to realize that the situation had changed. The kindness made her feel that it would be better to treat someone who had always liked her. Be friendly. "Then come and see me at the hotel to-morrow," she said, as a sign of repentance. "You can dine with me." "Well," said Drouet, cheering up again. "Where do you live?"

"At the Waldorf Hotel," she answered, referring to the big, stylish hotel that was then newly built. "when?" "Oh, come at three o'clock," said Carrie cheerfully. Drouet came for an appointment next day, and Carrie was not particularly pleased when she thought of the appointment. Yet he was as handsome as ever. Pianpian...was his kind of person, and was so gracious that her doubts about whether the meal would be unpleasant to her were all gone. He was still talking as eloquently as ever. . "The people here are quite airy, aren't they?" were the first words he said.

"Yes, their racks are very large," said Carrie. He is a typical "I" man. Therefore, he immediately talked at length about his own business. "I'm going to start my own company soon," he said at one point in the conversation. "I can raise $200,000 in capital." Carrie listened very patiently. "Well," he said suddenly, "where is Hurstwood now?" Carrie blushed a little. "I think he's in New York," she said, "I haven't seen him for some time." Drouet pondered for a moment. Up to this point he had been doubting whether the ex-manager was someone who was exerting influence behind the scenes. He guessed not, but the certainty reassured him. He thought that Carrie must have deserted him. She should do the same for him.

"It's always wrong for a man to do something like that," he said. "What's going on?" said Carrie, not knowing what came next. "Oh, you know," said Drouet, with a wave of his hand, as if to indicate that she must know. "No, I don't know," she answered. "What are you referring to?" "Oh, that happened in Chicago . . . when he went away." "I don't understand what you're talking about," said Carrie. Would he mention Hurstwood's elopement with her so rudely? "Oh!" said Drouet suspiciously. "You know he took ten thousand dollars when he went away, don't you?"

"What!" said Carrie, "you mean he stole the money, don't you?" "Well," said Drouet, puzzled by her tone, "you've known about this for a long time, haven't you?" "Oh, no," said Carrie, "of course I don't." "That is strange," said Drouet; "he stole the money, as you know. All the papers have reported it." "How much did you say he got?" asked Carrie. "Ten thousand dollars. I hear, however, that he sent most of the money back afterward." Carrie looked blankly at the luxuriously carpeted floor. She began to see with new eyes the years of her life since her forced escape. She. There was no hatred, therefore, but a sense of pity. What a poor fellow! What a shadow he had been living all these years.

Drouet, eating and drinking, cheered up at dinner, and felt tenderness in his heart, and fancied that he was winning Carrie back, and would take care of him as kindly as he had done before. He began to fancy that, noble as she was now, she would It wouldn't be too hard to get back into her life. How worth winning she was, he thought! How beautiful she was. How elegant. How famous! Carrie, against the backdrop of the stage and the Waldorf The most desired person. "Do you remember how timid you were that night at Alfred Hall?" he asked. Carrie smiled at the thought. "I never saw anyone play better than you did, Garter," he added ruefully, leaning his arm on the table. "I thought you and I would get on very well then. " "You shouldn't say that," said Carrie, beginning to be cold. "Don't you want me to tell you..." "No," she said, rising. "And now I am going to the theater. I must say good-bye to you. Now go." "Oh, stay a little longer," begged Drouet; "it's still early." "No," said Carrie softly. Drouet left the bright table with great reluctance, and followed her. He accompanied her to the elevator door, and stood there saying: "When can I see you again?" "Oh, maybe later," said Carrie, "I've been here all summer. Good-bye!" The elevator doors opened. "Good-bye!" said Drouet, watching her, dragging her rustling skirts, into the elevator. Then he walked sadly along the corridor. For she was now so far away from him, and all his old longings were revived. The cheerful rustle of clothes in the place reminded one of her. He felt that She was treated coldly. Carrie, however, had other things on her mind. That very night she passed Hurstwood waiting at the door of the Casino, but did not see him. The next night she walked to the theater, and met Hurstwood face to face. He waited there, more than before. He was more emaciated. He was determined to see her, even if he sent word in. At first she didn't recognize this ragged, flabby man. He was so close, like a starving stranger. man, startled her. "Carrie," he whispered, "may I have a word with you?" She turned, and recognized him at once. Any dislike against him which had been latent in her mind was gone now. Besides, she remembered Drouet's account of the money he had stolen. "Why, George," she said, "what's the matter with you?" "I've been ill," he answered, "and I've just come out of the hospital. For God's sake, give me some money, will you?" "Of course," said Carrie, her lips trembling in an effort to keep her composure. "But what's the matter with you?" She opened the wallet and took out all the banknotes in it...two 2-dollar bills and one 5-dollar bill. "I've been ill, and I told you," he said gruffly, almost resenting her excessive pity. It hurt him terribly to have pity from such a man. "Here," she said. "That's all I have with me." "Yes," he answered softly, "I will pay you back some day." Carrie looked at him, and all the people in the street looked at her. She was embarrassed by the sight of them all. Hurstwood felt the same. "Why don't you tell me what's the matter with you?" she asked, quite at a loss. "Where do you live?" "Well, I've taken a room in the Bowery," he answered, "and it's no use telling you here. I'm all right now." He seemed to dislike her kind inquiry; fate had treated her much better. "Go in," said he; "I'm very grateful, but I won't trouble you any more." She wanted to answer, but he had already turned away and shuffled east. This ghostly figure haunted her for many days, before it began to fade away. Drouet called again, but this time she did not even see him. His attentions seemed out of season. "I don't have customers," she answered the waiter. Her withdrawn and introverted temperament is indeed so special that she has become a striking figure in the public eye. She is so quiet and reserved. Shortly thereafter, the theater management decided to perform in London. Another summer of acting here did not look very promising. "Would you like to conquer London?" the manager asked her one afternoon. "Perhaps it was just London that got me?" said Carrie. "I think we'll start in June," he said. Hurstwood was forgotten in his haste. Both he and Drouet knew she had gone only afterwards. Drouet, who had called once, cried out at the news. Then he stood In the hall, biting the tip of his beard. He finally came to the conclusion...the days of the past are gone forever. "She's nothing special," he said, but in his heart he didn't think so. Hurstwood got through a long summer and autumn, at least by some odd means. A little errand as a janitor in a ballroom helped him through a month. Most of the time he lived by begging. , sometimes starving, sometimes sleeping in parks. Other days he turned to those special charities, several of which he stumbled across in the drive of hunger. Towards the middle of winter, Carrie returned, in There was a new show on Broadway, but he didn't know it. For weeks he wandered about the city, begging, while the illuminated sign of her show shone on the crowded entertainment street every night. Bright. Drouet saw the sign, but dared not go in. It was about this time that Ames returned to New York. He had made some small successes in the West, and now opened a laboratory in Worcester Street. He met Carrie again, of course, through Mrs. Vance, but before their There was no reciprocity between them. He thought she was still living with Hurstwood, until he heard that this was not the case. At that time, because he did not know the truth, he did not understand or comment. He went to see the new play with Mrs. Vance, and expressed his opinion on the performance. "She shouldn't do light comedy," he said, "I think she could do better than this." They met by chance at the Vance's one afternoon, and they spoke very affectionately. She could not understand why she should have lost the once intense interest in him. It was, no doubt, because at that time he had Represents something she doesn't have, but she doesn't understand it. Her success temporarily makes her feel that she has a lot of things he will approve. In fact, her little fame in the newspapers seems to him Insignificant at all. He thought she could have done better, much better. "Didn't you do serious comedy after all?" he said, remembering her love of that art. "No," she answered, "I have not yet." He looked at her so strangely that she realized that she had failed. This made her add: "But I wanted to play." "I think you'll think so, too," he said, "and you'd do very well in serious comedy, in your nature." He was able to talk about character, which surprised her. So, did he know her so clearly in his heart? "Why?" she asked. "Oh," said he, "you have a sympathetic nature, I see." Carrie smiled, and blushed a little. He was so innocent to her. The frankness made her friendship with him still further. The old ideal call rang in her ears again. "I don't know that," she answered, but could not conceal her joy. "I saw your play," said he, "and it was very good." "I'm glad you like it." "It's really good, he said, "for light comedy." That was all they said at the time because someone interrupted them, but then they saw each other again. He was sitting in a corner after dinner and staring at the floor when Carrie and another guest came up. Hard work put a weary look on his face. Carrie could never understand what attracted her to that face. "Alone?" she asked. "I was listening to music just now." "I'll be back in a moment," said her companion, who thought nothing of the inventor. Then he looked up into her face, for she had been standing a while while he was sitting. "Isn't that a sad piece?" he asked, listening. "Oh, it is very sad," she answered, and now she noticed and heard it. "Sit down, please," he added, inviting her to take the chair beside him. They listened in silence for a while, moved by the same emotion, only hers was from the heart. The music still enchanted her, as it had always done. "I don't know what music is," she said, with an unaccountable longing that prompted her to break the silence first, "but music always makes me feel as if something is missing. . . …" "Yes," he replied, "I know how you feel." Suddenly it occurred to him that she had a peculiar character to express his feelings so frankly. "You shouldn't be sentimental," he said. He thought for a while, and then fell into what seemed to be a strange observation. However, this was consistent with their feelings. "The world is full of desirable positions. Unfortunately, however, we can only hold one at a time. We do us no good bemoaning the unattainable." The music stopped, and he stood up, standing upright in front of her, as if taking a rest. "Why don't you do some good, serious comedy?" he said. He was looking straight at her now, studying her face carefully. Her big sympathetic eyes and mournful mouth Proved his opinion to be correct, and thus interested him. "Perhaps I shall," she answered. "That's what you do," he added. "Do you think so?" "Yes," said he, "I think so. I suppose you don't realize it, but you have a certain expression about your eyes and mouth that makes you a good fit for that part." Carrie was thrilled to be taken so seriously. For a moment she was no longer alone. The compliments she now received were sharp and analytical. "That expression is in your eyes and mouth," he continued casually. "I remember seeing you for the first time and thinking there was something special about your mouth. I thought you were going to cry. " "Strange," said Carrie, excited with joy. It was just what her heart longed for. "Later, I found out that it was your natural look, and I noticed it again this evening. There are shadows around your eyes too, which give the same feature to your face. I think it is in the depths of the eyes." Carrie looked directly into his face, excited. "You may not realize it," he added. She looked away, glad he said that, and wished he hadn't betrayed the natural look on her face. It opened the door to a new desire. Before they saw each other again, she had reason to ruminate on the matter...for weeks or more. The original ideal that she longed for here and in the following days is getting farther and farther. Why did she lose this ideal? "I know why you're successful," he said another time, "if only your plays were more serious. I've worked it out..." "Found what?" asked Carrie. "Oh," he said, with delight as if he had figured out a riddle. "Your facial expression is produced according to different situations. You will get it from a sad song or any painting that moves you deeply." The same feeling. That's what the world likes to look at, because it's a natural expression of desire." Carrie stared, not quite understanding what he meant. "People in the world are always struggling to express themselves," he went on, "and most people are not good at expressing their feelings. They are dependent on others. Genius is born for this. Some people express their desires in music; Some people express it in poetry; others in drama. Sometimes the Creator expresses it in the face of a man... All desires are expressed in faces. Such is the case with you." He looked at her, his eyes filled with the meaning of the event, and she understood it too. At least, she understood that her facial expressions could express the desires of the world. She considered it an honorable thing and remembered it in the heart, until he said again: "That demands a responsibility on you. You happen to have the talent. It's not your glory, I mean, you probably don't have it. It's something you didn't pay for. But you now Now that you have this talent, you should use it to make a career out of it." "What are you doing?" asked Carrie. "Go to the theater, I think. You have such sympathies, and such a melodious voice. Make them useful to others. That will immortalize your talents." Carrie didn't understand the last sentence. The rest told her that her success in light comedy was no big deal, or that it was trivial at all. "What do you mean?" she asked. "Oh, that's it. Your eyes and mouth, and your nature has it. You will lose it, you know, and if you don't use it, and live only to satisfy yourself, it will soon will disappear. Your eyes will lose color, your mouth will change shape, and your acting ability will disappear. You may think they will not disappear, but they will. The Creator will arrange it." He was so eager to make a good opinion, and sometimes even became effusive, that he made such a big case. There was something about Carrie that he liked. He wanted to inspire her. "I know," she said absently, feeling a little guilty of her neglect. "If I were you," he said, "I'd change my career." The effect of this conversation on Carrie was to stir up helpless waters, and to confuse her in vain. Carrie sat in her rocking chair and brooded over the matter for days. "I don't think I'll be in light comedy for long," she said to Laura at last. "Oh, why?" asked the latter. "I think," said she, "that I can do better in serious plays." "What made you think so?" "Oh, nothing," she answered. "I've always thought of it." But she's not doing anything, she's just worrying. It's a long way to do something better...or it seems so long...and she's pampered So she has only longing but no action.